Start Fiction:
Dwayne turned down the air conditioning and gripped the wheel tighter. Checking his mirrors, he took a deep breath as he approached Des Moines. His cargo was sensitive, and every city he had to drive through reeked havoc on his ulcer.
Popping a half dozen antacids, Dwayne flipped radio stations. The chatter on the CB was minimal since his cargo limited his reception. The idea it blocked free floating radio waves often made him wonder what effects it had on biological systems. However, it was something he didn't want to know; something he did not to think about it.
"Shit," Dwayne said as he approached traffic at a stand still. His brow beaded up. He swallowed hard. Emergency lights could be seen over the horizon, lots of lights. "Guess I will be sitting here for a while." Quickly he began to move his cargo van to the far right lane in anticipation of assistance.
He opened his laptop and began to enter his password; he was prompted for voice recognition. On the top of his van a small satellite sprang up. To everyone else it looked like a satellite t.v. dish; however, that is was not.
Dwayne entered his message: delayed, traffic at a stand still, mile marker 141. A response came quickly. Dwayne smiled and closed the computer. "I guess my wait won't be so long after all."
Five minutes later two unmarked sedans were escorting Dwayne down the shoulder, out and around the accident. He tried not to smile as he enjoyed moments like these, knowing the average citizen was infuriated; yet that was better than public knowledge regarding his cargo. Some might even consider him a Man in Black if they knew the materials he was hauling. But he had a duty; country first.
As they approached the accident, Dwayne noticed a Suburban had taken advantage of the escort and snuck through with him.
Out and around the accident, it was clear sailing as there was very little traffic. The sedans peeled off and Dwayne was once again on his own. He adjusted the air conditioning and sat back a little in his seat.
Traffic began to fill the road as Dwayne reached the downtown area. Dwayne sat up, adjusted the air conditioning again. Cars jumped off and on the interstate; he tried to stay in the center lane. Why he was instructed to go through Des Moines via 235 made no sense to Dwayne, but orders are orders.
Constantly checking his mirrors, he noticed the Suburban was still behind him; three car lengths. The windows were too tinted to determine the amount or type of passengers, but he tried to not to make too much of a big deal of it. Just a few more miles left through town, he told himself. Omaha was next, so he would have a few hours to relax a little.
Traffic thinned and exits became more scarce as Dwayne drove. Dusk settled in and headlights lit the highway like shooting stars. He paid a little more attention to the Suburban since it was still behind him now some one-hundred miles out of Des Moines.
It had been years since he had needed or been given continued support staff. There was nothing overly special about his cargo, any more than most transports. Perhaps there was information he had not been given; it couldn't hurt to ask.
He opened his laptop and secured a channel. Requesting information could be difficult at times, but once his message was received he knew there was potential for excitement.
Dwayne's mobile rang. He never received calls on transport. Excitement was affirmative.
"Yes sir," Dwayne said. Punching in a code on his stereo, the face opened to reveal a control panel. He pushed a few buttons and he heard the hydraulics kick in opening the panel under the van reveling a camera. Sending live feed, streaming video, his commander was able to adjust the feed to gain a visual on the license plate, but also utilize he infrared to determine occupants.
End Fiction.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
06-29-2009
Start Fiction:
"I am the quarterback for the Miami Dolphins," Stan said.
"That's great," Frank said, "but, I have to admit I don't follow much soccer."
Stan choked on his drink, wiped his mouth. "The Dolphins are a professional football team," he said as he sat up straight. "The NFL."
"Of course," Frank said blushing. "I guess I don't follow much football, either!" He laughed and took a drink of his soda. "What does the quarterback do, exactly?" he said peeking over the top of his glass.
Stan stared at Frank. Several seconds passed before he blinked. He looked around, trying to spot any hidden cameras, waiting for Carol and Anne to jump out and yell 'surprise'. He looked back at Frank sitting there waiting attentively.
"OK. Well then, lets see I run the offense; call plays, make adjustments to the other teams defense, pass the ball, among other things."
"So, you are the leader?" Frank asked as he shoved his mouth full of spaghetti.
"That depends on who you ask. Typically the quarterback is one of the team leaders," Stan tried to explain checking his watch. "I guess in some respects I am the coach on the field, relay what I am seeing to the coaching staff and in the end I get to make the final call at the line."
Frank put his elbows on the table, leaned forward and rested his chin on his hand. "Interesting," he said. "How long have you done this?"
"This will be my tenth season with the Dolphins," Stan said.
"Do you ever get hurt getting hit all the time?" Frank asked.
"I try to avoid getting hit, but I have taken my share of licks, earning a couple of concussions," Stan told him.
"You must really love your job," Frank said, stuffing a bread stick in his mouth.
"Yes I do, very much." He waived to the waiter for his check. "There isn't anything else I would rather do." He looked for the girls, but they were no where in sight.
"So, did you have to go to college to be in football?"
End Fiction.
"I am the quarterback for the Miami Dolphins," Stan said.
"That's great," Frank said, "but, I have to admit I don't follow much soccer."
Stan choked on his drink, wiped his mouth. "The Dolphins are a professional football team," he said as he sat up straight. "The NFL."
"Of course," Frank said blushing. "I guess I don't follow much football, either!" He laughed and took a drink of his soda. "What does the quarterback do, exactly?" he said peeking over the top of his glass.
Stan stared at Frank. Several seconds passed before he blinked. He looked around, trying to spot any hidden cameras, waiting for Carol and Anne to jump out and yell 'surprise'. He looked back at Frank sitting there waiting attentively.
"OK. Well then, lets see I run the offense; call plays, make adjustments to the other teams defense, pass the ball, among other things."
"So, you are the leader?" Frank asked as he shoved his mouth full of spaghetti.
"That depends on who you ask. Typically the quarterback is one of the team leaders," Stan tried to explain checking his watch. "I guess in some respects I am the coach on the field, relay what I am seeing to the coaching staff and in the end I get to make the final call at the line."
Frank put his elbows on the table, leaned forward and rested his chin on his hand. "Interesting," he said. "How long have you done this?"
"This will be my tenth season with the Dolphins," Stan said.
"Do you ever get hurt getting hit all the time?" Frank asked.
"I try to avoid getting hit, but I have taken my share of licks, earning a couple of concussions," Stan told him.
"You must really love your job," Frank said, stuffing a bread stick in his mouth.
"Yes I do, very much." He waived to the waiter for his check. "There isn't anything else I would rather do." He looked for the girls, but they were no where in sight.
"So, did you have to go to college to be in football?"
End Fiction.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
06-28-2009
Start Fiction:
The living room ceiling crashed down; plaster dust and insulation filled the the air. Paul dove under the desk in the study as flying debris shot through the living room windows. The house shook; floor boards disjointed; pictures and decor fell from the walls; the car alarm blared in the garage; smoke alarms screeched as the house went dark.
Paul held his position, frantically tried to dial 9-1-1 from the phone that had been jarred off the desk above him; the line was dead. His mobile was in he living room; probably not an option.
Paul was afraid to move, the floor was uneven and the house creaked without movement. His breath was shallow. The back door was only ten feet way, but so was the door to the basement. What lay in the basement was of more interest to Paul than getting out of the house.
As he contemplated, faint sirens caught Paul's attention. If he gets out, they may never tell him what really fell through his roof. The sirens increased and thumping became clear; helicopters. Routine calls did not call for air support; he needed to get to the basement. Something was going on, something big.
"To the basement," Paul said.
Crawling across the busted, jagged floor caused the house to snap and pop. Paul gently put his weight on each slat of hardwood. Half way across the study, his hand pushed through the floor; his face hit the floor as his arm sank through the floor. Paul yanked his hand back quickly as there was intense heat radiating from the basement.
Checking his hand for burns, Paul noticed a blue pulsating light coming from the hole. He was definitely going in the basement.
Paul stood up and took the last three feet without caution and tested the door knob for heat. It felt cool, to hos surprise. He turned the knob slow and tried to pull the door. It was jammed. Paul used a little more effort and was able to get the door open about a foot.
As he squeezed through the opening, several sirens stopped, doors slammed and voices called out to each other. "No time to lose," Paul said as he stepped on the top stair. Nothing creaked, nothing moved. He quickly moved down the stairs, heat increased and the light was intense.
He shielded his eyes as he tried to view the object from across the room. There was a low level buzz emanating from the object. Paul moved back towards the stairs; the heat was almost too much. He placed his foot on the bottom step and began to turn; the object let of a roar as massive amounts of steam shot straight up back through the house. Paul covered his ears, falling to his knees.
The sound stopped. Paul shook as a large blast of cool air fell over him. He stood up and looked at the object embedded in his basement floor. The light was less intense, tolerable. The vibrant blue had turned to a soft violet.
The hum began to fluctuate; it sounded like a police scanner. Paul stepped towards the device, the noise cleared, more crisp.
It was producing... Morse Code.
"Holy Shit."
End Fiction.
The living room ceiling crashed down; plaster dust and insulation filled the the air. Paul dove under the desk in the study as flying debris shot through the living room windows. The house shook; floor boards disjointed; pictures and decor fell from the walls; the car alarm blared in the garage; smoke alarms screeched as the house went dark.
Paul held his position, frantically tried to dial 9-1-1 from the phone that had been jarred off the desk above him; the line was dead. His mobile was in he living room; probably not an option.
Paul was afraid to move, the floor was uneven and the house creaked without movement. His breath was shallow. The back door was only ten feet way, but so was the door to the basement. What lay in the basement was of more interest to Paul than getting out of the house.
As he contemplated, faint sirens caught Paul's attention. If he gets out, they may never tell him what really fell through his roof. The sirens increased and thumping became clear; helicopters. Routine calls did not call for air support; he needed to get to the basement. Something was going on, something big.
"To the basement," Paul said.
Crawling across the busted, jagged floor caused the house to snap and pop. Paul gently put his weight on each slat of hardwood. Half way across the study, his hand pushed through the floor; his face hit the floor as his arm sank through the floor. Paul yanked his hand back quickly as there was intense heat radiating from the basement.
Checking his hand for burns, Paul noticed a blue pulsating light coming from the hole. He was definitely going in the basement.
Paul stood up and took the last three feet without caution and tested the door knob for heat. It felt cool, to hos surprise. He turned the knob slow and tried to pull the door. It was jammed. Paul used a little more effort and was able to get the door open about a foot.
As he squeezed through the opening, several sirens stopped, doors slammed and voices called out to each other. "No time to lose," Paul said as he stepped on the top stair. Nothing creaked, nothing moved. He quickly moved down the stairs, heat increased and the light was intense.
He shielded his eyes as he tried to view the object from across the room. There was a low level buzz emanating from the object. Paul moved back towards the stairs; the heat was almost too much. He placed his foot on the bottom step and began to turn; the object let of a roar as massive amounts of steam shot straight up back through the house. Paul covered his ears, falling to his knees.
The sound stopped. Paul shook as a large blast of cool air fell over him. He stood up and looked at the object embedded in his basement floor. The light was less intense, tolerable. The vibrant blue had turned to a soft violet.
The hum began to fluctuate; it sounded like a police scanner. Paul stepped towards the device, the noise cleared, more crisp.
It was producing... Morse Code.
"Holy Shit."
End Fiction.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
06-27-2009
Start Fiction:
Walter walked towards the light, going against the advice of the anonymous voices echoing in the darkness. As he slowly, cautiously closer, Walter searched the darkness for the sources of the voices. The seemed to come from every direction, except from the direction of the light. That revelation made him stop.
The light appeared to get brighter, the voices slightly more quiet; distant. He took a step backwards. The light grew even brighter. The voices were now cheering him on, excited he was listening to their advice.
He took one more step backwards and turned slightly to his left. The voices went crazy, cheering, applauding. The light now produced sound, a low level hum; He could feel it. A celestial baseline?, Walter thought.
He turned away from the light. The hum grew louder; the vibration resonated through Walter. The voices matched the intensity of the light. They now began to tell him to run from the light. He complied as the light did not appear inviting to him in the least bit.
The light began to fluctuate it's colors; the humming grew I'm to a rumble. Walter understood. He had pissed off the light. He picked up his pace, a bit scared. Walter wondered, Is this really something I can "outrun" in this void?
The faster he ran, the lighter the void became. The voices become more in sync, becoming one voice. The voice was becoming familiar.
Walter quickly glanced over his shoulder, trying to gauge his progress. The light was red, swirling; the rumble had grown into a violent thunderstorm; lightning shot out from the center of the light; booming thunder pierced Walter's ears.
The black void was becoming filled with light; outlines of structures formed, the smell of wet grass filled Walter's nostrils. He ran harder, feeling the ground firm, crackling under his feet.
Walter breathed easier, his stride more steady. Where he was headed was unknown, and what was following him he didn't want to know. A landscape was forming, mountains in the distance, the sky faded to a clear blue, foliage to shape along the path on which he was now running.
Walter smiled as his shadow began to form in front of him, warmth covered his back; the thunderstorm that had been following him faded into a low rumble, to a hum; silence.
As the sounds of birds singing filed the air, Walter came to a slow jog. Looking over his shoulder he saw that there was nothing behind him except an open path, flanked by lush green fields.
Walter came to a stop and laughed as he walked in circles. "What the kind of weird ass dream is this?" he said out loud.
"It's no dream, Walter," a female voiced said behind him. Walter didn't turn around. He closed his eyes, breathing in the fresh air.
"Where are we?" he asked.
"You don't recognize this place, Walter?"
Walter slowly faced his company, eyes still closed. "I believe we have met before," he began, "but I can't seem to place your voice."
"Yes, we have met many times before," she said. "Open your eyes and perhaps my appearance will refresh your memory."
Walter hesitated, trying to remember a voice so familiar. Was she someone from his childhood? Someone he met in college? Did it matter? He slowly opened his eyes. "Oh my," Walter said. "I thought you..."
"No, Walter, I am not imaginary," the woman said.
End Fiction.
Walter walked towards the light, going against the advice of the anonymous voices echoing in the darkness. As he slowly, cautiously closer, Walter searched the darkness for the sources of the voices. The seemed to come from every direction, except from the direction of the light. That revelation made him stop.
The light appeared to get brighter, the voices slightly more quiet; distant. He took a step backwards. The light grew even brighter. The voices were now cheering him on, excited he was listening to their advice.
He took one more step backwards and turned slightly to his left. The voices went crazy, cheering, applauding. The light now produced sound, a low level hum; He could feel it. A celestial baseline?, Walter thought.
He turned away from the light. The hum grew louder; the vibration resonated through Walter. The voices matched the intensity of the light. They now began to tell him to run from the light. He complied as the light did not appear inviting to him in the least bit.
The light began to fluctuate it's colors; the humming grew I'm to a rumble. Walter understood. He had pissed off the light. He picked up his pace, a bit scared. Walter wondered, Is this really something I can "outrun" in this void?
The faster he ran, the lighter the void became. The voices become more in sync, becoming one voice. The voice was becoming familiar.
Walter quickly glanced over his shoulder, trying to gauge his progress. The light was red, swirling; the rumble had grown into a violent thunderstorm; lightning shot out from the center of the light; booming thunder pierced Walter's ears.
The black void was becoming filled with light; outlines of structures formed, the smell of wet grass filled Walter's nostrils. He ran harder, feeling the ground firm, crackling under his feet.
Walter breathed easier, his stride more steady. Where he was headed was unknown, and what was following him he didn't want to know. A landscape was forming, mountains in the distance, the sky faded to a clear blue, foliage to shape along the path on which he was now running.
Walter smiled as his shadow began to form in front of him, warmth covered his back; the thunderstorm that had been following him faded into a low rumble, to a hum; silence.
As the sounds of birds singing filed the air, Walter came to a slow jog. Looking over his shoulder he saw that there was nothing behind him except an open path, flanked by lush green fields.
Walter came to a stop and laughed as he walked in circles. "What the kind of weird ass dream is this?" he said out loud.
"It's no dream, Walter," a female voiced said behind him. Walter didn't turn around. He closed his eyes, breathing in the fresh air.
"Where are we?" he asked.
"You don't recognize this place, Walter?"
Walter slowly faced his company, eyes still closed. "I believe we have met before," he began, "but I can't seem to place your voice."
"Yes, we have met many times before," she said. "Open your eyes and perhaps my appearance will refresh your memory."
Walter hesitated, trying to remember a voice so familiar. Was she someone from his childhood? Someone he met in college? Did it matter? He slowly opened his eyes. "Oh my," Walter said. "I thought you..."
"No, Walter, I am not imaginary," the woman said.
End Fiction.
06-26-2009
Start Fiction:
Sweat ran down his face as he shot up in bed, throwing his covers to the floor. Out of breath, Ruben got out of bed only to fall back into bed as his legs wobbled and gave way. Sinking his face in his hands, he tried not to cry. Several deep breaths later, he was beginning to calm down a little.
"What going on?" Sylvia asked as she placed her hand on his back. "My god, Ruben, your soaked."
"Yeah, sorry," he whispered.
"What was it tonight? The same dream or something new?" she asked. She crawled over and off the bed to Ruben's side and knelt on the floor in front of him. Ruben didn't answer her, continuing to focus on his breathing. "It's okay, baby, take your time."
Ruben was getting tired of waking up like this, waking his wife and causing her to worry about him. It seemed so childish to have nightmares, night terrors, and Ruben hated it. It was time he seriously considered treatment, therapy to understand what was happening and perhaps even why. What he really wanted, though, was just to be able to sleep through the night at least once a week. That would be bliss.
Twenty odd years of restless sleep had placed budding busts under his eyes, his eye lids hovered at half mast and wrinkles were webbing from the corners of his eyes.
It wasn't apparent just on his face. His stride was short, his step slow. He was beginning to show a hump due to chronic poor posture; shoulders drooped.
"How are you doing," Silvia asked.
"I just," Ruben started to say. "I just want to be able to sleep once in a while."
End Fiction.
Sweat ran down his face as he shot up in bed, throwing his covers to the floor. Out of breath, Ruben got out of bed only to fall back into bed as his legs wobbled and gave way. Sinking his face in his hands, he tried not to cry. Several deep breaths later, he was beginning to calm down a little.
"What going on?" Sylvia asked as she placed her hand on his back. "My god, Ruben, your soaked."
"Yeah, sorry," he whispered.
"What was it tonight? The same dream or something new?" she asked. She crawled over and off the bed to Ruben's side and knelt on the floor in front of him. Ruben didn't answer her, continuing to focus on his breathing. "It's okay, baby, take your time."
Ruben was getting tired of waking up like this, waking his wife and causing her to worry about him. It seemed so childish to have nightmares, night terrors, and Ruben hated it. It was time he seriously considered treatment, therapy to understand what was happening and perhaps even why. What he really wanted, though, was just to be able to sleep through the night at least once a week. That would be bliss.
Twenty odd years of restless sleep had placed budding busts under his eyes, his eye lids hovered at half mast and wrinkles were webbing from the corners of his eyes.
It wasn't apparent just on his face. His stride was short, his step slow. He was beginning to show a hump due to chronic poor posture; shoulders drooped.
"How are you doing," Silvia asked.
"I just," Ruben started to say. "I just want to be able to sleep once in a while."
End Fiction.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
06-25-2009
Start Fiction:
Evan had caught a glimpse, but Lorna blended in to the crowd. He walked faster in her direction, bumping in to people as he went from face to face, his head turning left and right.
He reached the corner, and stopped. Could it have really been Lorna? What would she be doing here? She wouldn't be looking for him, would she?
The last time Evan had seen her she had put two bullets in him. He searched the crowd on the other. Side of the street. He let out a little laugh, took a deep breath. Perhaps his imagination had gotten the best of him.
He turned back down the street smiling, still searching the crowds, looking back over his shoulder from time to time. In some demented way Evan would like to see her again. She was a good person at heart; a strong, independent woman who had gotten caught up in something she couldn't, wouldn't, share with him.
As Evan walked back to the grocery store at the other end of the block, he chuckled and stopped searching through the crowds. Regardless that Lorna had shot him, some how he wondered if it was for his own protection. From who or what he was not sure. Evan wanted to believe she had her reasons and whatever it was, he was willing to forgive her enough to talk; in a very public place, of course.
However, it probably was something he didn't need to waste time thinking about since it was improbable Lorna was even still alive.
End Fiction.
This one might need more time to develop. I am liking the possibilties here...
Evan had caught a glimpse, but Lorna blended in to the crowd. He walked faster in her direction, bumping in to people as he went from face to face, his head turning left and right.
He reached the corner, and stopped. Could it have really been Lorna? What would she be doing here? She wouldn't be looking for him, would she?
The last time Evan had seen her she had put two bullets in him. He searched the crowd on the other. Side of the street. He let out a little laugh, took a deep breath. Perhaps his imagination had gotten the best of him.
He turned back down the street smiling, still searching the crowds, looking back over his shoulder from time to time. In some demented way Evan would like to see her again. She was a good person at heart; a strong, independent woman who had gotten caught up in something she couldn't, wouldn't, share with him.
As Evan walked back to the grocery store at the other end of the block, he chuckled and stopped searching through the crowds. Regardless that Lorna had shot him, some how he wondered if it was for his own protection. From who or what he was not sure. Evan wanted to believe she had her reasons and whatever it was, he was willing to forgive her enough to talk; in a very public place, of course.
However, it probably was something he didn't need to waste time thinking about since it was improbable Lorna was even still alive.
End Fiction.
This one might need more time to develop. I am liking the possibilties here...
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
06-24-2009
Start Fiction:
The loud juicy snap made Russ convulse as Tim's tattooed arm was ripped from his body. Tim screamed and stared at Russ, unable to move. As his screaming became more frantic, his breathing became more irregular causing him to hyperventilate, pass out and fall to the ground with a thud. The gorilla howled as he beat the bars of his cage with his new trophy.
"Look, Mommy, that monkey pulled that man's arm off," said a little boy standing nearby. His mother turned the boy away from the scene, covered her mouth as she began to dry heave.
Several by-standers rushed to Tim's side; one took off his shirt putting pressure on the gaping wound. Several others dialed 911, trying to describe to carnage to the dispatcher.
Russ dropped to his knees and began to projectile vomit. He looked upon his friend as he lay covered in blood; bloody dirt stained his clothes, the shirt being used for dressing was dark red. His face was pale, mouth wide open, drooling.
To Russ' surprise, Tim began to move. Russ sat back on his heels, he took a deep breath and waited for Tim's eyes to open, but instead Tim began to seize.
Russ turned to the cage that was only a couple feet away and realized the gorilla was running the hand on Tim's arm through his hair, scratching his head watching him. Russ stood up and turned to the gorilla. The gorilla stopped brushing himself and came to the edge of the cage extending the appendage towards Russ, offering it to him.
"Don't do it," a man shouted. It was the head zoo keeper. The man was slowly approaching Russ with a very large rifle aimed at the gorilla. "He may just pull you in, son."
"But, they'll need it to put it back on," Russ said. He pointed to the arm, trying to make the man understand.
"We'll get it, son, just slowly step back from the cage," the man said. Russ could see the sweat dripping from his nose, his eyes trained on the gorilla.
Russ turned back to the goriila and looked into his eyes. He wasn't afraid, he believed the gorilla wouldn't hurt him. But there was something more; he knew the gorilla wouldn't hurt him.
End Fiction.
The loud juicy snap made Russ convulse as Tim's tattooed arm was ripped from his body. Tim screamed and stared at Russ, unable to move. As his screaming became more frantic, his breathing became more irregular causing him to hyperventilate, pass out and fall to the ground with a thud. The gorilla howled as he beat the bars of his cage with his new trophy.
"Look, Mommy, that monkey pulled that man's arm off," said a little boy standing nearby. His mother turned the boy away from the scene, covered her mouth as she began to dry heave.
Several by-standers rushed to Tim's side; one took off his shirt putting pressure on the gaping wound. Several others dialed 911, trying to describe to carnage to the dispatcher.
Russ dropped to his knees and began to projectile vomit. He looked upon his friend as he lay covered in blood; bloody dirt stained his clothes, the shirt being used for dressing was dark red. His face was pale, mouth wide open, drooling.
To Russ' surprise, Tim began to move. Russ sat back on his heels, he took a deep breath and waited for Tim's eyes to open, but instead Tim began to seize.
Russ turned to the cage that was only a couple feet away and realized the gorilla was running the hand on Tim's arm through his hair, scratching his head watching him. Russ stood up and turned to the gorilla. The gorilla stopped brushing himself and came to the edge of the cage extending the appendage towards Russ, offering it to him.
"Don't do it," a man shouted. It was the head zoo keeper. The man was slowly approaching Russ with a very large rifle aimed at the gorilla. "He may just pull you in, son."
"But, they'll need it to put it back on," Russ said. He pointed to the arm, trying to make the man understand.
"We'll get it, son, just slowly step back from the cage," the man said. Russ could see the sweat dripping from his nose, his eyes trained on the gorilla.
Russ turned back to the goriila and looked into his eyes. He wasn't afraid, he believed the gorilla wouldn't hurt him. But there was something more; he knew the gorilla wouldn't hurt him.
End Fiction.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
06-23-2009
Start Fiction:
John ran from the kitchen, launching himself off the coffee table over the couch towards the window.
It was coming. Only the predator let out that piercing howl.
He pulled the curtains shut and spun around. He began to run through the house turning off the lights. He could feel his neck throbbing. The world tilted a bit; he staggered from room to room.
He needed a plan; but any plan seemed futile against such a predator. He quickly tried to formulate any weakness the predator may have. It moved at full speed all the time; prolonged bursts of energy. The predator had great strength as it had ripped the door off his car two days before. It possessed intelligence; plotting, planning and anticipation of John's moves. The predator was very patient, never makes a impulsive move.
However, for all that the predator possessed in abilities, it seemed to enjoy the hunt more than the kill. John was certain of that, otherwise he'd be dead already.
Maybe that's the answer, John thoguht.
Perhaps prolonging the hunt would buy John some time to either escape or defeat the predator. It all seemed imposssible, overwhelming. But he knew he just had to survive, for now.
John paced back and forth across the living room, running his hand through his hair.
The wooden house was not going to offer much resistence to the predator; he needed a diversion to get some where that would offer resistence.
"The bomb shelter," he said aloud. "Of course."
Peter stopped pacing and began to walk to the kitchen. He grabbed two steaks from the freezer, started the oven and threw the steaks directly on the racks. He then turned to the pantry grabbing several bags of popcorn, shoved them in to the microwave and set it for fifteen minutes. Finally, he grabbed his pouch of culinary knives; a weak defense, especially that close to the predator, but it would have to do.
"Game on," John said as he walked to the back door and opened it, turned, went to the bedroom and popped the screen out of the window. He only needed a few minutes, at least that's what he kept telling himself.
End Fiction.
John ran from the kitchen, launching himself off the coffee table over the couch towards the window.
It was coming. Only the predator let out that piercing howl.
He pulled the curtains shut and spun around. He began to run through the house turning off the lights. He could feel his neck throbbing. The world tilted a bit; he staggered from room to room.
He needed a plan; but any plan seemed futile against such a predator. He quickly tried to formulate any weakness the predator may have. It moved at full speed all the time; prolonged bursts of energy. The predator had great strength as it had ripped the door off his car two days before. It possessed intelligence; plotting, planning and anticipation of John's moves. The predator was very patient, never makes a impulsive move.
However, for all that the predator possessed in abilities, it seemed to enjoy the hunt more than the kill. John was certain of that, otherwise he'd be dead already.
Maybe that's the answer, John thoguht.
Perhaps prolonging the hunt would buy John some time to either escape or defeat the predator. It all seemed imposssible, overwhelming. But he knew he just had to survive, for now.
John paced back and forth across the living room, running his hand through his hair.
The wooden house was not going to offer much resistence to the predator; he needed a diversion to get some where that would offer resistence.
"The bomb shelter," he said aloud. "Of course."
Peter stopped pacing and began to walk to the kitchen. He grabbed two steaks from the freezer, started the oven and threw the steaks directly on the racks. He then turned to the pantry grabbing several bags of popcorn, shoved them in to the microwave and set it for fifteen minutes. Finally, he grabbed his pouch of culinary knives; a weak defense, especially that close to the predator, but it would have to do.
"Game on," John said as he walked to the back door and opened it, turned, went to the bedroom and popped the screen out of the window. He only needed a few minutes, at least that's what he kept telling himself.
End Fiction.
Monday, June 22, 2009
06-22-2009
Start Fiction:
Peter slid against the boulder, slowly trying to gain cover as the smoke rose. The gunman approached his position in a steady stride, guns drawn, no indication they were going to take cover.
"Don't make this difficult on yourself, Mr. Jacobsen," one of the men called out.
"What do you want with me?" Peter called back. The men did not reply; their footsteps grew closer.
He searched for a new position, new cover, possible routes of escape.
Peter's leg was bleeding, but he was able to move it, put weight on it; his only chance was to go now, no hesitation. He took a deep breath and moved towards the left, looking to slip behind the three men. He threw a rock to his right, knocking over a hub cap twenty feet away. The footsteps stopped.
Peter gingerly stepped around the boulder, moving behind a cast iron tub. He stopped, looked under the tub trying to spot the men as the smoke was beginning to clear.
Three sets of feet were moving off towards the hub cap. Peter forced himself to wait; wait until he knew there was only three men.
He looked towards the exit and tried to plot a path. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath. He could hear the gravel shift under the men's feet; a car idled somewhere near the exit; a jet flew over, low; Peter's heart raced in his chest. Another deep breath.
He stood slowly, crouching, peeking over the rusty tub. The three men were dressed in black, wearing sun glasses, carrying Uzi's. What ever they wanted with him, it was serious.
Peter stepped slowly towards a stack of crushed cars, in the open, exposed; if one of the men turned his head at all, he'd be seen. If he moved too fast, he'd be heard. But it was a risk he had to take.
Sweat dripped from his brow.
Two steps away.
His pants were beginning to stick to his legs, he heard a slight rip.
One more step.
Peter stood and turned and leaned his back against the stack of cars. He made it.
Now what? he thought.
The exit was thirty feet dead on. Two stacks of tires were in his path; one would require him to move in to plain sight of the three men. He looked to the car, he could see the front bumper.
What if there is a driver? Peter thought. Could I hide in the junk yard until they left? Or would they not leave until they found me?
"Damn it!" one of the men shouted. "Back to the car!"
Peter ducked to his right, using the tires as a block from the car. There was a small space under the next stack of cars. He could fit, he was sure. Three quick steps and a belly scoot.
As he began to take his first step, a fourth man walked around the far side of the car with his rifle pointed right at Peter.
Peter froze.
"I got him," the fourth man called out.
"Shit," Peter said as the other three men walked around the stack of cars. He raised his hands in the air and waited.
"I told you not to make this hard on yourself," said one of the men as he grabbed Peter by the back of the neck and pulled him forward. "Let's go for a ride."
The three men and Peter walked towards the car.
End Fiction.
Peter slid against the boulder, slowly trying to gain cover as the smoke rose. The gunman approached his position in a steady stride, guns drawn, no indication they were going to take cover.
"Don't make this difficult on yourself, Mr. Jacobsen," one of the men called out.
"What do you want with me?" Peter called back. The men did not reply; their footsteps grew closer.
He searched for a new position, new cover, possible routes of escape.
Peter's leg was bleeding, but he was able to move it, put weight on it; his only chance was to go now, no hesitation. He took a deep breath and moved towards the left, looking to slip behind the three men. He threw a rock to his right, knocking over a hub cap twenty feet away. The footsteps stopped.
Peter gingerly stepped around the boulder, moving behind a cast iron tub. He stopped, looked under the tub trying to spot the men as the smoke was beginning to clear.
Three sets of feet were moving off towards the hub cap. Peter forced himself to wait; wait until he knew there was only three men.
He looked towards the exit and tried to plot a path. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath. He could hear the gravel shift under the men's feet; a car idled somewhere near the exit; a jet flew over, low; Peter's heart raced in his chest. Another deep breath.
He stood slowly, crouching, peeking over the rusty tub. The three men were dressed in black, wearing sun glasses, carrying Uzi's. What ever they wanted with him, it was serious.
Peter stepped slowly towards a stack of crushed cars, in the open, exposed; if one of the men turned his head at all, he'd be seen. If he moved too fast, he'd be heard. But it was a risk he had to take.
Sweat dripped from his brow.
Two steps away.
His pants were beginning to stick to his legs, he heard a slight rip.
One more step.
Peter stood and turned and leaned his back against the stack of cars. He made it.
Now what? he thought.
The exit was thirty feet dead on. Two stacks of tires were in his path; one would require him to move in to plain sight of the three men. He looked to the car, he could see the front bumper.
What if there is a driver? Peter thought. Could I hide in the junk yard until they left? Or would they not leave until they found me?
"Damn it!" one of the men shouted. "Back to the car!"
Peter ducked to his right, using the tires as a block from the car. There was a small space under the next stack of cars. He could fit, he was sure. Three quick steps and a belly scoot.
As he began to take his first step, a fourth man walked around the far side of the car with his rifle pointed right at Peter.
Peter froze.
"I got him," the fourth man called out.
"Shit," Peter said as the other three men walked around the stack of cars. He raised his hands in the air and waited.
"I told you not to make this hard on yourself," said one of the men as he grabbed Peter by the back of the neck and pulled him forward. "Let's go for a ride."
The three men and Peter walked towards the car.
End Fiction.
06-21-2009
Start Fiction:
Gasoline and coolant trickled on to pavment; metal scraped the concrete as the car rolled backward. Jeff's nose stung from smuldering plastic. He tugged at his seatbelt while he fumbled with the latch but couldn't get it to release.
He tried to calm himself as he took a deep breath. Watching the sun set his head fell against the head rest; his eyes slowly closed.
I'm tired, he thought. Just a quick nap.
Glass broke behind him, sirens blared, Jeff fought to open his eyes. It was dark; red and blue lights faintly flickered around the interior of the car.
"Sir," a woman said. "Sir, can you hear me?"
"Yes. I'm tired," Jeff said.
"Sir, you've been in an accident, we are here to help."
Several voices jumbled together as a power saw started. Jeff turned his head as the female voice told him to hold still while they cut the car apart to get him out. It was still dark.
Jeff felt a heavy, scratchy blanket fall over his head and arms. The saw began cutting, screeching as it sliced through the car.
"Tired," Jeff said, muted by the saw.
End Fiction.
Gasoline and coolant trickled on to pavment; metal scraped the concrete as the car rolled backward. Jeff's nose stung from smuldering plastic. He tugged at his seatbelt while he fumbled with the latch but couldn't get it to release.
He tried to calm himself as he took a deep breath. Watching the sun set his head fell against the head rest; his eyes slowly closed.
I'm tired, he thought. Just a quick nap.
Glass broke behind him, sirens blared, Jeff fought to open his eyes. It was dark; red and blue lights faintly flickered around the interior of the car.
"Sir," a woman said. "Sir, can you hear me?"
"Yes. I'm tired," Jeff said.
"Sir, you've been in an accident, we are here to help."
Several voices jumbled together as a power saw started. Jeff turned his head as the female voice told him to hold still while they cut the car apart to get him out. It was still dark.
Jeff felt a heavy, scratchy blanket fall over his head and arms. The saw began cutting, screeching as it sliced through the car.
"Tired," Jeff said, muted by the saw.
End Fiction.
Friday, June 19, 2009
06-19-2009
Start Fiction:
Billy strolled through the woods. The air was damp with the last of the snow as it slowly dwindled in to the ground. Trees were not budding yet, but he was guessing that it would be a mere few weeks before the forest began to bloom.
He stepped over several fallen trees and he stopped; these trees were large, extensively splintered and fell before fall as they had leaves on the branches. He walked forward for several more yards and came upon a clearing that was not there last fall.
He climbed up on one of the larger trunks to get a better perspective. As he walked down the trunk, he noticed that it was very quiet in the forest, especially for a warm and sunny spring day.
Billy stood at the base of the tree. Slowly he took in the scene. There were at least two dozen trees down within twenty yards of each other. But, there was something about the way the trees had fallen. It almost looked like-
He needed a better vantage point. He quickly scouted for a large tree he could get up in to easily. He jumped off the trunk, ran ten yards to the north and began climbing, breathing deep.
When Billy reached about thirty feet, his heart raced. He looked down upon the trees and couldn't believe his eyes.
The trees - no, he thought.
"They couldn't; it couldn't," he said aloud. His voice trembled.
Higher. I must get higher.
Billy feverishly, carelessly climbed the tree, snapping branches. At fifty feet, he was running out of tree. He took several deep breaths before looking back down at the trees. It was clear; the trees were laid out - organized.
It didn't seem possible. So many trees, no one heard?
End Fiction.
Billy strolled through the woods. The air was damp with the last of the snow as it slowly dwindled in to the ground. Trees were not budding yet, but he was guessing that it would be a mere few weeks before the forest began to bloom.
He stepped over several fallen trees and he stopped; these trees were large, extensively splintered and fell before fall as they had leaves on the branches. He walked forward for several more yards and came upon a clearing that was not there last fall.
He climbed up on one of the larger trunks to get a better perspective. As he walked down the trunk, he noticed that it was very quiet in the forest, especially for a warm and sunny spring day.
Billy stood at the base of the tree. Slowly he took in the scene. There were at least two dozen trees down within twenty yards of each other. But, there was something about the way the trees had fallen. It almost looked like-
He needed a better vantage point. He quickly scouted for a large tree he could get up in to easily. He jumped off the trunk, ran ten yards to the north and began climbing, breathing deep.
When Billy reached about thirty feet, his heart raced. He looked down upon the trees and couldn't believe his eyes.
The trees - no, he thought.
"They couldn't; it couldn't," he said aloud. His voice trembled.
Higher. I must get higher.
Billy feverishly, carelessly climbed the tree, snapping branches. At fifty feet, he was running out of tree. He took several deep breaths before looking back down at the trees. It was clear; the trees were laid out - organized.
It didn't seem possible. So many trees, no one heard?
End Fiction.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
06-17-2009
Start Fiction:
Sally turned to Ken, eybows raised, as she heard his teeth grinding. "You okay?"
Ken took a deep breath and sat back in his chair. He stared straight ahead. "Everything's fine," he told her.
"Yeah, sounds like it," she said slapping her thighs.
End Fiction.
Way too short, but a storm hit, had things to 'tend to.
Sally turned to Ken, eybows raised, as she heard his teeth grinding. "You okay?"
Ken took a deep breath and sat back in his chair. He stared straight ahead. "Everything's fine," he told her.
"Yeah, sounds like it," she said slapping her thighs.
End Fiction.
Way too short, but a storm hit, had things to 'tend to.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Tuesday...
Start Fiction:
"Don't touch anything," Mike whispered.
Annie froze. Her head tilted to the right, looking for a safe place to set her foot. A buzzing caught her attention, to her left. "Do you hear that?"
Mike moved his head slowly to his right, his eyes closed. He tightened his eyes, leaned slightly to the right. His eyes popped open. "What is that?"
"I don't know, but it seems to be getting louder," Annie said as she began to step backward.
"Or closer," Mike said. He hesitantly stepped towards Annie, eyeing the door behind her. "I think it's time to go."
As they moved towards the exit, the buzzing grew louder, painful; Annie covered her ears, letting out a yelp. The buzz continued to increase in power, intensity. The floor began to vibrate, windows cracked. Mike stumbled, bumped into a table hard and fell to his knees.
"Mike!" Annie tried to yell, but the buzzing was too loud. She grabbed him, getting him to his feet, almost dragging him. Annie kept her focus, vision blurred from the buzz. 'Just a couple meters from the door,' she told herself.
As Mike and Annie got a few feet from the door, a loud boom blew them against the door.
As they lay stunned, Mike realized the buzz was gone. He looked to Annie, grabbed her hand and squeezed. She squeezed back, turned her head.
"Are you okay?" she whispered. He nodded. They helped each other up, dusted themselves off a little. Mike rubbed his ears, chuckling a little as he turned to the door.
As he placed his hand on the knob, he stopped. Not sure if the loud buzz had caused his ears to ring, but it wasn't a ringing he heard; a hum pulsed behind him.
"Mike," Annie said as she placed her hand on his shoulder. He turned to her, her eyes wide, mouthing something but no words came from her mouth. He followed her eyes, drifting slowly across the room. As his eyes met the object, he gasped.
End Fiction.
"Don't touch anything," Mike whispered.
Annie froze. Her head tilted to the right, looking for a safe place to set her foot. A buzzing caught her attention, to her left. "Do you hear that?"
Mike moved his head slowly to his right, his eyes closed. He tightened his eyes, leaned slightly to the right. His eyes popped open. "What is that?"
"I don't know, but it seems to be getting louder," Annie said as she began to step backward.
"Or closer," Mike said. He hesitantly stepped towards Annie, eyeing the door behind her. "I think it's time to go."
As they moved towards the exit, the buzzing grew louder, painful; Annie covered her ears, letting out a yelp. The buzz continued to increase in power, intensity. The floor began to vibrate, windows cracked. Mike stumbled, bumped into a table hard and fell to his knees.
"Mike!" Annie tried to yell, but the buzzing was too loud. She grabbed him, getting him to his feet, almost dragging him. Annie kept her focus, vision blurred from the buzz. 'Just a couple meters from the door,' she told herself.
As Mike and Annie got a few feet from the door, a loud boom blew them against the door.
As they lay stunned, Mike realized the buzz was gone. He looked to Annie, grabbed her hand and squeezed. She squeezed back, turned her head.
"Are you okay?" she whispered. He nodded. They helped each other up, dusted themselves off a little. Mike rubbed his ears, chuckling a little as he turned to the door.
As he placed his hand on the knob, he stopped. Not sure if the loud buzz had caused his ears to ring, but it wasn't a ringing he heard; a hum pulsed behind him.
"Mike," Annie said as she placed her hand on his shoulder. He turned to her, her eyes wide, mouthing something but no words came from her mouth. He followed her eyes, drifting slowly across the room. As his eyes met the object, he gasped.
End Fiction.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Words...
Start Fiction:
Rage fumed inside Vic. His ears burned, fists clinched, veins popped, jaw tightened grinding his teeth. Vic knew he didn't have a reason to be so angry, but he didn't care. The rage was a rush, a powerful feeling; a dangerous feeling.
Vic remained in the center of the parking lot as the gentle rain cooled his ears. He remained focus on Jen's living room window. She was in there, but not alone.
Two silhouettes moved across the drapes; apart, then embracing. The rain began to fall harder, Vic stood his ground. The two figures danced, laughed, kissed.
The cool rain ran down his cheeks, mixed with tears. His fingers began to slowly unfurl; he took a deep breath through his mouth. He dropped his head, his shoulders relaxed; the living room light went out.
End Fiction.
Rage fumed inside Vic. His ears burned, fists clinched, veins popped, jaw tightened grinding his teeth. Vic knew he didn't have a reason to be so angry, but he didn't care. The rage was a rush, a powerful feeling; a dangerous feeling.
Vic remained in the center of the parking lot as the gentle rain cooled his ears. He remained focus on Jen's living room window. She was in there, but not alone.
Two silhouettes moved across the drapes; apart, then embracing. The rain began to fall harder, Vic stood his ground. The two figures danced, laughed, kissed.
The cool rain ran down his cheeks, mixed with tears. His fingers began to slowly unfurl; he took a deep breath through his mouth. He dropped his head, his shoulders relaxed; the living room light went out.
End Fiction.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Entry...
Start Fiction:
The door blew open; shards of wood hit Paul in the face, but he didn't flinch. These guys, these punks, were not going to get to him. It was going to take a lot more than some weak scare tactics to get to him these days.
"Can I help you, gentlemen?" Paul asked as he wiped several pieces of wood off his forehead.
"Well, look at you," Marcus said. "You've got some balls of steel, now don't ya?" He laughed as he slapped his partner on the shoulder. Johnny laughed, although he wasn't sure what he was laughing at, exactly.
"Titanium, actually," Paul replied as he took a sip of his wood chunk laden tea.
Marcus stopped laughing, slamming his hand down on the table. "You think this is a game?" he said, leaning in towards Paul.
Paul sipped his tea again, refusing to make eye contact. As he set his tea down, Johnny came around the table opposite Marcus. Paul just stared straight ahead. "Like I said, is there something I can help you with?"
Marcus pulled up a chair. He took several deep breaths as he ran his fingers through his hair. "Look, you have certain skills that makes you very valuable to peoples that we represent." He reached into his pocket and laid a velvet pouch on the table.
"What am I to do with that?" Paul asked.
"I bet you'll figure something out," Marcus said as he stood up and lightly smacked Paul on the cheek. "By Friday." Johnny turned and began to walk out slowly, watching Paul and the pouch.
"And if I don't?" Paul called after Marcus.
"You know what happens," Marcus replied not breaking his stride. Johnny chuckled as he shut the broken door.
Paul knew this had to end. He had to get away from his mob ties, his deviant life style. But it seemed as though death was the leading option with not much else a distant second. But was it his death that would break the tie, or could others die to set him free?
End Fiction.
The door blew open; shards of wood hit Paul in the face, but he didn't flinch. These guys, these punks, were not going to get to him. It was going to take a lot more than some weak scare tactics to get to him these days.
"Can I help you, gentlemen?" Paul asked as he wiped several pieces of wood off his forehead.
"Well, look at you," Marcus said. "You've got some balls of steel, now don't ya?" He laughed as he slapped his partner on the shoulder. Johnny laughed, although he wasn't sure what he was laughing at, exactly.
"Titanium, actually," Paul replied as he took a sip of his wood chunk laden tea.
Marcus stopped laughing, slamming his hand down on the table. "You think this is a game?" he said, leaning in towards Paul.
Paul sipped his tea again, refusing to make eye contact. As he set his tea down, Johnny came around the table opposite Marcus. Paul just stared straight ahead. "Like I said, is there something I can help you with?"
Marcus pulled up a chair. He took several deep breaths as he ran his fingers through his hair. "Look, you have certain skills that makes you very valuable to peoples that we represent." He reached into his pocket and laid a velvet pouch on the table.
"What am I to do with that?" Paul asked.
"I bet you'll figure something out," Marcus said as he stood up and lightly smacked Paul on the cheek. "By Friday." Johnny turned and began to walk out slowly, watching Paul and the pouch.
"And if I don't?" Paul called after Marcus.
"You know what happens," Marcus replied not breaking his stride. Johnny chuckled as he shut the broken door.
Paul knew this had to end. He had to get away from his mob ties, his deviant life style. But it seemed as though death was the leading option with not much else a distant second. But was it his death that would break the tie, or could others die to set him free?
End Fiction.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Downtown...
I saw this pan handler in the Pedestrian Mall in downtown Iowa City yesterday, which is not uncommon these days, but his cardboard sign caught my eye. It said, "Please help. My wife was kidnapped by Ninjas. I need money for karate lessons so I can save her." While others were annoyed with him and scoffed at his sign, I laughed and found it refreshing. Here is this guy with some definite issues, down on his luck, yet he is able to keep his wits about him enough to still come up with a story!
Intriguing, to say the least.
Start Fiction (sort of):
The cool air tussled his hair slightly as he walked down the deserted street. Summer time allowed the locals to actually get downtown without fear of stepping in vomit, tripping over trash or surveying the damage done by the binge drinking college students the night before. Shops, for the most part, came and went.
There was a definite change in the mentality of the town since he was a kid, growing up on the mellow streets of Iowa City. It was almost completely geared towards the students, specialty shops for the young and "hip", bar after bar after bar lined the Pedestrian Mall store fronts. It used to be that the students were visitors in the town, working with what shops and restaurants the locals kept in business. Now it was merely part of the extended campus for the students to run all over and treat as a playground, if not an outhouse.
Apartment buildings were erected in place of small business buildings; parking became more scarce in a town that already had parking issues. One couldn't walk more than a block with out being able to walk in to a store or bar and buy alcohol. Single family homes in the downtown area were now dilapidated rental units.
It saddened him to see a once truly unique city fall to the way side as capitalistic greed and materialistic demands replaced community. But what was there he could do about any of it? He was as much of a relic as those buildings they were tearing down and putting up monstrous steel and glass high rise building.
Or was there?
End Fiction.
Intriguing, to say the least.
Start Fiction (sort of):
The cool air tussled his hair slightly as he walked down the deserted street. Summer time allowed the locals to actually get downtown without fear of stepping in vomit, tripping over trash or surveying the damage done by the binge drinking college students the night before. Shops, for the most part, came and went.
There was a definite change in the mentality of the town since he was a kid, growing up on the mellow streets of Iowa City. It was almost completely geared towards the students, specialty shops for the young and "hip", bar after bar after bar lined the Pedestrian Mall store fronts. It used to be that the students were visitors in the town, working with what shops and restaurants the locals kept in business. Now it was merely part of the extended campus for the students to run all over and treat as a playground, if not an outhouse.
Apartment buildings were erected in place of small business buildings; parking became more scarce in a town that already had parking issues. One couldn't walk more than a block with out being able to walk in to a store or bar and buy alcohol. Single family homes in the downtown area were now dilapidated rental units.
It saddened him to see a once truly unique city fall to the way side as capitalistic greed and materialistic demands replaced community. But what was there he could do about any of it? He was as much of a relic as those buildings they were tearing down and putting up monstrous steel and glass high rise building.
Or was there?
End Fiction.
Overdue...
Way too long. I REALLY suck at this game.
I have been spending a lot of time doing research lately; finding good info for story ideas, digging further than I need to because it is so interesting!
Start fiction:
Chimes rang, somewhere in the neighborhood. It was a sound Pete had heard before, often. It echo more clearly as he sat under the maple tree in the front yard, surveying his surroundings. Most of his neighbors were at the lake, enjoying the holiday, giving Pete some pleasure to have his lawn to himself, if even only for a few hours.
The afternoon air smelled sweet from the fresh cut lawn on which he was reclining. The breeze was cool, gentle. The sun was still hanging high in the afternoon sky. A ice cold beer in hand. And for the most part, silence.
He turned his attention away from the chimes, the smells, the breeze, the sun; away from everything. He closed his eyes and let his imagination play. At least that is what he called it, for anything else would land him in a mental ward. The visions he saw, the sounds he heard, and the emotions he felt were sometimes more real to Pete than this "reality".
Pete had some issues. He knew it, his family knew it, his wife knew it. He was able to maintain most days. However, today was not one of those days...
End fiction.
I have been spending a lot of time doing research lately; finding good info for story ideas, digging further than I need to because it is so interesting!
Start fiction:
Chimes rang, somewhere in the neighborhood. It was a sound Pete had heard before, often. It echo more clearly as he sat under the maple tree in the front yard, surveying his surroundings. Most of his neighbors were at the lake, enjoying the holiday, giving Pete some pleasure to have his lawn to himself, if even only for a few hours.
The afternoon air smelled sweet from the fresh cut lawn on which he was reclining. The breeze was cool, gentle. The sun was still hanging high in the afternoon sky. A ice cold beer in hand. And for the most part, silence.
He turned his attention away from the chimes, the smells, the breeze, the sun; away from everything. He closed his eyes and let his imagination play. At least that is what he called it, for anything else would land him in a mental ward. The visions he saw, the sounds he heard, and the emotions he felt were sometimes more real to Pete than this "reality".
Pete had some issues. He knew it, his family knew it, his wife knew it. He was able to maintain most days. However, today was not one of those days...
End fiction.
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