This is almost too raw and needs a lot of revision, but it's not too bad.
Start Fiction:
Stanley jumped up put of his seat and ripped open the door of Frank's office and moved in the short hallway. A quick right turn, Stanley grabbed the door jamb and swung himself around and headed for the stairs. As he descended, the steps snapped under his feet verses their regular creaking.
Reaching the main floor, Stanley bounced off the walls of the crooked hallway as made his "escape". Keeping his footing, he reached the lobby where the clients in the waiting room had squeezed into a corner. Frank called out after him, trying to get Stanley to calm down, but he was one of them.
Without losing a step, he grabbed the door handle, shoved the door open and slammed in to the outside door. It swung open, not out; step lost. Gathering himself, Stanley flung the door open, jumped off the stoop and ran towards downtown in a dead sprint; he ran steady and sure.
There were literally a hundred places to hide, ways to lose his the people "chasing" him. He could run in and through most establishments, skipping through town thanks to alleys.
Stanley decided to enter the public library. He stopped running and headed upstairs quickly moving to the west end of the building and the stairwell leading back out to the pedestrian mall. He quickly descended the vacant stairs. Reaching the exit, he surveyed the ped mall for Frank or anyone else chasing him. Who he was looking for, he wasn't sire, but he was now convinced they were out there and they were after him.
Stanley walked out the door, headed north and came to an alley. He saw two men in dark suits and sunglasses coming up the alley looking under cars, behind the boxes and dumpsters lining the alley. He continued north another block and turned west on Washington Street. He headed for Jimmy John's.
He entered a rather full store. He looked out in to the street looking for more men, more people chasing him. All clear, as far as he knew. It was hard to escape an unknown enemy, but he knew they were enemies and that was all that mattered.
Catching his breath, he turned and headed for the back. Stanley knew there had to be a rear exit, but it was an emergency exit with and alarm. That was the last thing he needed so he decided to enter the kitchen and use the delivery entrance instead.
As Stanley crossed the employee threshold, two employees just looked at him. He put his finger to his lip and walked to the back of the kitchen. Hanging by the door was a embroidered Jimmy John's shirt and a hat; a slight disguise just might do the trick. Stanley quickly adorned himself and popped the door open and tried to casually walk out in to the alley. No one was I the alley, either to the west or east.
He made his way back to Dubuque Street and turned north once again. The street seemed quiet enough until he got to the corner.
"Stanley!" Frank yelled from behind him. Stanley turned around and saw Frank walking fast towards him and two other men running towards him on the other side of the street.
Stanley bolted in to traffic, shooting diagonally to the Biology East building. Lots of space to run and hide; exits to Van Allen Hall leading to more mazes for escape. It had been years since he had been in either building, but his adrenaline was refreshing his memory.
He decide to bolt straight down the first floor hallway and shoot straight through Van Allen and head up Linn Street. As he came out of the Biology building he jumped over the ramp handrail, on to the service drive and bolted across the lawn on the back side of Van Allen.
Stanley quickly decided to just run around the building and on to the walkway in between Van Allen and Seashore Hall. As he sprinted he smiled and felt strong, empowered and for once good about himself. Stanley felt free.
Approaching the corner of Linn and Jefferson, Stanley realized a man was running directly at him with a gun pointed at him. Stanley glanced down and saw a red dot on his chest and stopped. It was over; he was theirs, whoever they were.
A hand landed on Stanley's shoulder. The man with the gun stopped running, quickly lowered his weapon and shoved it in to his jacket. Stanley kept his eyes trained on the gunman, waiting for what was to come.
"Stanley," Frank said. "You were never to have any knowledge of any of this."
"So, I am not crazy," he said. He dropped his head and laughed, relieved his mind was firm.
"No, but now we need to help you so you don't go crazy and to do that, you must come with us," Frank told him as a white van pulled up and the side doors opened.
"Am I going to die, Frank?"
"No, Stanley," he said as he tapped his shoulder directing him to the van. "You're too important to the project. You have a whole new life ahead of you."
End Fiction.
Friday, July 31, 2009
07-30-2009
This is from a exercise in one of my new books. Here is aparaphrase of the exercise: Curious child asking parent questions. Parent has inner monolouge about larger issue admist the conversation.
I kinda struggled with this onee, but it turned out ok... I think.
Start Fiction:
"Mom," little Charlie began. "Why do people get so fat?" he said as he pointed at a rather large man walking into the mall ahead of them.
Sheila felt her face flush. She looked around, slightly embarrassed. She hestitated and waited until the man got in the doors. "Well, some people have illnesses that can cause them to gain weight," Sheila said.
"So all fat people are sick?"
"No, just some people," she said.
"How do the other people get so fat? Are they born that way, like those two ladies?" he said as he pointed at two women coming out of the mall. They were very large women, appearing to struggle with each step. Sheila knew her six year old didn't see fat or skinny as an issue of beauty, or character, but purely innocent curiosity. She wanted to teach and inform, but she felt that could prove difficult.
"Some people are born chubby," she began. "but babies are usually only chubby until the start walking, and all that exercise and playing causes them to lose weight."
"So going to the park is good for you?" he said as he skipped.
"Yes."
"Then why are there only kids at the park playing?" Charlie said as he stopped.
"That's a good question," she said as she sat down on one of the benches near the entrance. Here was a moment she knew she was going to remember for years and wanted to soak it all in and make sure she took the time to answer all of his questions.
"Why don't you play when we go to the park?"
"Are you saying I am fat?"
"You're not fat!" Charlie said. He looked at Sheila and cocked his head. "If you don't play at the park, how did you get skinny?"
Now we're getting somewhere! Sheila thought. I have to pick my words carefully.
"I watch what I eat, how much I eat. I eat good, healthy foods and I exercise, but not at the park," she said.
"Food can make you fat?"
"A lot of food can make you fat."
"Like candy?"
Perfect, Shelia thought.
"Candy, cookies, cake, brownies, ice cream, soda, fried chicken, french fries..."
"Whoa," Charlie said. He sat down next to Sheila and hung his head. He tapped his foot on the ground. "but apples and watermellon and strawberries and veggies are good for you, right?"
"Yes, very good for you."
Charlie's wheels were turning. He looked at the mall where the ice cream store was, where they were headed.
"Mom," he said. "can we go to the park instead?"
"We sure can," Sheila said as she hugged Charlie. "We sure can."
End Fiction.
I kinda struggled with this onee, but it turned out ok... I think.
Start Fiction:
"Mom," little Charlie began. "Why do people get so fat?" he said as he pointed at a rather large man walking into the mall ahead of them.
Sheila felt her face flush. She looked around, slightly embarrassed. She hestitated and waited until the man got in the doors. "Well, some people have illnesses that can cause them to gain weight," Sheila said.
"So all fat people are sick?"
"No, just some people," she said.
"How do the other people get so fat? Are they born that way, like those two ladies?" he said as he pointed at two women coming out of the mall. They were very large women, appearing to struggle with each step. Sheila knew her six year old didn't see fat or skinny as an issue of beauty, or character, but purely innocent curiosity. She wanted to teach and inform, but she felt that could prove difficult.
"Some people are born chubby," she began. "but babies are usually only chubby until the start walking, and all that exercise and playing causes them to lose weight."
"So going to the park is good for you?" he said as he skipped.
"Yes."
"Then why are there only kids at the park playing?" Charlie said as he stopped.
"That's a good question," she said as she sat down on one of the benches near the entrance. Here was a moment she knew she was going to remember for years and wanted to soak it all in and make sure she took the time to answer all of his questions.
"Why don't you play when we go to the park?"
"Are you saying I am fat?"
"You're not fat!" Charlie said. He looked at Sheila and cocked his head. "If you don't play at the park, how did you get skinny?"
Now we're getting somewhere! Sheila thought. I have to pick my words carefully.
"I watch what I eat, how much I eat. I eat good, healthy foods and I exercise, but not at the park," she said.
"Food can make you fat?"
"A lot of food can make you fat."
"Like candy?"
Perfect, Shelia thought.
"Candy, cookies, cake, brownies, ice cream, soda, fried chicken, french fries..."
"Whoa," Charlie said. He sat down next to Sheila and hung his head. He tapped his foot on the ground. "but apples and watermellon and strawberries and veggies are good for you, right?"
"Yes, very good for you."
Charlie's wheels were turning. He looked at the mall where the ice cream store was, where they were headed.
"Mom," he said. "can we go to the park instead?"
"We sure can," Sheila said as she hugged Charlie. "We sure can."
End Fiction.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
07-29-2009
Another exercise...
Start Fiction:
All the planning and research was done. It was merely a question of Billy making the decision; the decision to start his own business.
Sally was on board. She knew how talented of a carpenter her husband was, the quality of work he produced. They had sold hundreds of pieces over the years, often well under their value.
His boss, Hank, was aware of Billy's opportunity. While he didn't want to lose an employee of fifteen, he had told Billy he would be at the top of his contractor's list.
His parents and in-laws had been the ones who planted the idea. His friends always came to him for various woodworking projects; they were definitely on board.
Why was Billy the only one not sure? He knew he did fine and decent work, created some real pieces of work and loved to create almost anything. He was familiar with many types of wood, knew what worked best for various pieces and was willing to take on any challenge. But the challenge of his own business might be too much.
As he unloaded his truck, his boss pulled in to the job site.
"Hank," he said as he set down his mitre saw. "What brings you put to these parts?"
"Billy," he said as they shook hands. "I have been doing a lot of thinking and well, here," Hank said as he handed Billy an thick manila envelope.
"What's this?" he said as he opened the envelope.
"I know you have been having trouble making a decision," Hank began. "And well, it's a list of people that want to hire you; that have hired you, actually."
Billy looked over the pages of jobs. Dozens of job descriptions with generous bids that were accepted; contracts, signed contracts. Hank had lined up jobs for Billy for twenty-six weeks, minimum.
Hairs stood up on the back of his neck. "Hank," Billy said. He wasn't sure if he felt like crying or jumping up and down.
"Try it for six months," Hank said as he placed his hand on Billy's shoulder, "if it doesn't work out or you decide it's not for you, there will always be a job here for you."
He looked at Hank, then back at through the paper work, then back at Hank.
"Hank," his voice cracked.
"You're like a son, Billy, happy to do it," Hank said. "Now, call your wife and start making plans for your new life!"
End Fiction.
Start Fiction:
All the planning and research was done. It was merely a question of Billy making the decision; the decision to start his own business.
Sally was on board. She knew how talented of a carpenter her husband was, the quality of work he produced. They had sold hundreds of pieces over the years, often well under their value.
His boss, Hank, was aware of Billy's opportunity. While he didn't want to lose an employee of fifteen, he had told Billy he would be at the top of his contractor's list.
His parents and in-laws had been the ones who planted the idea. His friends always came to him for various woodworking projects; they were definitely on board.
Why was Billy the only one not sure? He knew he did fine and decent work, created some real pieces of work and loved to create almost anything. He was familiar with many types of wood, knew what worked best for various pieces and was willing to take on any challenge. But the challenge of his own business might be too much.
As he unloaded his truck, his boss pulled in to the job site.
"Hank," he said as he set down his mitre saw. "What brings you put to these parts?"
"Billy," he said as they shook hands. "I have been doing a lot of thinking and well, here," Hank said as he handed Billy an thick manila envelope.
"What's this?" he said as he opened the envelope.
"I know you have been having trouble making a decision," Hank began. "And well, it's a list of people that want to hire you; that have hired you, actually."
Billy looked over the pages of jobs. Dozens of job descriptions with generous bids that were accepted; contracts, signed contracts. Hank had lined up jobs for Billy for twenty-six weeks, minimum.
Hairs stood up on the back of his neck. "Hank," Billy said. He wasn't sure if he felt like crying or jumping up and down.
"Try it for six months," Hank said as he placed his hand on Billy's shoulder, "if it doesn't work out or you decide it's not for you, there will always be a job here for you."
He looked at Hank, then back at through the paper work, then back at Hank.
"Hank," his voice cracked.
"You're like a son, Billy, happy to do it," Hank said. "Now, call your wife and start making plans for your new life!"
End Fiction.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
07-28-2009
Start Fiction:
Stanley expected the man's body to pop and crack as he stood up; slowly, wincing, he stepped as though he were walking on gravel.
How does such a young man get so old? he wondered. He wasn't much younger than the man, chronologically, but physically was a different story. He looked familiar; maybe he went to West High.
Stanley noticed he was wearing a construction company shirt, a tank top actually. His hat bore the cliche of the physical laborer: NASCAR. His arms were tan and his face looked raw, probably from years of exposure to the Iowa elements.
Even still, Stanley knew plenty of other construction workers, heavy construction, who were not nearly as in bad of shape. They were also not as skinny as the man, which made Stanley believe that drug abuse was suspect. Not only would that explain the weight, or lack thereof, but also, the deterioration of his body.
In some way, Stanley felt sorry for the man. Addicts usually get the short end of the stick; labeled as degenerates, weak minded and almost shunned from mainstream society. But he had been there with alcohol, suffered the itch, the misery that accompanied the pleasure each beer, each shot.
He also had experienced withdrawal; how physically and emotionally torn apart one goes through with aches, pains, the shakes, sweats and the panic attacks and hallucinations.
You feel weak minded, long for a fix of your poison, as though you are in fact going out of your mind, or that you had already lost your mind.
Stanley wondered what stage the man was going through, wondered if drug detox was more intense than alcohol. Could he help this man in some way? Did the man need or even want help?
He looked at the man again. He was hurting; his eyes were swollen, red. His breath was short, quick. Something was going on with this guy, that was for sure.
"Are you alright?" Stanley said. The man didn't move, staring off into space.
"I think, he began. "I think I am having a heart attack."
Stanley jumped to his feet and went to the man as he reached in his pocket for his cell phone.
"How long have you been experiencing the symptoms?" he asked as he dialed 9-1-1.
"oh, a few minutes," the man said. "Maybe ten, or so."
"How old are you?"
"Thirty-five."
"Really?" Stanley said. He chatted with the dispatcher for a few minutes and hung up his phone.
"Help is on the way," he told the man. "My name is Stanley."
"Ross, Ross Thompson," the man said. He had a name. He was a real person.
Stanley knew it didn't matter the mans past, his present was all he could help.
End Fiction.
Stanley expected the man's body to pop and crack as he stood up; slowly, wincing, he stepped as though he were walking on gravel.
How does such a young man get so old? he wondered. He wasn't much younger than the man, chronologically, but physically was a different story. He looked familiar; maybe he went to West High.
Stanley noticed he was wearing a construction company shirt, a tank top actually. His hat bore the cliche of the physical laborer: NASCAR. His arms were tan and his face looked raw, probably from years of exposure to the Iowa elements.
Even still, Stanley knew plenty of other construction workers, heavy construction, who were not nearly as in bad of shape. They were also not as skinny as the man, which made Stanley believe that drug abuse was suspect. Not only would that explain the weight, or lack thereof, but also, the deterioration of his body.
In some way, Stanley felt sorry for the man. Addicts usually get the short end of the stick; labeled as degenerates, weak minded and almost shunned from mainstream society. But he had been there with alcohol, suffered the itch, the misery that accompanied the pleasure each beer, each shot.
He also had experienced withdrawal; how physically and emotionally torn apart one goes through with aches, pains, the shakes, sweats and the panic attacks and hallucinations.
You feel weak minded, long for a fix of your poison, as though you are in fact going out of your mind, or that you had already lost your mind.
Stanley wondered what stage the man was going through, wondered if drug detox was more intense than alcohol. Could he help this man in some way? Did the man need or even want help?
He looked at the man again. He was hurting; his eyes were swollen, red. His breath was short, quick. Something was going on with this guy, that was for sure.
"Are you alright?" Stanley said. The man didn't move, staring off into space.
"I think, he began. "I think I am having a heart attack."
Stanley jumped to his feet and went to the man as he reached in his pocket for his cell phone.
"How long have you been experiencing the symptoms?" he asked as he dialed 9-1-1.
"oh, a few minutes," the man said. "Maybe ten, or so."
"How old are you?"
"Thirty-five."
"Really?" Stanley said. He chatted with the dispatcher for a few minutes and hung up his phone.
"Help is on the way," he told the man. "My name is Stanley."
"Ross, Ross Thompson," the man said. He had a name. He was a real person.
Stanley knew it didn't matter the mans past, his present was all he could help.
End Fiction.
07-27-2009
Start Fiction:
Stanley opened the door to the clinic trying not to bring any attention to himself as he entered. He eased the door open, took one more survey of the street for anyone he knew, and stepped in to the foyer. Another door; Stanley made mental note. As he moved to grab the second door's handle, the first door slammed shut behind him.
Great, he thought. So much for keeping a low profile.
Passing through the second door Stanley saw the young, attractive, auburn haired receptionist to his right. She smiled as he walked up to her window. His stomach twitched. "Hi, I am Stanley," he whispered; he was afraid to give his last name. "I have an appointment with Frank." She, Jasmine according to her I.D. badge, clicked around on her computer for what felt like ten minutes to Stanley.
"Welcome," she said. "I see you are new to us here at the Clinic." Jasmine pushed her chair back and reached for a clipboard behind her; her long legs glistened in the sunlight. Stanley coughed and looked down the hall to his left; he didn't want Jasmine to think he was there because he was some kind of pervert. She walked her seat back to the window as she sat in the chair. "Yeah, I am kind of like that," said said, not that she was embarrassed.
Stanley found that peculiar, yet intriguing. "Have wheels will roll," he replied. What the hell was that? he thought; his face began get hot, burn a little. Jasmine giggled; yes, giggled.
"Frank will be with you shortly, if you'd like to have a seat, Stanley," Jasmine said, her green eyes smiling as wide as her mouth.
Stanley walked to the waiting area where there were three other clients sitting. His chest tightened slightly, his abdomen churned; his face was still hot and he could feel perspiration accumulating on his forehead.
He looked for a safe seat, not too close, but not too far from anyone. He spotted a chair next to the magazine rack, laid in a course and engaged. He didn't make eye contact with anyone as e crossed the room; head down, focused on the chair. Once he arrived, he sat quickly and began to peruse the magazines, thus avoiding eye contact once again.
As Stanley "read" his magazine, he wondered if there was anyone who would recognize him. Peeking to get glimpses of the other clients, Stanley noted one female client who had her head leaned back against the wall with her eyes closed, possibly sleeping. There was alo two other female clients who where staring at him. Each time he looked at them, they tightened their grips on their purses. He felt bad; he was making these women uncomfortable, scared.
The silence was sliced with every turn the page. The staring women adjusted their grips on their purses, wiggling in their seats.
End Fiction.
Stanley opened the door to the clinic trying not to bring any attention to himself as he entered. He eased the door open, took one more survey of the street for anyone he knew, and stepped in to the foyer. Another door; Stanley made mental note. As he moved to grab the second door's handle, the first door slammed shut behind him.
Great, he thought. So much for keeping a low profile.
Passing through the second door Stanley saw the young, attractive, auburn haired receptionist to his right. She smiled as he walked up to her window. His stomach twitched. "Hi, I am Stanley," he whispered; he was afraid to give his last name. "I have an appointment with Frank." She, Jasmine according to her I.D. badge, clicked around on her computer for what felt like ten minutes to Stanley.
"Welcome," she said. "I see you are new to us here at the Clinic." Jasmine pushed her chair back and reached for a clipboard behind her; her long legs glistened in the sunlight. Stanley coughed and looked down the hall to his left; he didn't want Jasmine to think he was there because he was some kind of pervert. She walked her seat back to the window as she sat in the chair. "Yeah, I am kind of like that," said said, not that she was embarrassed.
Stanley found that peculiar, yet intriguing. "Have wheels will roll," he replied. What the hell was that? he thought; his face began get hot, burn a little. Jasmine giggled; yes, giggled.
"Frank will be with you shortly, if you'd like to have a seat, Stanley," Jasmine said, her green eyes smiling as wide as her mouth.
Stanley walked to the waiting area where there were three other clients sitting. His chest tightened slightly, his abdomen churned; his face was still hot and he could feel perspiration accumulating on his forehead.
He looked for a safe seat, not too close, but not too far from anyone. He spotted a chair next to the magazine rack, laid in a course and engaged. He didn't make eye contact with anyone as e crossed the room; head down, focused on the chair. Once he arrived, he sat quickly and began to peruse the magazines, thus avoiding eye contact once again.
As Stanley "read" his magazine, he wondered if there was anyone who would recognize him. Peeking to get glimpses of the other clients, Stanley noted one female client who had her head leaned back against the wall with her eyes closed, possibly sleeping. There was alo two other female clients who where staring at him. Each time he looked at them, they tightened their grips on their purses. He felt bad; he was making these women uncomfortable, scared.
The silence was sliced with every turn the page. The staring women adjusted their grips on their purses, wiggling in their seats.
End Fiction.
Monday, July 27, 2009
07-25-2009
I have two writings for this date, but I am not sure I want to share either one of them as they are a little to personal. Maybe I will change my mind one day, but until then...
It's funny, the spring and summer seem to be the most productive writing period for me. I was looking over really old writings and discovered June/July was the period when writings were produced consistently for a six year span.
It's funny, the spring and summer seem to be the most productive writing period for me. I was looking over really old writings and discovered June/July was the period when writings were produced consistently for a six year span.
07-26-2009
Start Fiction:
Stu hung his head in the locker room. It had been twelve years since he last sat in front of his old locker. He was calm, relaxed. His breath was calm and easy, no hint of asthma nagging at him.
Stu knew his decision to return home to Fitzboro was finally decided. The time was right: the head coaching position for the high school baseball team was coming open, a job he had dreamed about as his first coaching job. Although he had not coached before, Stu felt his ten years in the minor leagues, assisting the coaching staff and being a team captain would be plenty of experience to land him the job.
He had kept in contact with Coach Ablen over the years, monitored the team via the Internet. While he and Coach were not exactly buddies, they had a mutual respect for each other as professionals. Two weeks ago when Coach called him to tell him he was retiring, they discussed the possibility of Stu coming home. Coach seemed receptive, but Stu also understood there were a lot of other people with coaching experience lined up for this job, too.
Now, Stu was probably the best player to cross the home plate at Frizboro High; somewhat of a living legend. However, regardless his legend status, there were several people that we not the biggest fans of Stu. A few of them have been assistant coaches with Coach Ablen and would be seeking the position as aggressively as Stu. Once they discovered his decision, his battle would take on a mountain of opposition.
Stu began to plan his campaign, lining up foot soldiers in his head. There was a lot of discussion and convincing to do, but Stu knew he still had reliable allies in the area.
End Fiction.
Stu hung his head in the locker room. It had been twelve years since he last sat in front of his old locker. He was calm, relaxed. His breath was calm and easy, no hint of asthma nagging at him.
Stu knew his decision to return home to Fitzboro was finally decided. The time was right: the head coaching position for the high school baseball team was coming open, a job he had dreamed about as his first coaching job. Although he had not coached before, Stu felt his ten years in the minor leagues, assisting the coaching staff and being a team captain would be plenty of experience to land him the job.
He had kept in contact with Coach Ablen over the years, monitored the team via the Internet. While he and Coach were not exactly buddies, they had a mutual respect for each other as professionals. Two weeks ago when Coach called him to tell him he was retiring, they discussed the possibility of Stu coming home. Coach seemed receptive, but Stu also understood there were a lot of other people with coaching experience lined up for this job, too.
Now, Stu was probably the best player to cross the home plate at Frizboro High; somewhat of a living legend. However, regardless his legend status, there were several people that we not the biggest fans of Stu. A few of them have been assistant coaches with Coach Ablen and would be seeking the position as aggressively as Stu. Once they discovered his decision, his battle would take on a mountain of opposition.
Stu began to plan his campaign, lining up foot soldiers in his head. There was a lot of discussion and convincing to do, but Stu knew he still had reliable allies in the area.
End Fiction.
07-24-2009
Start Fiction:
In the main entrance to the Main O.R., the doors open and close all day long. Sometimes it is housekeeping and other times a gurney comes flying through with someone straddling a patient hammering on their chest as they race to a room. People just step to the side, kinda like an ambulance racing down a street and cars pulling over.
Twenty rooms and ten nurses. Not really ten nurses, but we are typically short staffed with the amount of procedures done on a daily basis.
Nurses will hop from room to room, depending on what's happening in the various rooms, usually based on need. Obviously a trauma case will require more hands than a minor procedure. That and everyone wants in on a bigger and better procedure.
Room one through ten are usually the smaller, less invasive surgeries. There is all the same equipment in each room, various ages and conditions. However, most surgeons request certain rooms; and then there are the ones who won't do surgery unless they are in a specific room. Unfortunately the O.R. doubles as a daycare.
Rooms eleven through seventeen are for more involved surgeries like cardio, neuro, and transplants. There is also a lot of ortho procedures and there is typically lots of blood to hose down after most of those surgeries. There are often wagers on how much blood Dr. Callen can get on the windows. Anything to pass the time, I guess.
Room eighteen and nineteen are typically held for emergency cases, trauma; basically people who are fucked up or in deep shit.
Last, room twenty. This is where we do the procedures that are extremely long, involve more than one service like a free flap. A free flap requires plastics, oto, dental, and whatever other service wants to pick away at the patient. It is not as bad as it sounds; quite frankly it looks like a cheap horror movie.
Not a lot of excitement, just a lot of busy work, everyday run of the mill slice 'em and dice 'em.
End Fiction.
In the main entrance to the Main O.R., the doors open and close all day long. Sometimes it is housekeeping and other times a gurney comes flying through with someone straddling a patient hammering on their chest as they race to a room. People just step to the side, kinda like an ambulance racing down a street and cars pulling over.
Twenty rooms and ten nurses. Not really ten nurses, but we are typically short staffed with the amount of procedures done on a daily basis.
Nurses will hop from room to room, depending on what's happening in the various rooms, usually based on need. Obviously a trauma case will require more hands than a minor procedure. That and everyone wants in on a bigger and better procedure.
Room one through ten are usually the smaller, less invasive surgeries. There is all the same equipment in each room, various ages and conditions. However, most surgeons request certain rooms; and then there are the ones who won't do surgery unless they are in a specific room. Unfortunately the O.R. doubles as a daycare.
Rooms eleven through seventeen are for more involved surgeries like cardio, neuro, and transplants. There is also a lot of ortho procedures and there is typically lots of blood to hose down after most of those surgeries. There are often wagers on how much blood Dr. Callen can get on the windows. Anything to pass the time, I guess.
Room eighteen and nineteen are typically held for emergency cases, trauma; basically people who are fucked up or in deep shit.
Last, room twenty. This is where we do the procedures that are extremely long, involve more than one service like a free flap. A free flap requires plastics, oto, dental, and whatever other service wants to pick away at the patient. It is not as bad as it sounds; quite frankly it looks like a cheap horror movie.
Not a lot of excitement, just a lot of busy work, everyday run of the mill slice 'em and dice 'em.
End Fiction.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
07-23, 07-24-2009
More entries from exercises...
Start Fiction:
07-23-2009
Tom has been gone for almost two hours. What could be taking so long? He was just suppose to go and gather some recon; nothing more, nothing less.
Was he really up to the task?
Maybe I should have gone with him. Not that he should need anyone to hold his hand; working in military intelligence should make him the prime candidate, however he drinks like a whole fleet of sailors. His mind is not as clear as it used to be. He confused things more easily; more forgetful.
Damn it.
What is taking so long? It was a simple task.
Two hours.
Her place is only ten minutes from here. I gave him perfect directions. I did give him those directions, didn't I?
He wouldn't have run into her or talked to her for some reason? I mean, she's hot, but she's technically still my wife. He wouldn't, would he? I know she would.
Fucking bitch.
Two and a half hours; something is wrong.
Damn it! This is a catastrophe.
I am going to lose everything in this divorce; she deserves nothing, but justice is blind bitch and I am going to get bent.
07-24-2009
At ten thirty on a Friday night, Jerry's parents were usually popping popcorn and drinking Pepsi on the rocks getting ready for Letterman. The farm was never this quiet, or this dark. The porch light wasn't on; no lights were on in the house, period.
He continued to walk up the lane slowed by the silence, the darkness. As he eventually reached the house he noticed the front door was wide open. Jerry paused at the steps and wondered if he should get the sheriff. That could take a lot of time, and if anyone was hurt, time was something they didn't have considering town was ten miles away.
Jerry filled his lungs with the fresh summer air and began to make his way up the stairs. Stepping carefully across the porch, he tried to miss all the creaks. He had danced this dance hundreds of times sneaking back in to the house. However, those times he knew who was in the house, and where.
Halfway across he porch Jerry peered into the doorway. He began to second guess himself, touching his toes down gently and then snapping them back up. Halfway across the porch he realized that whoever was in the house was probably watching his every move thanks to the flood light on the machine shed.
He decided to retreat; hastily he moved off the porch and ran across the yard to the machine shed. Hiding from the flood light, Jerry made his way to the far side of the shed, stopped and closed his eyes.
Listening to the night, something rhythmic caught his attention. His neck quivered, throbbed with the beat. It was his heart, injected with adrenaline. His stomach twitched with each beat; his throat tightened, is ears rang and his vision was shaky. Drawing several deep breaths, Jerry regained some composure and made his way through the back door.
He needed a weapon, just in case. Too bad all the guns were locked up in the cellar. He would have to improvise with something in the shed; that is if no one was already in there, waiting.
He had to risk it.
A surge of power rolled over him, smoothing out his shakes and wiggles: there was a phone line in the shed, one separate from the house. Help was just a few digits away, even though what and how much help was uncertain.
07-24-2009
A pink envelope could only mean one thing: a party. Shelly stuck it in the back of the pile of mail. It could wait; it could even get lost as far as she was concerned. She scoured over all her mail, even the junk mail, avoiding the pink envelope.
Reaching the bottom of the pile, Shelly stood the envelope up on the table. She didn't recognize the sender, or the return address. Damn; either a baby shower or bridal shower. Nothing like an event to stab her in the heart to remind her she is single, alone, lonely. Elvis' 'Return to Sender' went through Shelly's head.
Could she get away with sending it back, making them think it was the wrong address? It is a option worth considering, she decided.
Shelly stabbed her letter opener in the the envelope and ripped it back exposing the inside. A pink invitation with a ivory bow; hand written calligraphy, beautiful; embossed pacifier in the corner - bitch stole my idea!
Shelly studied the invitation for twenty minutes. I was perfect. Now that she knew it was an event being held in Wendy's honor in less than a week, return to sender wasn't an option. She was going to have to face the large group of women, most mothers or wives, and be bombarded with questions always asked of spinsters, with pity in their voices.
Shelly flung the card across the kitchen and spring out of her seat. She began pacing in her small kitchen and became dizzy.
It had been two years since she had to face the relatives. No dates since then? Same job? Same routine? Still alone? Is everything okay with you?
Aunt Florance will make her ticking noises every time she walks by me.
Cousin Ellen will tell her she is so beautiful, followed by 'such a nice girl'; Shelly wished she would just come out and ask why she was alone.
Her sister Melony will go on and on about her latest tryst in some exotic part of the world, always asking Shelly if she had ever been there; of course she knew Shelly hadn't been there, and had no one to go there with, either.
Shelly went in to the bathroom and sat in the tub. Hot, sweating and nauseous, she breathed in and out, short breaths, in and out; hot, sweating and nauseous. Shelly cranked the cold water handle; the cold water took her breath for a few seconds.
She began to breathe again; in and out, longer breaths. Still warm, nauseous.
End Fiction.
Start Fiction:
07-23-2009
Tom has been gone for almost two hours. What could be taking so long? He was just suppose to go and gather some recon; nothing more, nothing less.
Was he really up to the task?
Maybe I should have gone with him. Not that he should need anyone to hold his hand; working in military intelligence should make him the prime candidate, however he drinks like a whole fleet of sailors. His mind is not as clear as it used to be. He confused things more easily; more forgetful.
Damn it.
What is taking so long? It was a simple task.
Two hours.
Her place is only ten minutes from here. I gave him perfect directions. I did give him those directions, didn't I?
He wouldn't have run into her or talked to her for some reason? I mean, she's hot, but she's technically still my wife. He wouldn't, would he? I know she would.
Fucking bitch.
Two and a half hours; something is wrong.
Damn it! This is a catastrophe.
I am going to lose everything in this divorce; she deserves nothing, but justice is blind bitch and I am going to get bent.
07-24-2009
At ten thirty on a Friday night, Jerry's parents were usually popping popcorn and drinking Pepsi on the rocks getting ready for Letterman. The farm was never this quiet, or this dark. The porch light wasn't on; no lights were on in the house, period.
He continued to walk up the lane slowed by the silence, the darkness. As he eventually reached the house he noticed the front door was wide open. Jerry paused at the steps and wondered if he should get the sheriff. That could take a lot of time, and if anyone was hurt, time was something they didn't have considering town was ten miles away.
Jerry filled his lungs with the fresh summer air and began to make his way up the stairs. Stepping carefully across the porch, he tried to miss all the creaks. He had danced this dance hundreds of times sneaking back in to the house. However, those times he knew who was in the house, and where.
Halfway across he porch Jerry peered into the doorway. He began to second guess himself, touching his toes down gently and then snapping them back up. Halfway across the porch he realized that whoever was in the house was probably watching his every move thanks to the flood light on the machine shed.
He decided to retreat; hastily he moved off the porch and ran across the yard to the machine shed. Hiding from the flood light, Jerry made his way to the far side of the shed, stopped and closed his eyes.
Listening to the night, something rhythmic caught his attention. His neck quivered, throbbed with the beat. It was his heart, injected with adrenaline. His stomach twitched with each beat; his throat tightened, is ears rang and his vision was shaky. Drawing several deep breaths, Jerry regained some composure and made his way through the back door.
He needed a weapon, just in case. Too bad all the guns were locked up in the cellar. He would have to improvise with something in the shed; that is if no one was already in there, waiting.
He had to risk it.
A surge of power rolled over him, smoothing out his shakes and wiggles: there was a phone line in the shed, one separate from the house. Help was just a few digits away, even though what and how much help was uncertain.
07-24-2009
A pink envelope could only mean one thing: a party. Shelly stuck it in the back of the pile of mail. It could wait; it could even get lost as far as she was concerned. She scoured over all her mail, even the junk mail, avoiding the pink envelope.
Reaching the bottom of the pile, Shelly stood the envelope up on the table. She didn't recognize the sender, or the return address. Damn; either a baby shower or bridal shower. Nothing like an event to stab her in the heart to remind her she is single, alone, lonely. Elvis' 'Return to Sender' went through Shelly's head.
Could she get away with sending it back, making them think it was the wrong address? It is a option worth considering, she decided.
Shelly stabbed her letter opener in the the envelope and ripped it back exposing the inside. A pink invitation with a ivory bow; hand written calligraphy, beautiful; embossed pacifier in the corner - bitch stole my idea!
Shelly studied the invitation for twenty minutes. I was perfect. Now that she knew it was an event being held in Wendy's honor in less than a week, return to sender wasn't an option. She was going to have to face the large group of women, most mothers or wives, and be bombarded with questions always asked of spinsters, with pity in their voices.
Shelly flung the card across the kitchen and spring out of her seat. She began pacing in her small kitchen and became dizzy.
It had been two years since she had to face the relatives. No dates since then? Same job? Same routine? Still alone? Is everything okay with you?
Aunt Florance will make her ticking noises every time she walks by me.
Cousin Ellen will tell her she is so beautiful, followed by 'such a nice girl'; Shelly wished she would just come out and ask why she was alone.
Her sister Melony will go on and on about her latest tryst in some exotic part of the world, always asking Shelly if she had ever been there; of course she knew Shelly hadn't been there, and had no one to go there with, either.
Shelly went in to the bathroom and sat in the tub. Hot, sweating and nauseous, she breathed in and out, short breaths, in and out; hot, sweating and nauseous. Shelly cranked the cold water handle; the cold water took her breath for a few seconds.
She began to breathe again; in and out, longer breaths. Still warm, nauseous.
End Fiction.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
07-23-2009
I bought a new book and there are some exercises in it for various things. I was working with the first one and this is what came out. I liked it, so I decided to post it!
Start Fiction:
"It's not my first pregnancy; I gave a baby up for adoption twenty
years ago, when I was an art student." Nancy said.
"That's amazing," Fred replied. "I think adoption is a wonderful thing." he took a drink of his beer and it hit him. He knew her in
college. "Why didn't you ever tell me? We have known each other for over twenty years." He adjusted himself in his seat, leaning towards her.
They had shared so many experiences, how could he have missed one of his dearest friends being prego? And why did she feel she couldn't
tell him?
"I never told anyone," Nancy said into her glass as she took a large swig of her orange juice.
Fred took another drink of his beer. He wasn't sure what to say. He wanted to tell her he was hurt she didn't tell him; maybe they weren't as close as he thought. Hell, they had even lived together when they were dating in college.
College?
Fred choked on his beer, spiting all over the table, squirting out his nose. "Twenty years ago," he said in between gasps. "Twenty years ago we were... You and I..."
Nancy sipped her martini and stared at the table. The day had come; Fred would learn of his bastard child and their friendship may break for the rest of their lives, this time.
Fred stood up and walked to the railing of the deck. Rubbing the back of head as though he had flees, biting his lip. He searched for any halfway civil words he could come up with as his stomach burned; the burning spread up his chest reaching his ears turning them red.
She had no right; She should have at least told him, given him the option to raise the child. Maybe they should have gotten married, raised the child together. How dare she make all these decisions for him and never had the courtesy to even tell him.
He wanted to walk out; no words. She never gave him an explanation twenty years ago, why should he have to explain anything to her now? Fuck, she dumped him, because she was pregnant? Did she think he would leave her so she left him first? Damn her!
"Fred," Nancy said. "the child wasn't yours."
Fred didn't flinch.
"Fred, please."
Fred wanted to listen, but he couldn't. If the child wasn't his, then that means she got pregnant by someone else while they were dating.
Did he ever know this woman?
Was she really capable of all of this?
How naive and stupid was he for being so clueless?
End Fiction.
Start Fiction:
"It's not my first pregnancy; I gave a baby up for adoption twenty
years ago, when I was an art student." Nancy said.
"That's amazing," Fred replied. "I think adoption is a wonderful thing." he took a drink of his beer and it hit him. He knew her in
college. "Why didn't you ever tell me? We have known each other for over twenty years." He adjusted himself in his seat, leaning towards her.
They had shared so many experiences, how could he have missed one of his dearest friends being prego? And why did she feel she couldn't
tell him?
"I never told anyone," Nancy said into her glass as she took a large swig of her orange juice.
Fred took another drink of his beer. He wasn't sure what to say. He wanted to tell her he was hurt she didn't tell him; maybe they weren't as close as he thought. Hell, they had even lived together when they were dating in college.
College?
Fred choked on his beer, spiting all over the table, squirting out his nose. "Twenty years ago," he said in between gasps. "Twenty years ago we were... You and I..."
Nancy sipped her martini and stared at the table. The day had come; Fred would learn of his bastard child and their friendship may break for the rest of their lives, this time.
Fred stood up and walked to the railing of the deck. Rubbing the back of head as though he had flees, biting his lip. He searched for any halfway civil words he could come up with as his stomach burned; the burning spread up his chest reaching his ears turning them red.
She had no right; She should have at least told him, given him the option to raise the child. Maybe they should have gotten married, raised the child together. How dare she make all these decisions for him and never had the courtesy to even tell him.
He wanted to walk out; no words. She never gave him an explanation twenty years ago, why should he have to explain anything to her now? Fuck, she dumped him, because she was pregnant? Did she think he would leave her so she left him first? Damn her!
"Fred," Nancy said. "the child wasn't yours."
Fred didn't flinch.
"Fred, please."
Fred wanted to listen, but he couldn't. If the child wasn't his, then that means she got pregnant by someone else while they were dating.
Did he ever know this woman?
Was she really capable of all of this?
How naive and stupid was he for being so clueless?
End Fiction.
07-22-2009
Blah.
Start Fiction:
"Why are you such a bitch?" the cashier said in a calm, formal manner.
"Excuse me?" Dee snapped, slapping her hand down on the counter hard, cracking the glass. "What the fuck did you just say?"
Claire attempted to hand her the bag. "I was just curious as to what in your life led you to develop a personality that is classified as being a 'bitch'," she tried to explain.
"Where in the hell do you get off calling me a bitch?" she demanded. "Where is your supervisor? I want to talk to your supervisor right now!" she screamed as she slammed her fist through the glass counter top. Nearby customers gasped, covering their mouths at the spectacle.
"I am just asking a simple question, Miss," Claire said trying assure her that her intentions were innocent.
"Get the fuck out my face before I bitch slap you back to last week," Dee screamed at her.
Francis came running up to Claire's counter. Eyes wide, he took several noticeable deep breaths and swallowed hard. "Is there a problem?" his mousy voice cracked.
"Is there a problem? Is there a problem?" Dee boomed as she spun in circles. "This here little twig asked me why I am such a bitch; do you see the problem?" Her face was red; a vain in her forehead throbbed.
Francis stepped behind the counter to give himself some protection. "That... That is a problem," he said turning to Claire. "What do you have to say for yourself?"
"I simply asked a question." Dee let out a grunt.
Francis tapped his nose as his chin rested in his hand. "And what was the question?"
"Why she is such a bitch," she said shrugging her shoulders. Francis buried his face in his hands, sighing.
"BAM!" Dee yelled as she pointed at Claire.
"What's the big deal, I was just curious," Claire said.
"Go to my office, now," Francis ordered her. His voice was more firm; as firm as his voice could get. Claire moved away from the counter and headed to the back of the store. She untied her apron and dropped her head. Claire listened to the two as she walked away.
"I do not have the words to apologize, ma'am," Francis began to grovel.
"Damn right you don't!" she bellowed.
"I assure you, this will be handled," he said.
Fired, again, Claire thought. Just great.
End Fiction.
Start Fiction:
"Why are you such a bitch?" the cashier said in a calm, formal manner.
"Excuse me?" Dee snapped, slapping her hand down on the counter hard, cracking the glass. "What the fuck did you just say?"
Claire attempted to hand her the bag. "I was just curious as to what in your life led you to develop a personality that is classified as being a 'bitch'," she tried to explain.
"Where in the hell do you get off calling me a bitch?" she demanded. "Where is your supervisor? I want to talk to your supervisor right now!" she screamed as she slammed her fist through the glass counter top. Nearby customers gasped, covering their mouths at the spectacle.
"I am just asking a simple question, Miss," Claire said trying assure her that her intentions were innocent.
"Get the fuck out my face before I bitch slap you back to last week," Dee screamed at her.
Francis came running up to Claire's counter. Eyes wide, he took several noticeable deep breaths and swallowed hard. "Is there a problem?" his mousy voice cracked.
"Is there a problem? Is there a problem?" Dee boomed as she spun in circles. "This here little twig asked me why I am such a bitch; do you see the problem?" Her face was red; a vain in her forehead throbbed.
Francis stepped behind the counter to give himself some protection. "That... That is a problem," he said turning to Claire. "What do you have to say for yourself?"
"I simply asked a question." Dee let out a grunt.
Francis tapped his nose as his chin rested in his hand. "And what was the question?"
"Why she is such a bitch," she said shrugging her shoulders. Francis buried his face in his hands, sighing.
"BAM!" Dee yelled as she pointed at Claire.
"What's the big deal, I was just curious," Claire said.
"Go to my office, now," Francis ordered her. His voice was more firm; as firm as his voice could get. Claire moved away from the counter and headed to the back of the store. She untied her apron and dropped her head. Claire listened to the two as she walked away.
"I do not have the words to apologize, ma'am," Francis began to grovel.
"Damn right you don't!" she bellowed.
"I assure you, this will be handled," he said.
Fired, again, Claire thought. Just great.
End Fiction.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
07-21-2009
I don't know what this is...
Start Fiction:
"A good ol' rain," the Ellie said. Sitting on her porch, she gently rocked as the rain fell. "Nice to have these days, no rushin' around closing windows and doors." She laughed.
Ellie didn't rush around these days; time was catching up with her. "I suppose after eighty years, it's time to just enjoy sittin'."
"You've earned it, Grandma," Gretchen said. She patted Ellie's hand, gave her a squeeze. These were the days Gretchen loved the most; the stories, the laughter. "Anyone who has raised ten kids has earned the right to just sit!"
"It wasn't just me, you know," Ellie told her, shaking her finger. "Your Grandpa Walter was a hands on father; not exactly the way it was back then."
"He was ahead of his time," Gretchen said.
"I guess we always did do things as a team, even when we were little kids," Ellie said. She sighed. She tried not to show how lonely she was since Walter died several years back. She was a strong woman, an inspiration to Gretchen.
"Love with all your heart, give what you can and always make some time for yourself, otherwise you'll go mad," Ellie always told her. It was sound advice and Gretchen lived by that advice, especially now that she was starting a family of her own.
Gretchen always enjoyed hearing about her grandparent' life. They had met when they were only six, the first day of school. They were the best of friends from that day forward.
Gretchen had tried to imagine having your best friend, let alone your spouse, around for seventy years and then living without them. It was beyond her ability to empathize with, but she imagined it would be heart wrenching.
"You're going to have a happy life," Ellie said.
"Thanks," Gretchen said. "What makes you think that, Grandma?"
"You remind me of me when I was your age," she said smiling wide. "You'll be just fine."
"I've been listening to your advice."
"Oh, I don't know if I call it advice; stories, definitely."
End Fiction.
Start Fiction:
"A good ol' rain," the Ellie said. Sitting on her porch, she gently rocked as the rain fell. "Nice to have these days, no rushin' around closing windows and doors." She laughed.
Ellie didn't rush around these days; time was catching up with her. "I suppose after eighty years, it's time to just enjoy sittin'."
"You've earned it, Grandma," Gretchen said. She patted Ellie's hand, gave her a squeeze. These were the days Gretchen loved the most; the stories, the laughter. "Anyone who has raised ten kids has earned the right to just sit!"
"It wasn't just me, you know," Ellie told her, shaking her finger. "Your Grandpa Walter was a hands on father; not exactly the way it was back then."
"He was ahead of his time," Gretchen said.
"I guess we always did do things as a team, even when we were little kids," Ellie said. She sighed. She tried not to show how lonely she was since Walter died several years back. She was a strong woman, an inspiration to Gretchen.
"Love with all your heart, give what you can and always make some time for yourself, otherwise you'll go mad," Ellie always told her. It was sound advice and Gretchen lived by that advice, especially now that she was starting a family of her own.
Gretchen always enjoyed hearing about her grandparent' life. They had met when they were only six, the first day of school. They were the best of friends from that day forward.
Gretchen had tried to imagine having your best friend, let alone your spouse, around for seventy years and then living without them. It was beyond her ability to empathize with, but she imagined it would be heart wrenching.
"You're going to have a happy life," Ellie said.
"Thanks," Gretchen said. "What makes you think that, Grandma?"
"You remind me of me when I was your age," she said smiling wide. "You'll be just fine."
"I've been listening to your advice."
"Oh, I don't know if I call it advice; stories, definitely."
End Fiction.
Monday, July 20, 2009
07-20-2009
I am not sure about this one. I guess I was trying to do a descriptive writing, but I am not sure I like this at all. Gotta start somewhere though, right?!
Start Fiction:
Joan wasn't exactly a beauty by any means, but she sure thought she was something.
Gordon had seen his share of women who couldn't accept aging, however she wasn't in denial, either. Joan still acted like she was in her twenties (as her daughter is) just discovering her sexuality.
Some would just call her a whore.
Joan spent a lot of time tossing her poorly colored blondish hair; she tried to strut up and down the hallways; she told sexually explicit jokes; her sexual escapades was her topic of choice to the girls at break; she was delusional, at least obsessed, with thinking she had "stalkers"; she was positive every guy that talks to her is hitting on her; she fed off flirting with anyone who would gobble it up and then complain about it after the fact, of course.
His student workers were more mature, more selfless, caring and giving than this fifty year old woman. Joan hated her job; it was beneath her. When mistakes were made she would argue the proper procedure; she was NEVER wrong. She always had a better story, had done more, and done it better than anyone because she was so special.
Then there was her drinking. Joan never had money for her bills, but Gordon had heard her stories about going out and drinking, eating and pretty much just blowing money she didn't have to spend. Her DUI was not her fault; it was the fault of the drunk guy she had met that night and was taking home because he was too drunk to drove so she had to.
Her divorce: not her fault. He husband was having a midlife crisis. Most guessed he was sick of her; plain and simple. Joan wouldn't talk about her divorce unless she was complaining how she was screwed over by her ex, which lead Gordon to think there was a lot of stories she hid to save face.
As a mother of two, probably soon to be a grandmother, it amazed Gordon that she had as much contact with them as she did. Joan wasn't exactly motherly. Multiple sexual partners, weekend visitors, special friends. No kind of example for a mother to set forth for her young adult children.
It was today he realized how pathetic Joan really was. All her flirting and behavior wasn't about aging, rather she was the most insecure person he had ever come across.
She needed the attention to feel good about herself. Joan needed to be funny, attractive, sexy, loved. If she sat down and no one said anything to her, she would get up and leave upset and sure everyone was mad at her. She was as shallow as they came and she would be the last one to ever figure it out.
The thing that stood out to Gordon the most was the fact that no matter how much attention Joan got, it was never enough. She never really felt better about herself as a person. Then again, would she really be able to, ever?
It would be funny if it weren't so sad.
End Fiction.
Start Fiction:
Joan wasn't exactly a beauty by any means, but she sure thought she was something.
Gordon had seen his share of women who couldn't accept aging, however she wasn't in denial, either. Joan still acted like she was in her twenties (as her daughter is) just discovering her sexuality.
Some would just call her a whore.
Joan spent a lot of time tossing her poorly colored blondish hair; she tried to strut up and down the hallways; she told sexually explicit jokes; her sexual escapades was her topic of choice to the girls at break; she was delusional, at least obsessed, with thinking she had "stalkers"; she was positive every guy that talks to her is hitting on her; she fed off flirting with anyone who would gobble it up and then complain about it after the fact, of course.
His student workers were more mature, more selfless, caring and giving than this fifty year old woman. Joan hated her job; it was beneath her. When mistakes were made she would argue the proper procedure; she was NEVER wrong. She always had a better story, had done more, and done it better than anyone because she was so special.
Then there was her drinking. Joan never had money for her bills, but Gordon had heard her stories about going out and drinking, eating and pretty much just blowing money she didn't have to spend. Her DUI was not her fault; it was the fault of the drunk guy she had met that night and was taking home because he was too drunk to drove so she had to.
Her divorce: not her fault. He husband was having a midlife crisis. Most guessed he was sick of her; plain and simple. Joan wouldn't talk about her divorce unless she was complaining how she was screwed over by her ex, which lead Gordon to think there was a lot of stories she hid to save face.
As a mother of two, probably soon to be a grandmother, it amazed Gordon that she had as much contact with them as she did. Joan wasn't exactly motherly. Multiple sexual partners, weekend visitors, special friends. No kind of example for a mother to set forth for her young adult children.
It was today he realized how pathetic Joan really was. All her flirting and behavior wasn't about aging, rather she was the most insecure person he had ever come across.
She needed the attention to feel good about herself. Joan needed to be funny, attractive, sexy, loved. If she sat down and no one said anything to her, she would get up and leave upset and sure everyone was mad at her. She was as shallow as they came and she would be the last one to ever figure it out.
The thing that stood out to Gordon the most was the fact that no matter how much attention Joan got, it was never enough. She never really felt better about herself as a person. Then again, would she really be able to, ever?
It would be funny if it weren't so sad.
End Fiction.
07-19-2009 II
Start Fiction:
"And that is why I am single," the brunette girl said in her high, squealing voice. She slammed her milk down on the table.
"I so understand," her blond friend said in her deep, masculine, voice. Rolling her eyes, she sipped on her iced tea.
"I can't take it anymore," Bill said as he stood up and walked over the ladies table. "I'm sorry, but I couldn't help over hear your conversation."
The two women looked at each other, crossed their arms and looked back at Bill. "And?" the brunette said, piercing his ears.
"If you really want to know why you are single," he began, "shut your mouths and listen to the words that are coming from your mouth."
The girl's mouths dropped open.
He continued, "You sit here with your overly high, if not fantasy, expectations of how men SHOULD be and don't see that you are so closed minded to see that you need to accept how men actually are." Several male customers applauded. "You sit at home with your cats and watch Nora Ephron movies and think THAT is how life really is; it's pathetic." the applause grew louder, a few cheers interjected.
"Who the hell do you think you are?" the brunette shrieked, bouncing in her seat. The blond turned red, her nostrils flared.
"I am just an average guy who is fed up with being blamed for all the relationship problems," Bill told her. "Your whiny ass voice and your man voice are the first clues as to why you are single; but when words come out of your mouths it makes complete sense."
"How dare you," the blond bellowed.
"How dare you!" he shot back. "Don't you realize that every man you meet has a life BEFORE he meets you? He has likes and dislikes, friends and hobbies, family and sometimes a job; and all of it has NOTHING to do with you."
The two women flapped their mouths trying to speak, however they were so upset no words would come.
"And for you, that is the problem; you are NOT his world and you don't like that. Pathetic. It just has to be ALL about you."
Men were standing on their tables, clapping and whistling. Bill walked back to is table and sat down. Now maybe he could finish his dinner in peace and quiet.
End Fiction.
"And that is why I am single," the brunette girl said in her high, squealing voice. She slammed her milk down on the table.
"I so understand," her blond friend said in her deep, masculine, voice. Rolling her eyes, she sipped on her iced tea.
"I can't take it anymore," Bill said as he stood up and walked over the ladies table. "I'm sorry, but I couldn't help over hear your conversation."
The two women looked at each other, crossed their arms and looked back at Bill. "And?" the brunette said, piercing his ears.
"If you really want to know why you are single," he began, "shut your mouths and listen to the words that are coming from your mouth."
The girl's mouths dropped open.
He continued, "You sit here with your overly high, if not fantasy, expectations of how men SHOULD be and don't see that you are so closed minded to see that you need to accept how men actually are." Several male customers applauded. "You sit at home with your cats and watch Nora Ephron movies and think THAT is how life really is; it's pathetic." the applause grew louder, a few cheers interjected.
"Who the hell do you think you are?" the brunette shrieked, bouncing in her seat. The blond turned red, her nostrils flared.
"I am just an average guy who is fed up with being blamed for all the relationship problems," Bill told her. "Your whiny ass voice and your man voice are the first clues as to why you are single; but when words come out of your mouths it makes complete sense."
"How dare you," the blond bellowed.
"How dare you!" he shot back. "Don't you realize that every man you meet has a life BEFORE he meets you? He has likes and dislikes, friends and hobbies, family and sometimes a job; and all of it has NOTHING to do with you."
The two women flapped their mouths trying to speak, however they were so upset no words would come.
"And for you, that is the problem; you are NOT his world and you don't like that. Pathetic. It just has to be ALL about you."
Men were standing on their tables, clapping and whistling. Bill walked back to is table and sat down. Now maybe he could finish his dinner in peace and quiet.
End Fiction.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
07-14 thru 07-19-2009
I decided to put all of these in to one post, making it easier to read, especially since there are six entries!
Start Fiction:
(07-14-2009 Entry)
Working in the machine shed, Darryl heard thunder on a sunny September afternoon. Surprised, he strolled over to the south door to check the sky. As he stepped over the door threshold, the sky split; a crackling boom shook the machine shed causing Darryl to jump forward.
Looking to the horizon, Darryl dropped the carburetor from his hands and adjusted his hat to get a better view. There in the southern sky a vibrant green light emanated from the center of the anomaly. It looked like an upside down fountain hanging in the sky, shooting illuminated green water.
Darryl heard Penny and Paige running towards him. His eyes remained fixed on the anomaly.
"Daddy, what is that?" Paige, the older twin, asked.
"I don't know," he said, fixated on the sky.
"Maybe you should head to the lab," Penny said as she wrapped her arms around his waist. "It sure is pretty."
Indeed, it was quite to spectacle. However, Darryl didn't have that sense of innocence his daughter possessed. There was potentially nothing good to come of this anomaly that had sprung up within the earth's atmosphere and so close to his home.
"How far is it from us, Daddy?" Paige asked as she stepped forward using her hand as a visor. "How big is it?"
"That's a good question," Darryl said. It must be close enough and big enough to shake the machine shed, but it's appearance is deceptive. It must not be too big since his pager had not gone off yet. Whatever it was, it made him nervous. "How would you two like to join me in the lab?"
The two girls turned to each other and smiled. They tried to contain their excitement, but they still bounced towards the out building anyway with each girl holding one of their dad's hands.
As the three of them reached the door of the out building, the anomaly created another sonic boom. Paige turned around to look as they walked and stopped.
"Daddy," she said. "Something is coming out of that thing in the sky." Darryl spun around to see a small object emerge from the anomaly.
"Oh buddy," he said. Even though his first instinct was to grab his girls and head for the lab, none of them flinched. The object was cylindrical; at first impression, it made Darryl think of a escape pod.
"Either that thing is huge, or we are closer than we think to that anomaly," he said. The girls didn't respond, they just watched the object as it dropped towards the horizon. Darryl tried to estimate the trajectory of the object, but it was almost impossible with out any data as to size or distance of the object.
As it reached the horizon he expected it to simply disappear. However, it hit about fifteen hundred yards due south with loud explosion; debris and dust shot upward. At the same instance, the anomaly in the sky closed with as earth rattling a bang as when it opened.
"Let's go!" Darryl shouted as he began to run to the truck. The girls responded and sprinted behind him. He checked his beeper and cell phone as he ran; nothing. Strange, he thought. Surely that had to register somewhere.
The girls got in the back seat of the truck, strapped themselves in and put on their helmets. "Ready!" the yelled.
Darryl floored it and off they went. Rocks banged against the wheel wells and large amounts of dust rose behind them. Trying to head in a straight direction, Darryl looked to his directional heading on the console, but it was bouncing all around.
"Are we headed in the right direction, ladies?" he shouted back to the girls.
"Yes," Paige shouted back as Penny shook her head in agreement. Both girls had their goggles pulled down as the dust rolled in the windows. Leaning forward in their seats, Paige and Penny kept their focus in the direction of the crash site as their heads bounced from the rough terrain.
Ten years old or not, the girls were all business when it came to adventure; and this was no ordinary adventure.
(07-15-2009 Entry)
Darryl caught a glimpse of his daughters in the mirror and smiled with pride. Their mother would be so proud, he thought.
They approached what Darryl felt was the final hill before finding the object. He let off the accelerator a little and the truck died.
"Why are we stopping, Daddy?" Paige said.
"It wasn't me" he told her.
He tried to start the truck.
Nothing.
Not even a click.
Completely dead.
He looked around as the dust settled. Everything seemed so calm, quiet. Darryl expected to smell the prairie burning from the explosion of the impact. Nothing.
"Time to hoof it?" Penny asked as she and her sister unbuckled their seat belts.
"Yeah," Darryl said as he opened his door slowly. " Time to hoof it." Looking around, he realized that while the explosion would have scared of most wildlife, there seemed to be a good population calmly milling around the prairie.
Several birds flew in a cockeyed manner; probably the same electromagnetic interference that messed with his truck's compass.
"Let's not get in a big hurry, alright girls," he said as he turned to the ridge and noticed they were both standing perfectly still on top of the ridge, helmets and goggles still intact.
Darryl walked up to the girls with deliberate steps, being mindful of the possible debris fragments hidden in the long prairie grasses. "Girls?" he said. No answer; they remained perfectly still. He took several deep breaths.
Darryl reached the girls as they began to slowly remove their goggles. He rubbed his eyes; no one spoke, no one was certain of what they were seeing.
"But, there was an explosion," Paige said as the three of them stood overlooking four hundred yards of pristine prairie.
No crater, no smoke, no fire, most importantly no debris.
"There most certainly was," Darryl said stepping forward. The grass was knee deep, swirling in the afternoon breeze.
"Did we get off course?" Penny asked as she looked back towards the farm. "Seems right," she said as she swung her helmet with one hand and put her other hand on her hip. Paige agreed.
Darryl continued forward, cautiously "You two coming?" he shouted back over his shoulder. The girls fell in line and followed their dad, keeping a set distance of approximately five feet between each other. All three kept their head and eyes moving, observing everything they possibly could.
"It couldn't be much farther from here, could it?" Paige said.
"I didn't think so," Darryl said. "But is is hard to tell considering we have no idea what the anomaly was or the object that came out."
"We can't be too far," Penny began, "since the truck lost power and the compass went goofy; it's gotta be here somewhere, right?"
"Right," Darryl said.
(07-16-2009 Entry)
A hundred yards across the prairie, Darryl stopped and the girls caught up with him.
"Do you smell that?" Paige said as she turned to her dad.
"What is the?" Penny asked as she turned around, tugging on Paige's shirt.
"Stop it."
Penny kept tugging.
Paige turned to smack her but froze with her hand in the air. "Dad?" she said as she tugged on his shirt.
Darryl turned and followed the girls' gaze. Behind them, there was smoke; floating above their heads to the north.
"I guess we are heading in the right direction after all," he said.
Paige looked back and forth. "How can we.. why can't we..."
"I think we need to just take our time," Penny said. Paige continued to spin her head around, trying to understand what she was, and wasn't, seeing.
"Maybe we should try to go around this," Darryl said.
"Some sort of stealth," Paige said under her breath.
"But how?" Penny asked. All three of them looked back and forth once again; were they really prepared for this adventure?
I wonder how far this illusion plays in front of us, Darryl thought to himself as he drew a screwdriver from his overalls and threw it ahead of them. As it left his hand, it was completely visible for about five feet or so until it seemed to hit something that rippled, like water; then the screw driver was gone. Several seconds passed before they heard a clang. It had hit something metal.
"Careful where you are throwing things," a female voice called out. The girls jumped behind their dad, clinging to his waist peeping around him towards the voice.
Darryl spread his arms out, palms up. "I mean you no harm," he called back to the voice.
"I know," the woman replied. Paige and Penny stepped out from behind their dad and took a couple steps towards the voice.
"She," Paige began, "she sounds familiar."
"Yes, indeed," Darryl said as all three of them found themselves drawn forward.
(07-17-2009 Entry)
The air in front of them began to ripple, just as it did for the screwdriver. A round opening, a doorway formed. Just past the doorway, the prairie began to look as they had originally expected; charred with a massive creator.
Twenty yards in front of them they saw the front end of the object facing them. It looked intact, considering the impact they witnessed. However, they didn't see the female belonging to the voice.
"It's okay," the female called out, "it's safe, I promise.". While they had no reason to trust someone who just fell from the sky through an anomaly, all three of them continued to step forward.
"Dad," Paige said taking hold of his hand, "don't we know her?" Penny took the lead, walking tall and sure. No fear was detectable in the ten year old. She seemed... excited.
"I hope so, Paige," Darryl said, squeezing her hand. They stepped through he opening and the full scale of the impact stopped the two of them in their tracks. Penny, eyes wide, kept walking towards the object.
"Whoa," Darryl said. He turned around and watched the air de-ripple; the portal closed. From this vantage point, the prairie was visible with the reality of the impact damage. He figured there was about a one hundred and fifty square yard area scorched. Although to his surprise, the crater was considerably smaller than he had anticipated.; the object had not fallen straight in to the ground, rather there was an attempt to land the craft.
Darryl stepped forward, tugging a reluctant Paige with him. Inspecting the object as they approached, he noticed a woman making her way around the object.
The woman was tall, slender and had a beautiful head of dark red hair just like his girls; and his wife. She stopped next to the object, reached her hand up and leaned against the object. She smiled excitedly, as though she was welcoming old friends. Penny ran up to the woman and hugged her tightly.
Darryl and Paige approached their position, both mesmerized by the object.
"You came!" he heard Penny say.
"Of course I came," the woman said, "I always keep promises I make to myself." Darryl's stomach sank. There was a good reason he felt like he knew this woman; this was not good.
"Penny?" he said.
"Yes?" both Penny and the woman responded.
"Your name is Penny, too?" Paige asked.
The woman and Penny walked up to Paige. The woman knelt down in front of Paige, took her hands and stared in to her eyes. Paige returned the stare, studying the woman's face. Her eyes widened.
"You ARE Penny!" she squealed.
"Actually, I go by Penelope."
"Of course," Darryl said as he knelt down next to Paige looking into Penelope's eyes. It sure was Penny, all grown up. "Welcome home," he said. "Or welcome back, I guess."
"Thanks, dad," she said.
"I don't understand," Paige said crossing her arms.
"Maybe Penny can explain," Penelope said.
"She's me!" Penny told her.
(07-18-2009 Entry)
Paige looked at Darryl with blank eyes. Perhaps it was too much to take in, even for his little Paige.
"It's alright," he told her. He looked to Penelope, "I think we need to talk."
"Agreed," she said as they both stood. Darryl rubbed Paige's shoulders, reassuring her it was going to be alright. Penny danced
and sang around the three of them; her wildest dreams were right in
front of her. She grabbed Paige's hand, coaxing her to join.
Darryl and Penelope walked towards the object. "It is a ship of sorts," she said.
"That would make sense," Darryl said. As they walked around the side of the ship, he estimated it was only six feet in breadth and maybe ten feet in length; much bigger than his initial assessment when it shot towards the earth.
"Do you want to take a look inside?" Penelope asked.
"No, actually," Darryl said. He looked back to the girls to make sure they were out of ear shot. Penny was turning a dazed Paige in circles.
He looked at Penelope, "What are you doing here, Penny? Do you not understand the consequences of you being here?"
Penelope crossed her arms, turned her head away from Darryl.
"Another lecture," she said.
"Do you understand the consequences?" he said stepping forward.
"Why don't you enlighten me, dad," she said snapping her head towards him.
"Whatever you were trying to accomplish failed before it began, defeated once you broke through the anomaly," he told her. "You just
altered your existence, our existence; altered our very reality."
"Who says this isn't how this reality is suppose to unfold?" Penelope said. "Isn't the reality you believe that needs to be maintained still in fact in existence within it's proper reality?" She knocked on the ship and a door slowly opened. "Besides, it wasn't all my idea," she told him as she stepped back and turned towards the door. There stood another tall, slender woman with a head of dark red hair.
"Paige?" he gasped. "What... why girls?" Darryl crossed his arms and began to pace in font of them. He took several deep breaths, looked up and down, back and forth between the women.
"Why not?" the older Paige said as she stepped out of the ship.
"Who is she?" young Paige asked standing next to Darryl.
"Maybe she, they, should explain," he said throwing his hands up in the air, turning away.
Young Paige liked back and forth from Penny to the women, especially her older self. "It's you, Paige," Penny told her. She put her arm around her twin; Penelope followed suit and put her arm around her twin.
"Sister friends forever!" Penelope exclaimed.
(07-19-2009 Entry)
"This isn't right," young Paige said. She removed Penny's arm from around her shoulders and walked over to Darryl. "This isn't right, daddy." He knelt down and hugged her.
"Why here? Why now?" he asked the women.
They looked at each other, looked in to the ship and then back at Darryl.
"You want it all now, don't you?" Penelope said.
"The sooner and more detailed the better," he replied.
" Very well," the older Paige said. "We are not from this timeline, this reality; this multiverse," she began to explain. "Our universe in our multiverse is dying; on the verge of cataclysmic annihilation."
"Incredible," Darryl said.
"You were all going to die?" young Paige asked.
"Yes, and we felt if we had the ability to escape, then we should take that chance," Penelope said.
"But why now?" Darryl said. He moved towards the ship, Penny. "You could have picked any time, by why this period of time in our multiverse; why this multiverse?" The women just stared at Darryl.
"It was the only multiverse they could find that was most like our own," a third woman's voice called out from the ship. Darryl's heart raced. He knew that voice for certain; the voice of the dead.
"This is wrong, girls," Darryl said as he walked to the door of the ship. "You should not have brought her here, not now." he told, his voice cracking a bit.
Penny and young Paige ran to their father and held his hands. "That sounds like mom," Penny said. Darryl pulled his girls close; this was going to mess with all of their minds, and hearts.
Yet another tall, slender woman with a head of dark red hair, albeit with a touch of gray, came to the door. "Darryl," she said.
"Beth," he whispered.
"Mom?" Penny and young Paige said. They ran to her and hugged her. Penelope and the older Paige came to Darryl and hugged him as he stood stunned.
"In our world, you died in the crash, not me," Beth told him as she squeezed the childhood versions of her daughters.
"We never really knew you," Penelope told him as she kissed him on the cheek.
"Now we get to spend the rest of our lives making up for our universe's lost time," older Paige said.
"But, the technology, your ship, you," Darryl began, "how will we fit you in to this world, this multiverse?"
Beth broke free from the younger sisters and went to Darryl. She cradled his face in her hands, "We'll figure it all out later, sweetheart."
He stared in to her eyes, smiled as a tear ran down his cheek. "I suppose we will, won't we?"
End Fiction.
I am not sure I like that post for the 19th, but will let it brew a little more in my head. I just didn't want to turn it in to a black op/fight against the military story. Although that would be fun to write...
Start Fiction:
(07-14-2009 Entry)
Working in the machine shed, Darryl heard thunder on a sunny September afternoon. Surprised, he strolled over to the south door to check the sky. As he stepped over the door threshold, the sky split; a crackling boom shook the machine shed causing Darryl to jump forward.
Looking to the horizon, Darryl dropped the carburetor from his hands and adjusted his hat to get a better view. There in the southern sky a vibrant green light emanated from the center of the anomaly. It looked like an upside down fountain hanging in the sky, shooting illuminated green water.
Darryl heard Penny and Paige running towards him. His eyes remained fixed on the anomaly.
"Daddy, what is that?" Paige, the older twin, asked.
"I don't know," he said, fixated on the sky.
"Maybe you should head to the lab," Penny said as she wrapped her arms around his waist. "It sure is pretty."
Indeed, it was quite to spectacle. However, Darryl didn't have that sense of innocence his daughter possessed. There was potentially nothing good to come of this anomaly that had sprung up within the earth's atmosphere and so close to his home.
"How far is it from us, Daddy?" Paige asked as she stepped forward using her hand as a visor. "How big is it?"
"That's a good question," Darryl said. It must be close enough and big enough to shake the machine shed, but it's appearance is deceptive. It must not be too big since his pager had not gone off yet. Whatever it was, it made him nervous. "How would you two like to join me in the lab?"
The two girls turned to each other and smiled. They tried to contain their excitement, but they still bounced towards the out building anyway with each girl holding one of their dad's hands.
As the three of them reached the door of the out building, the anomaly created another sonic boom. Paige turned around to look as they walked and stopped.
"Daddy," she said. "Something is coming out of that thing in the sky." Darryl spun around to see a small object emerge from the anomaly.
"Oh buddy," he said. Even though his first instinct was to grab his girls and head for the lab, none of them flinched. The object was cylindrical; at first impression, it made Darryl think of a escape pod.
"Either that thing is huge, or we are closer than we think to that anomaly," he said. The girls didn't respond, they just watched the object as it dropped towards the horizon. Darryl tried to estimate the trajectory of the object, but it was almost impossible with out any data as to size or distance of the object.
As it reached the horizon he expected it to simply disappear. However, it hit about fifteen hundred yards due south with loud explosion; debris and dust shot upward. At the same instance, the anomaly in the sky closed with as earth rattling a bang as when it opened.
"Let's go!" Darryl shouted as he began to run to the truck. The girls responded and sprinted behind him. He checked his beeper and cell phone as he ran; nothing. Strange, he thought. Surely that had to register somewhere.
The girls got in the back seat of the truck, strapped themselves in and put on their helmets. "Ready!" the yelled.
Darryl floored it and off they went. Rocks banged against the wheel wells and large amounts of dust rose behind them. Trying to head in a straight direction, Darryl looked to his directional heading on the console, but it was bouncing all around.
"Are we headed in the right direction, ladies?" he shouted back to the girls.
"Yes," Paige shouted back as Penny shook her head in agreement. Both girls had their goggles pulled down as the dust rolled in the windows. Leaning forward in their seats, Paige and Penny kept their focus in the direction of the crash site as their heads bounced from the rough terrain.
Ten years old or not, the girls were all business when it came to adventure; and this was no ordinary adventure.
(07-15-2009 Entry)
Darryl caught a glimpse of his daughters in the mirror and smiled with pride. Their mother would be so proud, he thought.
They approached what Darryl felt was the final hill before finding the object. He let off the accelerator a little and the truck died.
"Why are we stopping, Daddy?" Paige said.
"It wasn't me" he told her.
He tried to start the truck.
Nothing.
Not even a click.
Completely dead.
He looked around as the dust settled. Everything seemed so calm, quiet. Darryl expected to smell the prairie burning from the explosion of the impact. Nothing.
"Time to hoof it?" Penny asked as she and her sister unbuckled their seat belts.
"Yeah," Darryl said as he opened his door slowly. " Time to hoof it." Looking around, he realized that while the explosion would have scared of most wildlife, there seemed to be a good population calmly milling around the prairie.
Several birds flew in a cockeyed manner; probably the same electromagnetic interference that messed with his truck's compass.
"Let's not get in a big hurry, alright girls," he said as he turned to the ridge and noticed they were both standing perfectly still on top of the ridge, helmets and goggles still intact.
Darryl walked up to the girls with deliberate steps, being mindful of the possible debris fragments hidden in the long prairie grasses. "Girls?" he said. No answer; they remained perfectly still. He took several deep breaths.
Darryl reached the girls as they began to slowly remove their goggles. He rubbed his eyes; no one spoke, no one was certain of what they were seeing.
"But, there was an explosion," Paige said as the three of them stood overlooking four hundred yards of pristine prairie.
No crater, no smoke, no fire, most importantly no debris.
"There most certainly was," Darryl said stepping forward. The grass was knee deep, swirling in the afternoon breeze.
"Did we get off course?" Penny asked as she looked back towards the farm. "Seems right," she said as she swung her helmet with one hand and put her other hand on her hip. Paige agreed.
Darryl continued forward, cautiously "You two coming?" he shouted back over his shoulder. The girls fell in line and followed their dad, keeping a set distance of approximately five feet between each other. All three kept their head and eyes moving, observing everything they possibly could.
"It couldn't be much farther from here, could it?" Paige said.
"I didn't think so," Darryl said. "But is is hard to tell considering we have no idea what the anomaly was or the object that came out."
"We can't be too far," Penny began, "since the truck lost power and the compass went goofy; it's gotta be here somewhere, right?"
"Right," Darryl said.
(07-16-2009 Entry)
A hundred yards across the prairie, Darryl stopped and the girls caught up with him.
"Do you smell that?" Paige said as she turned to her dad.
"What is the?" Penny asked as she turned around, tugging on Paige's shirt.
"Stop it."
Penny kept tugging.
Paige turned to smack her but froze with her hand in the air. "Dad?" she said as she tugged on his shirt.
Darryl turned and followed the girls' gaze. Behind them, there was smoke; floating above their heads to the north.
"I guess we are heading in the right direction after all," he said.
Paige looked back and forth. "How can we.. why can't we..."
"I think we need to just take our time," Penny said. Paige continued to spin her head around, trying to understand what she was, and wasn't, seeing.
"Maybe we should try to go around this," Darryl said.
"Some sort of stealth," Paige said under her breath.
"But how?" Penny asked. All three of them looked back and forth once again; were they really prepared for this adventure?
I wonder how far this illusion plays in front of us, Darryl thought to himself as he drew a screwdriver from his overalls and threw it ahead of them. As it left his hand, it was completely visible for about five feet or so until it seemed to hit something that rippled, like water; then the screw driver was gone. Several seconds passed before they heard a clang. It had hit something metal.
"Careful where you are throwing things," a female voice called out. The girls jumped behind their dad, clinging to his waist peeping around him towards the voice.
Darryl spread his arms out, palms up. "I mean you no harm," he called back to the voice.
"I know," the woman replied. Paige and Penny stepped out from behind their dad and took a couple steps towards the voice.
"She," Paige began, "she sounds familiar."
"Yes, indeed," Darryl said as all three of them found themselves drawn forward.
(07-17-2009 Entry)
The air in front of them began to ripple, just as it did for the screwdriver. A round opening, a doorway formed. Just past the doorway, the prairie began to look as they had originally expected; charred with a massive creator.
Twenty yards in front of them they saw the front end of the object facing them. It looked intact, considering the impact they witnessed. However, they didn't see the female belonging to the voice.
"It's okay," the female called out, "it's safe, I promise.". While they had no reason to trust someone who just fell from the sky through an anomaly, all three of them continued to step forward.
"Dad," Paige said taking hold of his hand, "don't we know her?" Penny took the lead, walking tall and sure. No fear was detectable in the ten year old. She seemed... excited.
"I hope so, Paige," Darryl said, squeezing her hand. They stepped through he opening and the full scale of the impact stopped the two of them in their tracks. Penny, eyes wide, kept walking towards the object.
"Whoa," Darryl said. He turned around and watched the air de-ripple; the portal closed. From this vantage point, the prairie was visible with the reality of the impact damage. He figured there was about a one hundred and fifty square yard area scorched. Although to his surprise, the crater was considerably smaller than he had anticipated.; the object had not fallen straight in to the ground, rather there was an attempt to land the craft.
Darryl stepped forward, tugging a reluctant Paige with him. Inspecting the object as they approached, he noticed a woman making her way around the object.
The woman was tall, slender and had a beautiful head of dark red hair just like his girls; and his wife. She stopped next to the object, reached her hand up and leaned against the object. She smiled excitedly, as though she was welcoming old friends. Penny ran up to the woman and hugged her tightly.
Darryl and Paige approached their position, both mesmerized by the object.
"You came!" he heard Penny say.
"Of course I came," the woman said, "I always keep promises I make to myself." Darryl's stomach sank. There was a good reason he felt like he knew this woman; this was not good.
"Penny?" he said.
"Yes?" both Penny and the woman responded.
"Your name is Penny, too?" Paige asked.
The woman and Penny walked up to Paige. The woman knelt down in front of Paige, took her hands and stared in to her eyes. Paige returned the stare, studying the woman's face. Her eyes widened.
"You ARE Penny!" she squealed.
"Actually, I go by Penelope."
"Of course," Darryl said as he knelt down next to Paige looking into Penelope's eyes. It sure was Penny, all grown up. "Welcome home," he said. "Or welcome back, I guess."
"Thanks, dad," she said.
"I don't understand," Paige said crossing her arms.
"Maybe Penny can explain," Penelope said.
"She's me!" Penny told her.
(07-18-2009 Entry)
Paige looked at Darryl with blank eyes. Perhaps it was too much to take in, even for his little Paige.
"It's alright," he told her. He looked to Penelope, "I think we need to talk."
"Agreed," she said as they both stood. Darryl rubbed Paige's shoulders, reassuring her it was going to be alright. Penny danced
and sang around the three of them; her wildest dreams were right in
front of her. She grabbed Paige's hand, coaxing her to join.
Darryl and Penelope walked towards the object. "It is a ship of sorts," she said.
"That would make sense," Darryl said. As they walked around the side of the ship, he estimated it was only six feet in breadth and maybe ten feet in length; much bigger than his initial assessment when it shot towards the earth.
"Do you want to take a look inside?" Penelope asked.
"No, actually," Darryl said. He looked back to the girls to make sure they were out of ear shot. Penny was turning a dazed Paige in circles.
He looked at Penelope, "What are you doing here, Penny? Do you not understand the consequences of you being here?"
Penelope crossed her arms, turned her head away from Darryl.
"Another lecture," she said.
"Do you understand the consequences?" he said stepping forward.
"Why don't you enlighten me, dad," she said snapping her head towards him.
"Whatever you were trying to accomplish failed before it began, defeated once you broke through the anomaly," he told her. "You just
altered your existence, our existence; altered our very reality."
"Who says this isn't how this reality is suppose to unfold?" Penelope said. "Isn't the reality you believe that needs to be maintained still in fact in existence within it's proper reality?" She knocked on the ship and a door slowly opened. "Besides, it wasn't all my idea," she told him as she stepped back and turned towards the door. There stood another tall, slender woman with a head of dark red hair.
"Paige?" he gasped. "What... why girls?" Darryl crossed his arms and began to pace in font of them. He took several deep breaths, looked up and down, back and forth between the women.
"Why not?" the older Paige said as she stepped out of the ship.
"Who is she?" young Paige asked standing next to Darryl.
"Maybe she, they, should explain," he said throwing his hands up in the air, turning away.
Young Paige liked back and forth from Penny to the women, especially her older self. "It's you, Paige," Penny told her. She put her arm around her twin; Penelope followed suit and put her arm around her twin.
"Sister friends forever!" Penelope exclaimed.
(07-19-2009 Entry)
"This isn't right," young Paige said. She removed Penny's arm from around her shoulders and walked over to Darryl. "This isn't right, daddy." He knelt down and hugged her.
"Why here? Why now?" he asked the women.
They looked at each other, looked in to the ship and then back at Darryl.
"You want it all now, don't you?" Penelope said.
"The sooner and more detailed the better," he replied.
" Very well," the older Paige said. "We are not from this timeline, this reality; this multiverse," she began to explain. "Our universe in our multiverse is dying; on the verge of cataclysmic annihilation."
"Incredible," Darryl said.
"You were all going to die?" young Paige asked.
"Yes, and we felt if we had the ability to escape, then we should take that chance," Penelope said.
"But why now?" Darryl said. He moved towards the ship, Penny. "You could have picked any time, by why this period of time in our multiverse; why this multiverse?" The women just stared at Darryl.
"It was the only multiverse they could find that was most like our own," a third woman's voice called out from the ship. Darryl's heart raced. He knew that voice for certain; the voice of the dead.
"This is wrong, girls," Darryl said as he walked to the door of the ship. "You should not have brought her here, not now." he told, his voice cracking a bit.
Penny and young Paige ran to their father and held his hands. "That sounds like mom," Penny said. Darryl pulled his girls close; this was going to mess with all of their minds, and hearts.
Yet another tall, slender woman with a head of dark red hair, albeit with a touch of gray, came to the door. "Darryl," she said.
"Beth," he whispered.
"Mom?" Penny and young Paige said. They ran to her and hugged her. Penelope and the older Paige came to Darryl and hugged him as he stood stunned.
"In our world, you died in the crash, not me," Beth told him as she squeezed the childhood versions of her daughters.
"We never really knew you," Penelope told him as she kissed him on the cheek.
"Now we get to spend the rest of our lives making up for our universe's lost time," older Paige said.
"But, the technology, your ship, you," Darryl began, "how will we fit you in to this world, this multiverse?"
Beth broke free from the younger sisters and went to Darryl. She cradled his face in her hands, "We'll figure it all out later, sweetheart."
He stared in to her eyes, smiled as a tear ran down his cheek. "I suppose we will, won't we?"
End Fiction.
I am not sure I like that post for the 19th, but will let it brew a little more in my head. I just didn't want to turn it in to a black op/fight against the military story. Although that would be fun to write...
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
07-13-2009
This post is on my mobile phone. I could retype it, but I think the challenge in finding a way to get it off the phone is more fun! Until then...
Monday, July 13, 2009
07-12-2009
This one is kind of... crappy. Needs some work, but we will see.
Start Fiction:
The waitress scooted away from the table, eyes wide. The two men dressed in biker gear laughed, banging on the table causing the silverware to dance.
The restaurant was almost empty, Joe was with Emma. It had been a couple weeks since they had time to make plans for dinner. The distraction kind of pissed Joe off.
The men continued to laugh loudly; others on the other side of the restaurant kept looking over at the men.
"Don't they know they're not in a bar?" Joe said.
"No shit," Emma said. Taking a drink of her beer, she looked at the men; she glared at the men. Joe knew she had it in her to walk over and tell the two to shut the hell up. He was kind of looking forward to her doing so.
"Well, maybe they're done and will be leaving soon," Joe said.
Their waitress came to the table to check in as they ate. "Everything taste okay?" she asked with a soft southern accent.
"Could you tell those two yahoos over there to shut up?" Emma snapped.
"I don't know what their deal is, but I know the managers are having a discussion about them right now," she said placing her hand on her hip, looking in the bikers direction. "Hopefully, they are getting ready to kick them out."
The two managers appeared from the kitchen and walked slowly towards the front door. As they reached the waiting area, three police officers walked in the door. The managers had a brief conversation with them, pointed towards the bikers and the officers began heading in their direction.
The bikers were quick to pick up the incoming heat and became silent.
"Oh, this could get ugly," Joe said. All eyes watched the men as the officers approached. Ten feet from the bikers, two of the officers began laughing; as did the bikers. The officers slapped the bikers on the shoulders and continued to laugh; one officer called the older biker "lieutenant" to every one's surprise.
"What the fuck?" Emma said.
End Fiction.
Start Fiction:
The waitress scooted away from the table, eyes wide. The two men dressed in biker gear laughed, banging on the table causing the silverware to dance.
The restaurant was almost empty, Joe was with Emma. It had been a couple weeks since they had time to make plans for dinner. The distraction kind of pissed Joe off.
The men continued to laugh loudly; others on the other side of the restaurant kept looking over at the men.
"Don't they know they're not in a bar?" Joe said.
"No shit," Emma said. Taking a drink of her beer, she looked at the men; she glared at the men. Joe knew she had it in her to walk over and tell the two to shut the hell up. He was kind of looking forward to her doing so.
"Well, maybe they're done and will be leaving soon," Joe said.
Their waitress came to the table to check in as they ate. "Everything taste okay?" she asked with a soft southern accent.
"Could you tell those two yahoos over there to shut up?" Emma snapped.
"I don't know what their deal is, but I know the managers are having a discussion about them right now," she said placing her hand on her hip, looking in the bikers direction. "Hopefully, they are getting ready to kick them out."
The two managers appeared from the kitchen and walked slowly towards the front door. As they reached the waiting area, three police officers walked in the door. The managers had a brief conversation with them, pointed towards the bikers and the officers began heading in their direction.
The bikers were quick to pick up the incoming heat and became silent.
"Oh, this could get ugly," Joe said. All eyes watched the men as the officers approached. Ten feet from the bikers, two of the officers began laughing; as did the bikers. The officers slapped the bikers on the shoulders and continued to laugh; one officer called the older biker "lieutenant" to every one's surprise.
"What the fuck?" Emma said.
End Fiction.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
07-11-2009
I overheard someone bitching about fat people... I was exploring here.
Start Fiction:
"Oh my god," Chuck said. Quickly he coughed trying to cover his inability to filter himself.
The woman standing at the counter had caught him off guard. Her upper arms were at least twenty inches in diameter of jiggling, cottage cheese flesh.
The woman was wearing a sleeveless shirt, something Chuck didn't understand. Had the rest of her body been proportionate to the size of her arms, it might not have been so startling. Granted, she was a large individual, however while she probably weighed about 350 lbs., her arms looked like those of someone weighing at least 500 lbs.
Why does that bug me? I used to be overweight, Chuck asked himself. Chuck never felt guilty for being repulsed or disgusted by morbidly obese people. However, He knew there are illnesses that cause obesity; physical and mental illnesses.
Chuck often thought he was afraid of being fat and lashed out at these people. But it wasn't their weight as much as their attitudes; their laziness, their gluttony.
They were too happy to blame it on an illness, blame it on injury, blame it on anyone else. He hated the ones who talked about "big is beautiful". Big is fat; plain and simple. It's like saying "thirty is the new twenty" or "pink is the new black"; you can put lipstick on a pig, but it's still a pig.
What really bothered Chuck about his resentment to the obese was his anger towards them. What would cause him to be angry? It's not like they kicked him out of their club or picked on him because he was skinny.
He had no reason to be angry or be bothered by fat people. He knew that but didn't care. And that was something that made him feel guilty - he enjoyed something to get angry about.
"Who's got the mental illness?" Chuck asked himself out loud. "Sick, twisted bastard."
End Fiction.
Start Fiction:
"Oh my god," Chuck said. Quickly he coughed trying to cover his inability to filter himself.
The woman standing at the counter had caught him off guard. Her upper arms were at least twenty inches in diameter of jiggling, cottage cheese flesh.
The woman was wearing a sleeveless shirt, something Chuck didn't understand. Had the rest of her body been proportionate to the size of her arms, it might not have been so startling. Granted, she was a large individual, however while she probably weighed about 350 lbs., her arms looked like those of someone weighing at least 500 lbs.
Why does that bug me? I used to be overweight, Chuck asked himself. Chuck never felt guilty for being repulsed or disgusted by morbidly obese people. However, He knew there are illnesses that cause obesity; physical and mental illnesses.
Chuck often thought he was afraid of being fat and lashed out at these people. But it wasn't their weight as much as their attitudes; their laziness, their gluttony.
They were too happy to blame it on an illness, blame it on injury, blame it on anyone else. He hated the ones who talked about "big is beautiful". Big is fat; plain and simple. It's like saying "thirty is the new twenty" or "pink is the new black"; you can put lipstick on a pig, but it's still a pig.
What really bothered Chuck about his resentment to the obese was his anger towards them. What would cause him to be angry? It's not like they kicked him out of their club or picked on him because he was skinny.
He had no reason to be angry or be bothered by fat people. He knew that but didn't care. And that was something that made him feel guilty - he enjoyed something to get angry about.
"Who's got the mental illness?" Chuck asked himself out loud. "Sick, twisted bastard."
End Fiction.
Friday, July 10, 2009
07-10-2009
This person actually was in McDonald's today! However, I didn't ask him about tattoo and I don't know if he actually has a Kermit tattoo.
Start Fiction:
A young man walked in and was immediately out of place, even at McDonald's. Pete tried hard not to stare, but he couldn't.
He had four lip rings, two nose rings, six ear rings and two piercings in each eyebrow. His face was scruffy, mixed with along scraggly goatee, giving the impression of uncleanliness.
His over sized Megadeath tee shirt was worn; the image was faded, cracked. His bulky black pants with excessive zippers were tattered at his feet. His trucker hat was breaking apart; worn backwards, the young man had metal horns pinned on top.
His long hair was ratted, unkept and obviously unclean. As the young man sat down at the table there were several tattoos on his arms and hands, but it was the tattoo on his knuckles that was interesting.
On his right hand it read "FROG" and on his left it read "LIFE", both in bright green outlined in black.
At first impression, one might think it was gang related or of possible prison significance. Pete kept eating his Quarter Pounder, eyeing the tattoo. Should he ask or just let his imagination have some fun? Curiosity won out.
"Excuse me," Pete said. "What does FROG LIFE mean?"
The young man looked at him for a few minutes. Chewing on his hamburger like cud, small bits of food fell from his half open mouth. Sliding out of his booth, he walked over to Pete. He grabbed his shirt and slowly began to lift it up; Pete slid further into his booth.
As his shirt was at his nipples, Pete let out a sigh of relief. There, on the pale white chest (dotted with pimples) of he young man was a huge tattoo of Kermit the Frog.
"Unbelievable," Pete said. The young man let his shirt down and slowly walked back to his booth and sat down; not a single word.
End Fiction.
Start Fiction:
A young man walked in and was immediately out of place, even at McDonald's. Pete tried hard not to stare, but he couldn't.
He had four lip rings, two nose rings, six ear rings and two piercings in each eyebrow. His face was scruffy, mixed with along scraggly goatee, giving the impression of uncleanliness.
His over sized Megadeath tee shirt was worn; the image was faded, cracked. His bulky black pants with excessive zippers were tattered at his feet. His trucker hat was breaking apart; worn backwards, the young man had metal horns pinned on top.
His long hair was ratted, unkept and obviously unclean. As the young man sat down at the table there were several tattoos on his arms and hands, but it was the tattoo on his knuckles that was interesting.
On his right hand it read "FROG" and on his left it read "LIFE", both in bright green outlined in black.
At first impression, one might think it was gang related or of possible prison significance. Pete kept eating his Quarter Pounder, eyeing the tattoo. Should he ask or just let his imagination have some fun? Curiosity won out.
"Excuse me," Pete said. "What does FROG LIFE mean?"
The young man looked at him for a few minutes. Chewing on his hamburger like cud, small bits of food fell from his half open mouth. Sliding out of his booth, he walked over to Pete. He grabbed his shirt and slowly began to lift it up; Pete slid further into his booth.
As his shirt was at his nipples, Pete let out a sigh of relief. There, on the pale white chest (dotted with pimples) of he young man was a huge tattoo of Kermit the Frog.
"Unbelievable," Pete said. The young man let his shirt down and slowly walked back to his booth and sat down; not a single word.
End Fiction.
07-09-2009
Not that anyone is reading this, but I have been so busy and freaking tired my ability to focus long enough to write has been hard this week!
Start Fiction:
"Do you hear that?" Steve asked. He pointed to the living room and froze. Only moving his eyes, he surveyed the room, hoping to see whatever it was for his own sanity.
"Maybe the house is settling," Ana said. She didn't move either, mostly because Steve was freaking out.
"It's a ghost, or something," he told her, still holding his position.
"A ghost?" Ana said. "Seriously."
Steve is more than freaking out, she thought, he has lost his mind! She began to move towards him.
"STOP!" he snapped. He put his hand on her shoulder and held her in place. Steve gripped her tight. Ana shook a little, her heart raced. This was a new level of freaking out, even for Steve.
Then Ana heard it.
Tap, tap, tap.
"Always in threes," Steve whispered. Maintaining their position, He checked his watch, timing the intervals and noting the time of day. "Every four minutes, three taps," Steve said turning to Ana.
"Holy shit," Ana said.
"I heard that," a faint elderly male voice said from the living room.
Steve and Ana both jumped up and ran out of the house.
End Fiction.
Start Fiction:
"Do you hear that?" Steve asked. He pointed to the living room and froze. Only moving his eyes, he surveyed the room, hoping to see whatever it was for his own sanity.
"Maybe the house is settling," Ana said. She didn't move either, mostly because Steve was freaking out.
"It's a ghost, or something," he told her, still holding his position.
"A ghost?" Ana said. "Seriously."
Steve is more than freaking out, she thought, he has lost his mind! She began to move towards him.
"STOP!" he snapped. He put his hand on her shoulder and held her in place. Steve gripped her tight. Ana shook a little, her heart raced. This was a new level of freaking out, even for Steve.
Then Ana heard it.
Tap, tap, tap.
"Always in threes," Steve whispered. Maintaining their position, He checked his watch, timing the intervals and noting the time of day. "Every four minutes, three taps," Steve said turning to Ana.
"Holy shit," Ana said.
"I heard that," a faint elderly male voice said from the living room.
Steve and Ana both jumped up and ran out of the house.
End Fiction.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
07-08-2009
I was REALLY tired today. My apologies...
Start Fiction:
Ice kept coming out of the ice machine. Andy watched it as he sat down at his table. The clanks and clicks were getting to him, giving him an itch to jump In the car and head to the casino.
Andy looked away, trying to fight the urge, but it was making him fidgity.
"Andy?" Kim said. "Are you alright?"
"Fine," he said. It had been several months since he had this intense of an urge. However, he knew the costs, the damage his addiction had done in the past and wasn't going to let Kim be another casualty.
"You look like you saw a ghost," Kim said.
"I guess," he said. He wrestled with telling her, bringing her up to speed about his past. He wasn't sure she would stay knowing his baggage, but he felt he owed it to her to let her in on the one last secret he held back.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked as she bit in to her hamburger.
End Fiction.
Start Fiction:
Ice kept coming out of the ice machine. Andy watched it as he sat down at his table. The clanks and clicks were getting to him, giving him an itch to jump In the car and head to the casino.
Andy looked away, trying to fight the urge, but it was making him fidgity.
"Andy?" Kim said. "Are you alright?"
"Fine," he said. It had been several months since he had this intense of an urge. However, he knew the costs, the damage his addiction had done in the past and wasn't going to let Kim be another casualty.
"You look like you saw a ghost," Kim said.
"I guess," he said. He wrestled with telling her, bringing her up to speed about his past. He wasn't sure she would stay knowing his baggage, but he felt he owed it to her to let her in on the one last secret he held back.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked as she bit in to her hamburger.
End Fiction.
07-07-2009
I have been so freaking tired the last few days, my efforts to wright have been coming up incredibly short!
Start Fiction:
A van pulled over on he shoulder in front of Tim and Roxy. They ran up to meet the driver, to thank him for his help. The man got out of the van, well dressed in slacks and a button down shirt, polished shoes and clean shaven.
"I'm Herb Stanton," he said as he took hold of Tim's hand. "Reverend Herb Stanton."
"You sure are a life saver, Reverend," Tim said as he shook his hand forcefully. "We're not from around here." He smiled wide and revealed the two teeth left in his thirty-something mouth.
"No trouble at all," Herb said, shaking Roxy's hand. She didn't say anything, but smiled. She apparently had been living life to it's fullest as she looked worn and tired. "There's a service garage not too far from here."
They loaded in to the van and headed towards town. Roxy sat in the passenger's seat leaning against the window. Tim reclined on the first bench seat. The air conditioning shot a comforting cool breeze to the back even though the sun was piercing through the windows.
"Where you headed?" Herb asked. The speed limit was 70 mph, but Herb maintained a fuel efficient 60 mph.
"Utah," Tim said. "Never been, sounded like something to do."
"Its always nice to get a chance to visit different places, do different things," Herb said. The van jerked a little. Herb checked over the gauges. "Goodness, what are the odds you'll get broken down twice today?"
Herb pulled off at the next exit, stopping on the shoulder. He laughed a little popped open the rear door.
"I have this problem every now and again," he said as he got out of the van. "A quart of oil usually peps 'er right back up." Tim and Roxy remained in their seats.
End Fiction.
Start Fiction:
A van pulled over on he shoulder in front of Tim and Roxy. They ran up to meet the driver, to thank him for his help. The man got out of the van, well dressed in slacks and a button down shirt, polished shoes and clean shaven.
"I'm Herb Stanton," he said as he took hold of Tim's hand. "Reverend Herb Stanton."
"You sure are a life saver, Reverend," Tim said as he shook his hand forcefully. "We're not from around here." He smiled wide and revealed the two teeth left in his thirty-something mouth.
"No trouble at all," Herb said, shaking Roxy's hand. She didn't say anything, but smiled. She apparently had been living life to it's fullest as she looked worn and tired. "There's a service garage not too far from here."
They loaded in to the van and headed towards town. Roxy sat in the passenger's seat leaning against the window. Tim reclined on the first bench seat. The air conditioning shot a comforting cool breeze to the back even though the sun was piercing through the windows.
"Where you headed?" Herb asked. The speed limit was 70 mph, but Herb maintained a fuel efficient 60 mph.
"Utah," Tim said. "Never been, sounded like something to do."
"Its always nice to get a chance to visit different places, do different things," Herb said. The van jerked a little. Herb checked over the gauges. "Goodness, what are the odds you'll get broken down twice today?"
Herb pulled off at the next exit, stopping on the shoulder. He laughed a little popped open the rear door.
"I have this problem every now and again," he said as he got out of the van. "A quart of oil usually peps 'er right back up." Tim and Roxy remained in their seats.
End Fiction.
Monday, July 6, 2009
07-06-2008
Start Fiction:
For an elderly man, he moved swiftly and talked smooth. His thoughts were clear and intelligible; he had a lot of thoughts and he wasn't afraid to share.
Doug got the impression he had been a salesman all of his life. He was definitely friendly, seemed to know everyone and was genuinely happy. It was kind of freaky to Doug. How did anyone become that happy?
Although he wanted to discover the man's secret, he was afraid he would lose his afternoon listening to the man's stories. He was very tempted after he realized the man was wearing a name tag from Stony Square. Fred Donaldson was the man's name it turned out, and now not only did Doug want to know Fred's happiness secret, what the hell was Stony Square?
The man with Fred excuse himself and left the table. Doug hesitated, but the Fred noticed him before he could look away.
"Hi there," Fred said.
"Morning," Doug said as he began to clean up his table. This was his chance, but did he really want to talk to this guy?
"I haven't seen you around here before," Fred said. Doug stood up and walked over to the table.
"I am fairly new, I guess," he said extending his hand. " Doug Walden." They shook hands; Fred had a vice grip for an old timer. His eyes were full of life, he was smiling wide and motioned for Doug to join him.
"Not in a hurry, are ya?" Fred asked. Doug didn't answer, he just sat down. There was no time to waste, he needed to cut the chase.
"I couldn't help but notice that you are so happy," he said. "What's your secret?"
"It's no secret," Fred said a he placed his hand on Doug's shoulder. "Anyone who has accepted Jesus Christ as their Lord and Savior can't help but be happy!"
Doug stared at Fred. He knew he was totally serious. Doug tried his hardest to not bust out laughing or make the comment Oh, you live in a fantasy world!
"I see," Doug said.
End Fiction.
For an elderly man, he moved swiftly and talked smooth. His thoughts were clear and intelligible; he had a lot of thoughts and he wasn't afraid to share.
Doug got the impression he had been a salesman all of his life. He was definitely friendly, seemed to know everyone and was genuinely happy. It was kind of freaky to Doug. How did anyone become that happy?
Although he wanted to discover the man's secret, he was afraid he would lose his afternoon listening to the man's stories. He was very tempted after he realized the man was wearing a name tag from Stony Square. Fred Donaldson was the man's name it turned out, and now not only did Doug want to know Fred's happiness secret, what the hell was Stony Square?
The man with Fred excuse himself and left the table. Doug hesitated, but the Fred noticed him before he could look away.
"Hi there," Fred said.
"Morning," Doug said as he began to clean up his table. This was his chance, but did he really want to talk to this guy?
"I haven't seen you around here before," Fred said. Doug stood up and walked over to the table.
"I am fairly new, I guess," he said extending his hand. " Doug Walden." They shook hands; Fred had a vice grip for an old timer. His eyes were full of life, he was smiling wide and motioned for Doug to join him.
"Not in a hurry, are ya?" Fred asked. Doug didn't answer, he just sat down. There was no time to waste, he needed to cut the chase.
"I couldn't help but notice that you are so happy," he said. "What's your secret?"
"It's no secret," Fred said a he placed his hand on Doug's shoulder. "Anyone who has accepted Jesus Christ as their Lord and Savior can't help but be happy!"
Doug stared at Fred. He knew he was totally serious. Doug tried his hardest to not bust out laughing or make the comment Oh, you live in a fantasy world!
"I see," Doug said.
End Fiction.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
07-05-2009
Start Fiction:
Lenny walked across the street, quickly turning his head looking for any threats, any possible attackers that may jump out of the bushes. The black out made everyone on edge more than normal, but this was something a little to close to home for Lenny. There were people roaming the streets, however it was calm, very pedestrian.
Two months ago, he had noticed a buildup at the armory. Considering that so many area Guardsmen were in the Middle East, Lenny kept a distant eye on the stock. There was also the subtle buildup of area police, if they were actually officer, patrolling the streets. An extra Iowa City or University of Iowa Police or both, who would typically notice? No one, and that is what made Lenny edgy.
There was no need for either buildup. It was late June in Iowa City; students were gone, the river was considerably under flood stage and the locals were rather laid back.
Lenny reached the east side of Dubuque Street on the south side of Burlington. There was still a good distance between him and the armory.
Walking behind the post office, Lenny heard a car coming up the street and jumped behind a parked car.
The driver had his foot in the carburetor. "He's in a hurry," Lenny said as the car approached, quickly. As the car passed he squeezed between the parked cars to catch a view of the vehicle. It was a police car. The police were driving without headlights? Something was definitely doing down.
Lenny maintained his position, listening to the area. Laughter echoed to he north. Various smaller vehicles moved to the northwest. To the south he heard a helicopter; make that multiple helicopters.
To the depot, Lenny said to himself. He never thought he would have to actually enter the emergency bunker and engage it's services.
End Fiction.
Lenny walked across the street, quickly turning his head looking for any threats, any possible attackers that may jump out of the bushes. The black out made everyone on edge more than normal, but this was something a little to close to home for Lenny. There were people roaming the streets, however it was calm, very pedestrian.
Two months ago, he had noticed a buildup at the armory. Considering that so many area Guardsmen were in the Middle East, Lenny kept a distant eye on the stock. There was also the subtle buildup of area police, if they were actually officer, patrolling the streets. An extra Iowa City or University of Iowa Police or both, who would typically notice? No one, and that is what made Lenny edgy.
There was no need for either buildup. It was late June in Iowa City; students were gone, the river was considerably under flood stage and the locals were rather laid back.
Lenny reached the east side of Dubuque Street on the south side of Burlington. There was still a good distance between him and the armory.
Walking behind the post office, Lenny heard a car coming up the street and jumped behind a parked car.
The driver had his foot in the carburetor. "He's in a hurry," Lenny said as the car approached, quickly. As the car passed he squeezed between the parked cars to catch a view of the vehicle. It was a police car. The police were driving without headlights? Something was definitely doing down.
Lenny maintained his position, listening to the area. Laughter echoed to he north. Various smaller vehicles moved to the northwest. To the south he heard a helicopter; make that multiple helicopters.
To the depot, Lenny said to himself. He never thought he would have to actually enter the emergency bunker and engage it's services.
End Fiction.
07-04-2009
Start Fiction:
"It's the middle of summer," Seth said as he looked over the flower garden. "There is no reason everything should be wilted." He took a drink of his coffee and sat down on the patio.
It was a warm July morning, humid; perfect weather for Iowa vegetation to strive. The air was still moist, musty.
"I don't think it is something with just our yard," Tonya said pointing at the neighbor's yard. Not only had their garden begun to wilt, but their maple trees had lost half of their leaves.
"Whoa," Seth said as he stood up and put his coffee on the table. He walked down the stairs and made his way across the yard. Moving slowly, he noticed that even though the grass was still green, lush in appearance, it was coarse and was beginning to crunch.
Halfway between his garden and the property line, Seth stopped. He looked at the trees that were thirty feet in front of him. Becoming increasingly bare with each gust of wind, they seemed to be aging in front of his eyes.
He heard the grass crunch behind him. "What is it?" Tonya said.
"I don't know," Seth replied as he studied the trees. "Whatever it is it seems to have started in this area."
"Is it some kind of bug or something?" she asked.
"What kind of bug would effect grass, trees, flowers and vegetables equally?" Seth said as he looked over the other yards in the neighborhood. The flowers in the Herbert's yard were showing signs of not only wilting, but decay. Moving to his garden to his left, he noticed that his tomato plants were in a state of decay as well; they smelled of decay, rotten.
"We need to call someone. This is not normal," Seth said.
As he turned to Tonya and they walked toward the house two women came around the side of their house. Both women had medium build, tall, and brunette. Their sunglasses, hair style, clothes and boots were all the same; as well as their stern demeanor.
"Good morning," Tonya called out to the women. They did not respond; they kept approaching. Tonya and Seth stopped, looking at each other with questions in their eyes.
The two women walked up to Seth and Tonya, removed their sunglasses and produced some identification without saying a word.
"The NSA?" Seth said as he studied the IDs, noting Agent Jones and Agent Smith's names. He looked at Tonya and he knew how she felt. "I am afraid I will need more information, or at least be spoken to, before I can allow you on our property," Seth told them.
The two women looked at each other, surveyed the area, then looked at each other again.
"I am serious," Seth said. "Either talk to me or get a warrant to be on my property."
End Fiction.
"It's the middle of summer," Seth said as he looked over the flower garden. "There is no reason everything should be wilted." He took a drink of his coffee and sat down on the patio.
It was a warm July morning, humid; perfect weather for Iowa vegetation to strive. The air was still moist, musty.
"I don't think it is something with just our yard," Tonya said pointing at the neighbor's yard. Not only had their garden begun to wilt, but their maple trees had lost half of their leaves.
"Whoa," Seth said as he stood up and put his coffee on the table. He walked down the stairs and made his way across the yard. Moving slowly, he noticed that even though the grass was still green, lush in appearance, it was coarse and was beginning to crunch.
Halfway between his garden and the property line, Seth stopped. He looked at the trees that were thirty feet in front of him. Becoming increasingly bare with each gust of wind, they seemed to be aging in front of his eyes.
He heard the grass crunch behind him. "What is it?" Tonya said.
"I don't know," Seth replied as he studied the trees. "Whatever it is it seems to have started in this area."
"Is it some kind of bug or something?" she asked.
"What kind of bug would effect grass, trees, flowers and vegetables equally?" Seth said as he looked over the other yards in the neighborhood. The flowers in the Herbert's yard were showing signs of not only wilting, but decay. Moving to his garden to his left, he noticed that his tomato plants were in a state of decay as well; they smelled of decay, rotten.
"We need to call someone. This is not normal," Seth said.
As he turned to Tonya and they walked toward the house two women came around the side of their house. Both women had medium build, tall, and brunette. Their sunglasses, hair style, clothes and boots were all the same; as well as their stern demeanor.
"Good morning," Tonya called out to the women. They did not respond; they kept approaching. Tonya and Seth stopped, looking at each other with questions in their eyes.
The two women walked up to Seth and Tonya, removed their sunglasses and produced some identification without saying a word.
"The NSA?" Seth said as he studied the IDs, noting Agent Jones and Agent Smith's names. He looked at Tonya and he knew how she felt. "I am afraid I will need more information, or at least be spoken to, before I can allow you on our property," Seth told them.
The two women looked at each other, surveyed the area, then looked at each other again.
"I am serious," Seth said. "Either talk to me or get a warrant to be on my property."
End Fiction.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
07-03-2009
I accidentally deleted my entry! Oh well, it wasn't so great anyway. AAARRRRRGGG!
Maybe I should just go to bed. Man this pisses me off as I have written for eleven straight days and am trying to keep it going! I guess I will just try to re-write it, maybe it won't suck as bad this time...
Start Fiction:
Arnold awoke feeling groggy. His eyes were crusty, mattered shut. He raised his arms to wipe his eye and they were sore and stiff. His eye stung front the light, causing his eyes to water, making the crusted matter harder to remove.
"I wonder what time it is?" Arnold said. "I must of had some pretty wicked dreams last night." Several small alarms went off, echoing gently through the room. "What the -"
He heard a door latch click, the door open and several footsteps on tile. 'Tile? I have carpet-'
"Mr. Collins," a soft, soothing female voice with a British accent said, "please try to lay still and be patient. I am Dr. Elison and want to assure you that you are in very good hands."
"Doctor?" Arnold said. He tried to sit up, but he couldn't.
"Please, sir, stay calm," a male said as he pressed on Arnold's shoulders. "Try to be patient, sir."
"What is going on here?" Arnold said. "Where's my wife?"
"Mr. Collins, I will answer all you questions in time, however I need to ask you a few simple questions first," Dr. Ellison said.
Arnold took several deep breaths as he rest his arms at his side. "I'll do my best," he told her.
"Excellent," she replied; her voice chipper. "Could you please tells the date today?" Dr. Ellison said.
"The date," Arnold thought for several seconds. "I am guessing that it is not July fourth."
"And the year?"
"The year?" Arnold froze; his nostrils slowly flared and his teeth began to grind. He didn't like where this was potentially headed. Dr. Elision noticed him getting tense.
"Don't worry, Arnold, these are just routine questions," she told him as she placed her hand on his shoulder and squeezed him gently.
"I am going to go out on a limb here and guess it's not 2009, either," Arnold said as he let his head sink back into his pillow.
His eyes were adjusting to the light; shapes began to form. He was able to make out seven forms moving about his pastel colored room. He couldn't tell where the lights were; light seemed to be coming from the walls. 'Man, what the hell is going on?' Arnold thought.
"Where's my wife?" he asked.
The staff whispered among themselves; the Doctor's pen scribbled quickly across her clipboard. "Just a few more questions, Arnold," she said.
She was using his first name again; things must not be so good.
End Fiction.
Definitely better than the one that got deleted. Need to add more sense input; smells, sounds...
Maybe I should just go to bed. Man this pisses me off as I have written for eleven straight days and am trying to keep it going! I guess I will just try to re-write it, maybe it won't suck as bad this time...
Start Fiction:
Arnold awoke feeling groggy. His eyes were crusty, mattered shut. He raised his arms to wipe his eye and they were sore and stiff. His eye stung front the light, causing his eyes to water, making the crusted matter harder to remove.
"I wonder what time it is?" Arnold said. "I must of had some pretty wicked dreams last night." Several small alarms went off, echoing gently through the room. "What the -"
He heard a door latch click, the door open and several footsteps on tile. 'Tile? I have carpet-'
"Mr. Collins," a soft, soothing female voice with a British accent said, "please try to lay still and be patient. I am Dr. Elison and want to assure you that you are in very good hands."
"Doctor?" Arnold said. He tried to sit up, but he couldn't.
"Please, sir, stay calm," a male said as he pressed on Arnold's shoulders. "Try to be patient, sir."
"What is going on here?" Arnold said. "Where's my wife?"
"Mr. Collins, I will answer all you questions in time, however I need to ask you a few simple questions first," Dr. Ellison said.
Arnold took several deep breaths as he rest his arms at his side. "I'll do my best," he told her.
"Excellent," she replied; her voice chipper. "Could you please tells the date today?" Dr. Ellison said.
"The date," Arnold thought for several seconds. "I am guessing that it is not July fourth."
"And the year?"
"The year?" Arnold froze; his nostrils slowly flared and his teeth began to grind. He didn't like where this was potentially headed. Dr. Elision noticed him getting tense.
"Don't worry, Arnold, these are just routine questions," she told him as she placed her hand on his shoulder and squeezed him gently.
"I am going to go out on a limb here and guess it's not 2009, either," Arnold said as he let his head sink back into his pillow.
His eyes were adjusting to the light; shapes began to form. He was able to make out seven forms moving about his pastel colored room. He couldn't tell where the lights were; light seemed to be coming from the walls. 'Man, what the hell is going on?' Arnold thought.
"Where's my wife?" he asked.
The staff whispered among themselves; the Doctor's pen scribbled quickly across her clipboard. "Just a few more questions, Arnold," she said.
She was using his first name again; things must not be so good.
End Fiction.
Definitely better than the one that got deleted. Need to add more sense input; smells, sounds...
Thursday, July 2, 2009
07-02-2009
I am not sure I like this entry, but I think if I reworked it a little...
Start Fiction:
Abby flicked her cigarette over the heads of the people walking in front of her. They turned and looked at her, surprised to see a seemingly sweet, attractive young blond sitting on the steps.
"What the hell are you looking at?" she said. She glared at them as they walked on. 'Pussies,' she thought. 'No one has any balls these days.'
Abby leaned back on the steps. Downtown in the summer was pretty dead, but with incoming students and their parents floating in and out of town it gave her a fresh audience to entertain; or a fresh audience to entertain her. Regardless, there was nothing going on and Abby was getting fidgety.
Summer classes were not keeping her as busy as she as hoped; then again, nothing seemed to keep her busy anymore. Things were becoming boring, weak challenges; however, she knew she had to play the game to get her degree and move on to grad school. Perhaps there she would find more of a challenge.
Abby's cell phone beeped. She didn't flinch. It was a nice day and she was not a fan of wasting nice days talking on her phone. Abby was definitely only wired for her needs; technology was there for her when she needed, not when others needed her. Her phone began to beep again. "Damn it," she said as she snapped up her backpack and rummaged around for her phone. "What?"
"Miss Harper," a female voice said.
"Yes, what?" Abby snapped.
"We need you to come to the courthouse and meet with our representative," the woman told her.
"Who is this?" Abby looked around, "Is this Courtney? Are you fucking with me?"
"My name is Ellie," the woman said. "You will meet a young lady named Joan, main lobby of the courthouse in one hour." Abby didn't respond. "Miss Harper, do you understand?"
"Not really," Abby said. "What is this all about? What organization is this? Why should I meet with you?"
"If you prefer, we can come to you at your home at 141 North Johnson Street, apartment A-2," Ellie said. "However, we find that meeting in a very public location eases our first contact with people.".
Abby stood up, grabbed her backpack and started walking towards home. "Seriously, how do you know my home address? Who are you?". Abby walked faster, constantly surveilling the area, looking over her shoulder, her eyes moving back and forth quickly.
"We're the good guys," Ellie said. "We can answer your specific questions once you meet with Joan, but until then you'll have to trust me."
"That's easier said than done, Ellie," Abby said. "How am I to trust some one I am talking to on a phone that is not showing an active call?" Abby's voice cracked a little. A drink. I needed a drink. This maybe more entertainment than she cared for; however, it was going happen one way or another.
End Fiction.
Start Fiction:
Abby flicked her cigarette over the heads of the people walking in front of her. They turned and looked at her, surprised to see a seemingly sweet, attractive young blond sitting on the steps.
"What the hell are you looking at?" she said. She glared at them as they walked on. 'Pussies,' she thought. 'No one has any balls these days.'
Abby leaned back on the steps. Downtown in the summer was pretty dead, but with incoming students and their parents floating in and out of town it gave her a fresh audience to entertain; or a fresh audience to entertain her. Regardless, there was nothing going on and Abby was getting fidgety.
Summer classes were not keeping her as busy as she as hoped; then again, nothing seemed to keep her busy anymore. Things were becoming boring, weak challenges; however, she knew she had to play the game to get her degree and move on to grad school. Perhaps there she would find more of a challenge.
Abby's cell phone beeped. She didn't flinch. It was a nice day and she was not a fan of wasting nice days talking on her phone. Abby was definitely only wired for her needs; technology was there for her when she needed, not when others needed her. Her phone began to beep again. "Damn it," she said as she snapped up her backpack and rummaged around for her phone. "What?"
"Miss Harper," a female voice said.
"Yes, what?" Abby snapped.
"We need you to come to the courthouse and meet with our representative," the woman told her.
"Who is this?" Abby looked around, "Is this Courtney? Are you fucking with me?"
"My name is Ellie," the woman said. "You will meet a young lady named Joan, main lobby of the courthouse in one hour." Abby didn't respond. "Miss Harper, do you understand?"
"Not really," Abby said. "What is this all about? What organization is this? Why should I meet with you?"
"If you prefer, we can come to you at your home at 141 North Johnson Street, apartment A-2," Ellie said. "However, we find that meeting in a very public location eases our first contact with people.".
Abby stood up, grabbed her backpack and started walking towards home. "Seriously, how do you know my home address? Who are you?". Abby walked faster, constantly surveilling the area, looking over her shoulder, her eyes moving back and forth quickly.
"We're the good guys," Ellie said. "We can answer your specific questions once you meet with Joan, but until then you'll have to trust me."
"That's easier said than done, Ellie," Abby said. "How am I to trust some one I am talking to on a phone that is not showing an active call?" Abby's voice cracked a little. A drink. I needed a drink. This maybe more entertainment than she cared for; however, it was going happen one way or another.
End Fiction.
07-01-2009
I realized as I wrote this that it was something that might work for part of a novel idea I have had for some time. So, I quit writing on this entry, looking to do some research and write other aspects to compliment this idea.
Start Fiction:
"The Inner Dwellers will come to the surface one day, and the cycle will commence once again," Grandfather said. "This is the way it has been for all generations; there is no beginning, no end."
I have heard these stories since I was old enough to walk. I have always just categorized them as myth, regardless how emphatic Grandfather is about their veracity.
It wasn't until I was in my thirties and return to school seeking a Master's degree I began to visit Grandfather with a notebook in hand, documenting the ancient cosmology handed down to him from his elders.
In my Intro to Anthropology course (I had many deficiencies), I had come across several ancient cultures that had written about a "inner universe", inside the earth. At first I laughed and almost dismissed these cultures as quickly as I had my own for most of my life.
As I read more on the subject, seeking out data on cultures, I realized that while many of the legends were characteristically different, fundamentally they were very much the same legend. This was something I had not considered a possibility; the idea that other cultures through out history (or as Grandfather would say, "this cycle") would have such a incredible tale to tell, with such detail.
I often found this later conversations extremely humbling; the wisdom and knowledge Grandfather possessed was lost on me due to my immense ignorance. It wasn't just the "inners" we discussed, but life, death, farming, hunting, love, anger; dreams, consciousness, intelligence, logic.
I began to look at the stories of Grandfather, and the world as a whole, differently; I was becoming more respectful, more caring, more understanding - more open to the possibilities that exist.
End Fiction.
Start Fiction:
"The Inner Dwellers will come to the surface one day, and the cycle will commence once again," Grandfather said. "This is the way it has been for all generations; there is no beginning, no end."
I have heard these stories since I was old enough to walk. I have always just categorized them as myth, regardless how emphatic Grandfather is about their veracity.
It wasn't until I was in my thirties and return to school seeking a Master's degree I began to visit Grandfather with a notebook in hand, documenting the ancient cosmology handed down to him from his elders.
In my Intro to Anthropology course (I had many deficiencies), I had come across several ancient cultures that had written about a "inner universe", inside the earth. At first I laughed and almost dismissed these cultures as quickly as I had my own for most of my life.
As I read more on the subject, seeking out data on cultures, I realized that while many of the legends were characteristically different, fundamentally they were very much the same legend. This was something I had not considered a possibility; the idea that other cultures through out history (or as Grandfather would say, "this cycle") would have such a incredible tale to tell, with such detail.
I often found this later conversations extremely humbling; the wisdom and knowledge Grandfather possessed was lost on me due to my immense ignorance. It wasn't just the "inners" we discussed, but life, death, farming, hunting, love, anger; dreams, consciousness, intelligence, logic.
I began to look at the stories of Grandfather, and the world as a whole, differently; I was becoming more respectful, more caring, more understanding - more open to the possibilities that exist.
End Fiction.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)