As September approaches quickly, I was thinking of writing one story line for the month. It will be a challenge, but so will writing as my time is quickly evaporating. Oh well, we shall see...
Start Fiction:
The old shed was falling apart and Willis decided it was time to see of it could be saved or was going to be burned on the spot. Some of the wood would be salvageable, but a large majority, he felt, was in too bad of shape.
His grandfather had built the shed some eighty years prior. Tearing it down would tear down a lot of family history. Willis wonders if he restored it, would it really be the same? So much of the structure would have to be replaced; several trusses, the roof, most of the siding was rotted or pitted and if the studs were in similar condition as the paneling over it, it would be a lot of replacement.
Willis walked in to the shed with a pry bar in one hand and torch in the other. It wouldn't take long to decide, but he wanted to give it a fair shot to prove to would be worth restoration.
He moved to the back of the shed and began tearing out some odd length planks in an approximately five by three foot area. The rest of the planks around the area were uniform making the area seem out of place.
Willis didn't remember the exterior having any patch work from an old window or feed shoot. However, in eighty years he was sure there was a revision or two. He never heard any stories, but having worked on the building he knew there was definitely work done before him by some of the patch jobs.
As he tore open the wall, dust flew everywhere, clouding his vision. After he got four boards off, the dust settled a little and he noticed a case in the wall. Willis' mind wondered for a few moments, trying to decide if his dad or grandfather had hid something away for a rainy day, from the bank, or maybe from a wife.
Gently pulling the case out of the wall, he set it on the workbench. It was an oak case, wonderfully crafted with some sort of etching on the top. Three steel latches held it shut tight, resisting Willis' efforts to open them.
Careful not to break the latches, Willis sprayed them with some silicone in an effort to loosen some of the rust. Using a screwdriver he began to pick at the latches; a jab, a pry, little pops. After working the latches for about fifteen minutes, he had them all worked free.
Willis had envisioned all sorts of treasures awaiting inside the case, everything except what he saw as he lifted the lid. There, lying in a silk lined case was a sword engraved with writing that Willis took for Japanese.
End Fiction.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
08-29-2009
Start Fiction:
Willis just wanted to snap. He had always let things just roll off his back his whole life, but he was getting sick of being treated like a piece of dirt. Most people thought of Willis as pushover, others considered him too patient. Ether way, he was thinking more about his needs and ideas. Things needed to change.
Willis had worked at Ossia Foods for almost twenty years as a team leader. A hard worker, dedicated, Willis always went above and beyond. His team members took advantage of this, slacking off knowing he would step up and do their work. Willis knew this and had attributed it to laziness, however he now understood they were in fact taking advantage of him.
He decided to work a few experiments at work, mostly for entertainment, but mostly he knew he needed to change his approach and behavior to make others personally responsible for themselves and their work.
First, he was going to begin writing people up for being tardy, taking long breaks or for just standing around avoiding their work. It was a team effort, but not all the team members were on the same team. He was going to change all that, or so he thought.
End Fiction.
This is going no where in my head, a very rough day. I am abandoning it...
Willis just wanted to snap. He had always let things just roll off his back his whole life, but he was getting sick of being treated like a piece of dirt. Most people thought of Willis as pushover, others considered him too patient. Ether way, he was thinking more about his needs and ideas. Things needed to change.
Willis had worked at Ossia Foods for almost twenty years as a team leader. A hard worker, dedicated, Willis always went above and beyond. His team members took advantage of this, slacking off knowing he would step up and do their work. Willis knew this and had attributed it to laziness, however he now understood they were in fact taking advantage of him.
He decided to work a few experiments at work, mostly for entertainment, but mostly he knew he needed to change his approach and behavior to make others personally responsible for themselves and their work.
First, he was going to begin writing people up for being tardy, taking long breaks or for just standing around avoiding their work. It was a team effort, but not all the team members were on the same team. He was going to change all that, or so he thought.
End Fiction.
This is going no where in my head, a very rough day. I am abandoning it...
Friday, August 28, 2009
08-28-2009
Start Fiction:
The building smelled funny as Ken walked through the door of Forrester Enterprises, a huge manufacturer of detergents, soaps and 'natural' cleaners. Having never been in the building before, he imagined they did all kinds of research in the building and perhaps they were just having ventilation issues.
Standing in foyer, Ken was surprised that it was vacant. There wasn't anyone around, no voices. Walking to the receptionist's desk, his nose began to itch, burn a little. As he reached the desk, he saw a woman win a headset laying on the floor. Ken rushed around the desk to her side and checked her pulsed. It was there, but it was faint. Her respirations were shallow and inconsistent. She needed help and fast.
Ken pulled the headset of the woman and filled 9-1-1. As he talked to the dispatcher, his nose burned worse and he felt a little dizzy; he even noticed his speech slurring.
"Have you been drinking, sir?" the dispatcher asked.
"I'm here for an interview," Ken said, "I think there is a chemical leak; my nose... nausea... passing out." And with that, Ken did indeed pass out next to the woman.
Ken awoke with an awful headache, his sinus' were burning and he had a horrible taste in his mouth. His vision was extremely blurry, eyes itching, but he was pretty sure he was in a hospital. Ken tried to sit up, but for some reason, perhaps his own safety, he was strapped to the bed.
"Hello?" he called out, hoping someone was near. He heard sounds of someone walking near to him; high heels.
"How do you feel?" a calm, soft female voice asked Ken.
"Like hell," he said.
"I am sure you do."
"What happened? Is that woman alright?" he said.
"Get your rest," the woman said as she placed her hand on his chest. "We'll talk later." he heard the tap of her heels as she walked away.
"What happened?" Ken tried to call out, but his throat felt as though it was being torn apart when he tried to speak. He grabbed his throat and fought a swallow.
What the hell happened to me? he thought as he felt a needle stick in his arm, became immediately drowsy, then black. He was out once again.
Ken awoke once again and reached for his throat as he swallowed. It didn't hurt. His eyes itches only a little and his sinus' felt irritated, but not burning. He opened his eyes and could see better, well enough to see he was in some kind of hospital room with no windows.
"Where the hell am I?" he said aloud. He could speak with very little irritation.
I wonder how long I was out this time, Ken thought. He felt considerably better, it must have been a good stretch.
The lights buzzed, chirped a little; almost rhythmic, akin to Morse Code. Ken had never really paid attention to lights buzzing before, but the room was so quiet he didn't really have an option.
He wasn't strapped to the bed anymore, a sign he took that he was in fact doing as well as he felt. Ken decided to try and get out of bed and was surprised at the strength and stamina he had, considering.
Walking around the small room, Ken was surprised at how good he felt. He opened one door and found a bathroom; a closet with a toilet, a sink and mirror in reality, but a bathroom none-the-less.
Ken jumped as he caught his image in the mirror. He was bald, clean shaven. He felt his scalp; smooth, hardly any stubble. As he reached the back of his head, he felt a long scar. He knew he didn't have a scar before that day at Forrester.
Ken felt a slight panic as he didn't remember being in an accident that would cause head trauma. He didn't fall that far when he passed out. Ken wondered if that was why be was restrained the last time he awoke. Plausible, but still, it bothered him greatly.
Agitated, Ken walked out of the bathroom and sought an exit. He walked to the only other and grabbed the handle. To his surprise, it was locked. His stomach sank.
What kind of hospital locks patient's doors? Ken thought. A psych ward, that's who.
His first instinct was to yank on the door to get it open, or pound on the door and call for help. Ken gathered himself and wondered if doing either would arouse whoever is on the other side of the door and result in more sleep and more scars.
Ken walked backwards to the bed and sat down. He was in a situation and he needed to clear his head and stay calm.
Where the hell am I?
End Fiction.
The building smelled funny as Ken walked through the door of Forrester Enterprises, a huge manufacturer of detergents, soaps and 'natural' cleaners. Having never been in the building before, he imagined they did all kinds of research in the building and perhaps they were just having ventilation issues.
Standing in foyer, Ken was surprised that it was vacant. There wasn't anyone around, no voices. Walking to the receptionist's desk, his nose began to itch, burn a little. As he reached the desk, he saw a woman win a headset laying on the floor. Ken rushed around the desk to her side and checked her pulsed. It was there, but it was faint. Her respirations were shallow and inconsistent. She needed help and fast.
Ken pulled the headset of the woman and filled 9-1-1. As he talked to the dispatcher, his nose burned worse and he felt a little dizzy; he even noticed his speech slurring.
"Have you been drinking, sir?" the dispatcher asked.
"I'm here for an interview," Ken said, "I think there is a chemical leak; my nose... nausea... passing out." And with that, Ken did indeed pass out next to the woman.
Ken awoke with an awful headache, his sinus' were burning and he had a horrible taste in his mouth. His vision was extremely blurry, eyes itching, but he was pretty sure he was in a hospital. Ken tried to sit up, but for some reason, perhaps his own safety, he was strapped to the bed.
"Hello?" he called out, hoping someone was near. He heard sounds of someone walking near to him; high heels.
"How do you feel?" a calm, soft female voice asked Ken.
"Like hell," he said.
"I am sure you do."
"What happened? Is that woman alright?" he said.
"Get your rest," the woman said as she placed her hand on his chest. "We'll talk later." he heard the tap of her heels as she walked away.
"What happened?" Ken tried to call out, but his throat felt as though it was being torn apart when he tried to speak. He grabbed his throat and fought a swallow.
What the hell happened to me? he thought as he felt a needle stick in his arm, became immediately drowsy, then black. He was out once again.
Ken awoke once again and reached for his throat as he swallowed. It didn't hurt. His eyes itches only a little and his sinus' felt irritated, but not burning. He opened his eyes and could see better, well enough to see he was in some kind of hospital room with no windows.
"Where the hell am I?" he said aloud. He could speak with very little irritation.
I wonder how long I was out this time, Ken thought. He felt considerably better, it must have been a good stretch.
The lights buzzed, chirped a little; almost rhythmic, akin to Morse Code. Ken had never really paid attention to lights buzzing before, but the room was so quiet he didn't really have an option.
He wasn't strapped to the bed anymore, a sign he took that he was in fact doing as well as he felt. Ken decided to try and get out of bed and was surprised at the strength and stamina he had, considering.
Walking around the small room, Ken was surprised at how good he felt. He opened one door and found a bathroom; a closet with a toilet, a sink and mirror in reality, but a bathroom none-the-less.
Ken jumped as he caught his image in the mirror. He was bald, clean shaven. He felt his scalp; smooth, hardly any stubble. As he reached the back of his head, he felt a long scar. He knew he didn't have a scar before that day at Forrester.
Ken felt a slight panic as he didn't remember being in an accident that would cause head trauma. He didn't fall that far when he passed out. Ken wondered if that was why be was restrained the last time he awoke. Plausible, but still, it bothered him greatly.
Agitated, Ken walked out of the bathroom and sought an exit. He walked to the only other and grabbed the handle. To his surprise, it was locked. His stomach sank.
What kind of hospital locks patient's doors? Ken thought. A psych ward, that's who.
His first instinct was to yank on the door to get it open, or pound on the door and call for help. Ken gathered himself and wondered if doing either would arouse whoever is on the other side of the door and result in more sleep and more scars.
Ken walked backwards to the bed and sat down. He was in a situation and he needed to clear his head and stay calm.
Where the hell am I?
End Fiction.
08-27-2009
Continued from 08-26-2009...
Start Fiction:
Ginny walked away from the police cruisers that had gathered once again at the jewelry store. She had watched enough CSI and Forensic Files to know the police watch the crowds as offenders like to visit the scene among the chaos they have instilled.
She was too smart for that; but was her silhouetted fellow liberator? Ginny stopped at the corner and was torn. She had seen several mistakes he had made as a professional, but it was too risky for her, regardless how much she wanted to find the man again.
Dang.
She watched the events down the block for several minutes and her rational side got the best of her. Ginny sighed and turned the corner and as knocked down. She had literally ran into the man from the roof top.
"Miss,"'he said with a British accent, "I am so terribly sorry. " He held out his hands and helped Ginny to her feet. He was about six foot, slender build, soft hands. He was quite a handsome fellow; strong jaw line, piercing blue eyes, wavy brown hair. "Are you alright?"
Ginny gathered herself once in her feet. There was still apt going on in the neighborhood. It was not the time to lose her head anymore than she had already this evening.
"I am sorry," she said, "I have always been rather clumsy." She shook her head, tossing her hair a bit. Ginny gazed in to his eyes for a few seconds and then realized she was still holding his hands. "Sorry," she said letting go.
"Not at all. I wasn't even looking when I came round the corner," he said. "I can't say I have ever knocked down someone as charming as you."
Ah crap, she thought.
"Perhaps we will meet again," he said. "Are you from around here? Perhaps we may bump in to each other again." Ginny let out a girly laugh. She caught herself and focused as another police cruiser rolled around the corner.
"No, actually," she said, "I just dropped in on an old friend and don't get up here much these days." She tossed her hair again; she couldn't help it, it was completely involuntary.
"Too bad," he said. "Maybe we'll just have to accept where fate leads us."
"I suppose," she said. She wanted to know his name, to tell him hers; the compulsions were driving her mad. Her lack of self control around this person, this male, was causing her mental discomfort.
"Until then," he said as he tipped an imaginary hat and walked around the corner back towards all the action.
Until then.
End Fiction.
Start Fiction:
Ginny walked away from the police cruisers that had gathered once again at the jewelry store. She had watched enough CSI and Forensic Files to know the police watch the crowds as offenders like to visit the scene among the chaos they have instilled.
She was too smart for that; but was her silhouetted fellow liberator? Ginny stopped at the corner and was torn. She had seen several mistakes he had made as a professional, but it was too risky for her, regardless how much she wanted to find the man again.
Dang.
She watched the events down the block for several minutes and her rational side got the best of her. Ginny sighed and turned the corner and as knocked down. She had literally ran into the man from the roof top.
"Miss,"'he said with a British accent, "I am so terribly sorry. " He held out his hands and helped Ginny to her feet. He was about six foot, slender build, soft hands. He was quite a handsome fellow; strong jaw line, piercing blue eyes, wavy brown hair. "Are you alright?"
Ginny gathered herself once in her feet. There was still apt going on in the neighborhood. It was not the time to lose her head anymore than she had already this evening.
"I am sorry," she said, "I have always been rather clumsy." She shook her head, tossing her hair a bit. Ginny gazed in to his eyes for a few seconds and then realized she was still holding his hands. "Sorry," she said letting go.
"Not at all. I wasn't even looking when I came round the corner," he said. "I can't say I have ever knocked down someone as charming as you."
Ah crap, she thought.
"Perhaps we will meet again," he said. "Are you from around here? Perhaps we may bump in to each other again." Ginny let out a girly laugh. She caught herself and focused as another police cruiser rolled around the corner.
"No, actually," she said, "I just dropped in on an old friend and don't get up here much these days." She tossed her hair again; she couldn't help it, it was completely involuntary.
"Too bad," he said. "Maybe we'll just have to accept where fate leads us."
"I suppose," she said. She wanted to know his name, to tell him hers; the compulsions were driving her mad. Her lack of self control around this person, this male, was causing her mental discomfort.
"Until then," he said as he tipped an imaginary hat and walked around the corner back towards all the action.
Until then.
End Fiction.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
08-26-2009
Continued from 08-25-2009...
Start Fiction:
Ginny was happy she had spent years mediating and practicing yoga. In such a cramped space she was able to find a somewhat comfortable position and get over her acute claustrophobia.
As she sat, Ginny made good use of the time meditating as it was a surprisingly quiet environment. The hum of the air system made for perfect white noise. The police had not stayed long, perhaps ten minutes with the owner to take an inventory of anything missing.
Poor bastard, Ginny thought. She never usually felt bad for the people she liberated items from, but his guy was getting a double whammy all at the expense of her entertainment of fucking with the police.
After a solid hour meditating in the ceiling of the building, Ginny began to refocus and accomplish her liberation objective. She began to move back to her location where she watched the amateurs make mistake after mistake. The fact that she was still in the building made her wonder if she herself was not making a very big mistake.
It will be an adventure, she assured herself. She lifted the ceiling tile in slow motion. She felt confident no one was in the building, however, she wanted to be extra cautious heading in to the store below.
Her goggles put her uncertainty to rest as she determined there no one around. Ginny fastened her rope to the beam and began to lower herself down. She had planned for the other motion detectors, accounting for her two minute window. Although she couldn't rely on the police response the from the bungling burglars earlier, she wanted to take no chances.
Ginny dangled above her object of liberation. She reached in her pocket and pulled out her customized glass cutter; she was very handy. As she cut carefully as to not shatter the counter, she stopped. Something was moving. She looked around and couldn't see anything at first. Then, from the other end of the store she watched a figure drop from the ceiling as she had. From what she could gather, it was a male.
Interesting, Ginny thought. She held her position and watched the man work. He didn't have goggles as she did, but he moved through the darkness with ease and efficiency. Definitely not an amateur.
He finished his liberation and began back up to the ceiling, pulling himself up by hand. Ginny quickly grabbed her object and pressed a button, letting a mechanical pulley lift her steadily to the ceiling.
As she replaced the ceiling tile, she hesitated. She wanted to follow the man and learn a bit more about him; where he came from and more importantly, who he was. She quickly dumped the idea and returned on her planned route and was out of the building in two minutes, thirty-one seconds.
Although she was not happy, she let her frustration go as she saw the man moving in her direction along the roof. He was closer to the rear edge, Ginny squatted in her position in the center of the roof. Perhaps she would get her chance to figure out more about his guy.
He moved smooth, calm. While she didn't care for his nearness to the edge, she liked what she saw. He was fairly polished in his skills, a definite professional who goes for quality, not quantity. But what concerned her was he hadn't noticed her; not dangling from the ceiling or now on the roof.
They both moved to the north, several buildings up the street. The man began to make his way down the fire escape, but Ginny opened the roof access door and made her way down the stairwell.
Still a few things to learn, I see, Ginny thought. She hurried down the stairs to catch up with the man, but when she got outside he was gone; only sirens headed down the street.
Dang, she thought as she looked up and down the street.
End Fiction.
Start Fiction:
Ginny was happy she had spent years mediating and practicing yoga. In such a cramped space she was able to find a somewhat comfortable position and get over her acute claustrophobia.
As she sat, Ginny made good use of the time meditating as it was a surprisingly quiet environment. The hum of the air system made for perfect white noise. The police had not stayed long, perhaps ten minutes with the owner to take an inventory of anything missing.
Poor bastard, Ginny thought. She never usually felt bad for the people she liberated items from, but his guy was getting a double whammy all at the expense of her entertainment of fucking with the police.
After a solid hour meditating in the ceiling of the building, Ginny began to refocus and accomplish her liberation objective. She began to move back to her location where she watched the amateurs make mistake after mistake. The fact that she was still in the building made her wonder if she herself was not making a very big mistake.
It will be an adventure, she assured herself. She lifted the ceiling tile in slow motion. She felt confident no one was in the building, however, she wanted to be extra cautious heading in to the store below.
Her goggles put her uncertainty to rest as she determined there no one around. Ginny fastened her rope to the beam and began to lower herself down. She had planned for the other motion detectors, accounting for her two minute window. Although she couldn't rely on the police response the from the bungling burglars earlier, she wanted to take no chances.
Ginny dangled above her object of liberation. She reached in her pocket and pulled out her customized glass cutter; she was very handy. As she cut carefully as to not shatter the counter, she stopped. Something was moving. She looked around and couldn't see anything at first. Then, from the other end of the store she watched a figure drop from the ceiling as she had. From what she could gather, it was a male.
Interesting, Ginny thought. She held her position and watched the man work. He didn't have goggles as she did, but he moved through the darkness with ease and efficiency. Definitely not an amateur.
He finished his liberation and began back up to the ceiling, pulling himself up by hand. Ginny quickly grabbed her object and pressed a button, letting a mechanical pulley lift her steadily to the ceiling.
As she replaced the ceiling tile, she hesitated. She wanted to follow the man and learn a bit more about him; where he came from and more importantly, who he was. She quickly dumped the idea and returned on her planned route and was out of the building in two minutes, thirty-one seconds.
Although she was not happy, she let her frustration go as she saw the man moving in her direction along the roof. He was closer to the rear edge, Ginny squatted in her position in the center of the roof. Perhaps she would get her chance to figure out more about his guy.
He moved smooth, calm. While she didn't care for his nearness to the edge, she liked what she saw. He was fairly polished in his skills, a definite professional who goes for quality, not quantity. But what concerned her was he hadn't noticed her; not dangling from the ceiling or now on the roof.
They both moved to the north, several buildings up the street. The man began to make his way down the fire escape, but Ginny opened the roof access door and made her way down the stairwell.
Still a few things to learn, I see, Ginny thought. She hurried down the stairs to catch up with the man, but when she got outside he was gone; only sirens headed down the street.
Dang, she thought as she looked up and down the street.
End Fiction.
08-25-2009
Start Fiction:
Amateurs, Ginny thought.
Looking down through the ceiling tile she had removed, Ginny watched the two men entering the building through the window through her night vision goggles. They were somewhat clumsy, making a lot more noise than they realized.
She decided to watch these fools in action as she hadn't had a good laugh in a while and this was gearing up for a lot entertainment. Ginny decided to spend her two minutes seeing what these guys had to offer, if anything. She wished she had some popcorn for the show.
The men remained still squatted on the floor under the window, apparently gathering their bearings. Ginny saw the first man in pointing in various directions. Not a well planned out job by any means, things were getting sloppier by the second.
Then came their first major mistake: head lamps. No lights of any kind as people can see the lights! Not even an under qualified amateur should make that mistake. These guys were potentially dangerous and were going to bring the five-o sooner than made Ginny comfortable and decided to get out while she had the opportunity.
She slid the ceiling tile back into place and made her way towards the furnace room to get back out of the building the way she came in to the building. Upon reaching the room, she heard sirens approaching.
Damn amateurs, Ginny thought. A new plan needed to be developed and quick. She knew she didn't have time to get out of the ventilation system, but staying in the building didn't seem like a good idea either. She held her position in the ceiling; she was comfortable, no need to hurry.
Ginny heard the men talking, exchanging harsh words and she heard things falling and breaking. The men were trying to get out and were not doing a very good job. The sirens stopped. Everything became very quiet, the men had become still, probably trying to hide in the store. Morons.
"Freeze," a man shouted. The police were in the building.
Shit, Ginny thought. He plan now consisted of waiting out the police and hoping they didn't bring a K-9 unit. Even then, she felt pretty safe twelve feet above the floor, tucked in a concrete cross beam.
Please don't start shooting, she thought. Something was happening to Ginny, something new. She needed to get out of the building because the enclosed space was strangely getting to her. Her heart rate increased, her throat tightened slightly and her face grew warm. Ginny tried to calm herself by taking several deep breaths.
The voices multiplied and she found herself able to focus on that, calming her a little. The two men were not speaking English which of course made he officers he'll louder. Ginny estimated about a dozen officers inside the building; none of them were barking.
She needed to get out, but then again Ginny thought about how cool would it be to rob a store that someone else was busted for robbing? She also liked the idea of totally messing with the police.
End Fiction.
Amateurs, Ginny thought.
Looking down through the ceiling tile she had removed, Ginny watched the two men entering the building through the window through her night vision goggles. They were somewhat clumsy, making a lot more noise than they realized.
She decided to watch these fools in action as she hadn't had a good laugh in a while and this was gearing up for a lot entertainment. Ginny decided to spend her two minutes seeing what these guys had to offer, if anything. She wished she had some popcorn for the show.
The men remained still squatted on the floor under the window, apparently gathering their bearings. Ginny saw the first man in pointing in various directions. Not a well planned out job by any means, things were getting sloppier by the second.
Then came their first major mistake: head lamps. No lights of any kind as people can see the lights! Not even an under qualified amateur should make that mistake. These guys were potentially dangerous and were going to bring the five-o sooner than made Ginny comfortable and decided to get out while she had the opportunity.
She slid the ceiling tile back into place and made her way towards the furnace room to get back out of the building the way she came in to the building. Upon reaching the room, she heard sirens approaching.
Damn amateurs, Ginny thought. A new plan needed to be developed and quick. She knew she didn't have time to get out of the ventilation system, but staying in the building didn't seem like a good idea either. She held her position in the ceiling; she was comfortable, no need to hurry.
Ginny heard the men talking, exchanging harsh words and she heard things falling and breaking. The men were trying to get out and were not doing a very good job. The sirens stopped. Everything became very quiet, the men had become still, probably trying to hide in the store. Morons.
"Freeze," a man shouted. The police were in the building.
Shit, Ginny thought. He plan now consisted of waiting out the police and hoping they didn't bring a K-9 unit. Even then, she felt pretty safe twelve feet above the floor, tucked in a concrete cross beam.
Please don't start shooting, she thought. Something was happening to Ginny, something new. She needed to get out of the building because the enclosed space was strangely getting to her. Her heart rate increased, her throat tightened slightly and her face grew warm. Ginny tried to calm herself by taking several deep breaths.
The voices multiplied and she found herself able to focus on that, calming her a little. The two men were not speaking English which of course made he officers he'll louder. Ginny estimated about a dozen officers inside the building; none of them were barking.
She needed to get out, but then again Ginny thought about how cool would it be to rob a store that someone else was busted for robbing? She also liked the idea of totally messing with the police.
End Fiction.
08-24-2009
Start Fiction:
Roger stepped back as the hooded man approaching him pulled a long dagger from his sleeve. The alley was lit from both ends, poorly; the gentle rain was creating a cinematic glare that only Roger would stop to appreciate.
"I got no beef with you," the man said as he approached Roger's position. His voice was raspy, his face obscured by the shadow from his hoody. He walked past without losing his pace. Roger held a defensive posture, just in case. He didn't want to get involved, those days were over.
He watched the man with the dagger as he walked down the alley and kicked in a door and was met with flickering lights. He moved into the doorway and the door shut. Roger decided to move on and get away from what ever was going to happen.
Reaching the edge of the alley, he heard the screams begin to fill the alley. He looked back and saw people scurrying out of the doorway, panicked and running into each other, knocking others down.
"Holy shit," Roger said. He fought the urge to run back down the alley and help. He took a step down the alley, but quickly changed his mind when he heard a series of pops and bodies began falling. He jumped around the corner, facing the street. Screaming people began to make their way out of the alley, frantic and running out in to the street, jumping behind cars and falling to the ground crying. It was chaos.
As the herd began to thin, Roger saw the Dagger run in a steady pace out of the alley and head south on the sidewalk. He began to move in the Dagger's direction when he saw flashing lights already coming on scene.
Roger changed his mind and approached a cop car, pointing down the street yelling "white male, five foot eleven, black jeans, black South Pole sweat shirt, shaved head!"
The officer in the car told him to get in; only in a smaller town. Roger jumped in the passenger's seat and the officer slammed the accelerator.
"This guy pulled a dagger out on me before he entered the building and then all hell broke lose," Roger said as his adrenaline kicked in to over time, "he may have a gun, I heard shots."
"Roger that," the officer said. He grabbed his CB and informed dispatch of his pursuit.
He was a younger officer, Roger assumed no more than five years on the force. He was focused, calm and in control. He looked familiar, but couldn't place him. Maybe it was the uniform.
"There!" Roger shouted. The Dagger was now walking down the street, just three blocks from the chaos. The officer radioed dispatch and pointed his light on the man.
"Please remain where you are," the officer said over the cruiser's P.A. system. The Dagger turned, raised his arms and smiled.
"Is this windshield bullet proof?" Roger asked.
"No," the officer said as he opened his door, drawing his weapon.
This is not good, Roger thought. He sunk down in his seat, but not far enough where he couldn't see what was going to happen.
As soon as the officer as standing outside the cruiser The Dagger dropped his arms and pulled out his weapon, an Uzi, opening fire, tearing in to the cruiser and the officer.
Roger dove on the floor, grabbed the CB mic and called for help.
"Officer down!" he screamed into the mic.
As he laid there, he saw a rifle under the seat. He grabbed it and waited for the shots to stop. He heard The Dagger laugh and let out a scream.
Roger crawled across the seat and got out of the driver's door. The officer was down, but alive. Roger pulled him to better cover behind the car and set up his position. He surveyed the sidewalk and quickly located The Dagger half a block away, walking, swaggering, weapon still drawn.
Roger set up, took aim. It had been a long time he had shot a naked gun, but it was like riding a bike. He waited until the sidewalk was almost completely still and shouted at The Dagger. He turn with gun in hand and Roger squeezed the trigger. The Dagger dropped to the ground.
Screams rang out, sirens closed in on the area. Roger turned his attention to the officer. He was breathing on his own. It looked like he had taken a few rounds, one in the right shoulder and two in the left arm. The officer was bleeding pretty good, a slight pool was developing under him.
"Medics are on their way, sir," Roger said as he slid his belt of and began fastening a tourniquet around his arm. "Just hang in there."
"Who are you?" the officer said. "Where'd you learn to shoot like that?" Roger worked on the tourniquet, not looking the officer in the eyes.
"I am no one who learn to shoot somewhere I would like to forget," he said. "Trust me, you're better off not knowing."
Roger stood up and put the rifle back under the seat of the cruiser. He looked over the crowd, people were wide eyed and frightened.
I guess those days are not over for me, Roger thought.
End Fiction.
Roger stepped back as the hooded man approaching him pulled a long dagger from his sleeve. The alley was lit from both ends, poorly; the gentle rain was creating a cinematic glare that only Roger would stop to appreciate.
"I got no beef with you," the man said as he approached Roger's position. His voice was raspy, his face obscured by the shadow from his hoody. He walked past without losing his pace. Roger held a defensive posture, just in case. He didn't want to get involved, those days were over.
He watched the man with the dagger as he walked down the alley and kicked in a door and was met with flickering lights. He moved into the doorway and the door shut. Roger decided to move on and get away from what ever was going to happen.
Reaching the edge of the alley, he heard the screams begin to fill the alley. He looked back and saw people scurrying out of the doorway, panicked and running into each other, knocking others down.
"Holy shit," Roger said. He fought the urge to run back down the alley and help. He took a step down the alley, but quickly changed his mind when he heard a series of pops and bodies began falling. He jumped around the corner, facing the street. Screaming people began to make their way out of the alley, frantic and running out in to the street, jumping behind cars and falling to the ground crying. It was chaos.
As the herd began to thin, Roger saw the Dagger run in a steady pace out of the alley and head south on the sidewalk. He began to move in the Dagger's direction when he saw flashing lights already coming on scene.
Roger changed his mind and approached a cop car, pointing down the street yelling "white male, five foot eleven, black jeans, black South Pole sweat shirt, shaved head!"
The officer in the car told him to get in; only in a smaller town. Roger jumped in the passenger's seat and the officer slammed the accelerator.
"This guy pulled a dagger out on me before he entered the building and then all hell broke lose," Roger said as his adrenaline kicked in to over time, "he may have a gun, I heard shots."
"Roger that," the officer said. He grabbed his CB and informed dispatch of his pursuit.
He was a younger officer, Roger assumed no more than five years on the force. He was focused, calm and in control. He looked familiar, but couldn't place him. Maybe it was the uniform.
"There!" Roger shouted. The Dagger was now walking down the street, just three blocks from the chaos. The officer radioed dispatch and pointed his light on the man.
"Please remain where you are," the officer said over the cruiser's P.A. system. The Dagger turned, raised his arms and smiled.
"Is this windshield bullet proof?" Roger asked.
"No," the officer said as he opened his door, drawing his weapon.
This is not good, Roger thought. He sunk down in his seat, but not far enough where he couldn't see what was going to happen.
As soon as the officer as standing outside the cruiser The Dagger dropped his arms and pulled out his weapon, an Uzi, opening fire, tearing in to the cruiser and the officer.
Roger dove on the floor, grabbed the CB mic and called for help.
"Officer down!" he screamed into the mic.
As he laid there, he saw a rifle under the seat. He grabbed it and waited for the shots to stop. He heard The Dagger laugh and let out a scream.
Roger crawled across the seat and got out of the driver's door. The officer was down, but alive. Roger pulled him to better cover behind the car and set up his position. He surveyed the sidewalk and quickly located The Dagger half a block away, walking, swaggering, weapon still drawn.
Roger set up, took aim. It had been a long time he had shot a naked gun, but it was like riding a bike. He waited until the sidewalk was almost completely still and shouted at The Dagger. He turn with gun in hand and Roger squeezed the trigger. The Dagger dropped to the ground.
Screams rang out, sirens closed in on the area. Roger turned his attention to the officer. He was breathing on his own. It looked like he had taken a few rounds, one in the right shoulder and two in the left arm. The officer was bleeding pretty good, a slight pool was developing under him.
"Medics are on their way, sir," Roger said as he slid his belt of and began fastening a tourniquet around his arm. "Just hang in there."
"Who are you?" the officer said. "Where'd you learn to shoot like that?" Roger worked on the tourniquet, not looking the officer in the eyes.
"I am no one who learn to shoot somewhere I would like to forget," he said. "Trust me, you're better off not knowing."
Roger stood up and put the rifle back under the seat of the cruiser. He looked over the crowd, people were wide eyed and frightened.
I guess those days are not over for me, Roger thought.
End Fiction.
08-23-2009
Start Fiction:
"Was Orwell prophetic or did he create a self-fulfilling prophecy?" Melinda asked as she snapped Dan's iPhone out of his hands.
"What the hell are you talking about?" he said as he reached after the phone.
"What is it about this thing that you can't even put it down for five minutes?" she said as she fought to keep it away from Dan. "Is it by choice or have you lost the choice?"
"Again, what the hell are you talking about?" Dan said as he snapped his phone from her hand. He shoved it in his pocket and moved to the recliner. "It's not like I am just playing video games all day or something."
"No, but you pay more attention to that damn thing than me," Melinda snapped as she threw a pillow at him. The pillow missed it's mark and knocked a lamp off the end table. Dan laughed, reclined the chair, crossed his feet and put his hands behind his head.
Melinda sat forward on the couch, rubbing her face. She took a deep breath and slapped her thighs. "Doesn't it make you wonder about all these electronics in our lives, how 'important' they are to everyday life?" she stood up and walked to the entertainment center. "I mean, look, all this stuff to entertain us, keep up occupied and fill our heads with images and ideas."
"Your point?" Dan said still reclined in his chair.
"Haven't you ever wondered where some of your most basic beliefs truly come from?" Melinda asked. She wasn't joking around, messing with Dan. There was a hint of fear in her voice, concern.
Maybe she wasn't worked up about Dan at all, but rather about her beliefs and values were rooted. She didn't know. Everything seemed out of control, pointless, meaningless, yet everything seemed so clear, meaningful, and made sense all at the same time.
"You want to tell me what's going on with you?" Dan said as he sat up in his chair. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. His demeanor had changed; he wasn't laughing anymore.
Melinda sat back down on the couch and leaned back rubbing her head. She sighed.
"Haven't you ever wondered why we are the way we are? Why things are the way they are? The way society is? The way people are?" she said in a quiet voice.
"I have read Nineteen Eighty-Four, but it never made me question existence so much," Dan said, somewhat talking to himself, somewhat to Melinda. "I guess it does all seem silly most of the time, but to some extent entertaining a lot of the time."
"Of course you would find it entertaining," she said, "but haven't you ever wondered if you have actually made any choices in your life that weren't really choices? Like you were patronized, feed a lone of crap making you think you were free, had choices?"
"I believe this is one of those moments," Dan said. Melinda shot him a look; her brow furrowed, her nostrils flared and her lips pursed. She stood up and threw her hands in to the air and headed down the hallway.
Dan stayed seated. There was no point in going after her, trying to console her when she falls in to a deep philosophical mood. The moods were getting closer and closer. Dan decided it was time to either get her some help, or actually try to understand what she is talking about, the complex issues she bears as her demons.
He shut off the television and sat in silence. He heard nothing coming from the bedroom. Melinda was most likely laying in the center of the bed, watching the ceiling fan spin. He listened to the clock tick, the hum of the ceiling fan and the slight rasp coming from his own breath.
Maybe she was on to something, something he wasn't paying attention to or didn't want to acknowledge. Dan didn't feel empty or lost, guided or a conformist, a sheep. He always went with the flow, knowing you can't always have everything you want or to have things work our then way you wish.
Life wasn't fair, but you had to make the most of it and enjoy what you did have, the fact that you got to make any choices at all and just the fact that you were living in an amazing time in human history.
Maybe she is just nuts, Dan thought. but maybe her nuts is more sane than any of us will ever experience.
"Orwell created a self-fulfilling prophecy," Dan said out loud.
End Fiction.
"Was Orwell prophetic or did he create a self-fulfilling prophecy?" Melinda asked as she snapped Dan's iPhone out of his hands.
"What the hell are you talking about?" he said as he reached after the phone.
"What is it about this thing that you can't even put it down for five minutes?" she said as she fought to keep it away from Dan. "Is it by choice or have you lost the choice?"
"Again, what the hell are you talking about?" Dan said as he snapped his phone from her hand. He shoved it in his pocket and moved to the recliner. "It's not like I am just playing video games all day or something."
"No, but you pay more attention to that damn thing than me," Melinda snapped as she threw a pillow at him. The pillow missed it's mark and knocked a lamp off the end table. Dan laughed, reclined the chair, crossed his feet and put his hands behind his head.
Melinda sat forward on the couch, rubbing her face. She took a deep breath and slapped her thighs. "Doesn't it make you wonder about all these electronics in our lives, how 'important' they are to everyday life?" she stood up and walked to the entertainment center. "I mean, look, all this stuff to entertain us, keep up occupied and fill our heads with images and ideas."
"Your point?" Dan said still reclined in his chair.
"Haven't you ever wondered where some of your most basic beliefs truly come from?" Melinda asked. She wasn't joking around, messing with Dan. There was a hint of fear in her voice, concern.
Maybe she wasn't worked up about Dan at all, but rather about her beliefs and values were rooted. She didn't know. Everything seemed out of control, pointless, meaningless, yet everything seemed so clear, meaningful, and made sense all at the same time.
"You want to tell me what's going on with you?" Dan said as he sat up in his chair. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. His demeanor had changed; he wasn't laughing anymore.
Melinda sat back down on the couch and leaned back rubbing her head. She sighed.
"Haven't you ever wondered why we are the way we are? Why things are the way they are? The way society is? The way people are?" she said in a quiet voice.
"I have read Nineteen Eighty-Four, but it never made me question existence so much," Dan said, somewhat talking to himself, somewhat to Melinda. "I guess it does all seem silly most of the time, but to some extent entertaining a lot of the time."
"Of course you would find it entertaining," she said, "but haven't you ever wondered if you have actually made any choices in your life that weren't really choices? Like you were patronized, feed a lone of crap making you think you were free, had choices?"
"I believe this is one of those moments," Dan said. Melinda shot him a look; her brow furrowed, her nostrils flared and her lips pursed. She stood up and threw her hands in to the air and headed down the hallway.
Dan stayed seated. There was no point in going after her, trying to console her when she falls in to a deep philosophical mood. The moods were getting closer and closer. Dan decided it was time to either get her some help, or actually try to understand what she is talking about, the complex issues she bears as her demons.
He shut off the television and sat in silence. He heard nothing coming from the bedroom. Melinda was most likely laying in the center of the bed, watching the ceiling fan spin. He listened to the clock tick, the hum of the ceiling fan and the slight rasp coming from his own breath.
Maybe she was on to something, something he wasn't paying attention to or didn't want to acknowledge. Dan didn't feel empty or lost, guided or a conformist, a sheep. He always went with the flow, knowing you can't always have everything you want or to have things work our then way you wish.
Life wasn't fair, but you had to make the most of it and enjoy what you did have, the fact that you got to make any choices at all and just the fact that you were living in an amazing time in human history.
Maybe she is just nuts, Dan thought. but maybe her nuts is more sane than any of us will ever experience.
"Orwell created a self-fulfilling prophecy," Dan said out loud.
End Fiction.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
08-22-2009
Blah...
Start Fiction:
The wind blew hard, causing the house to creak in ways Bert had never heard before and it made him very nervous. There wasn't much of a warning. They sky had been clear the hour before and the news hadn't plastered radar all over the screen. It seemed to come out of no where, and no one was responding to the severe weather threat.
Tyrell laid on the floor sleeping. It was not unusual for such a lazy dog, but with the severe weather Bert wondered if his dog was seriously impaired. Most animals responded in some manner, be it acting up or trying to escape impending danger. But not Tyrell.
Bert grabbed his cell phone, launched his camcorder and headed for the living room window. He started recording the dark, swirling clouds and noticed the absence of lightening or rain. It was just extremely windy.
Bert moved to the patio door and decided try to step outside. He grabbed the door handle tightly, expecting the door to either blow open or be almost impossible to pull open. It was neither. The door opened with out a problem, as though it were a calm spring day.
"What the," Bert said. The air felt cool, dry. There was a slight draft, air flowing out of his house. Tyrell was still sleeping.
Bert stepped out and looked up immediately. Hanging in the sky directly above his house was a spinning triangle with a smooth black surface reflecting the neighborhood. There were no lights, no discernible cracks or lines in the surface of the object. A pulsating reverb emanating, tickling Bert's eardrums.
"Onyx," Bert said, "a floating triangle of black onyx. Now that's not something you see everyday." In slow motion he lifted his phone and kept recording. As he extended his arm, he looked through the screen on the phone and saw that it was recording only clear blue sky.
"What the hell?" Bert said. He looked around his neighborhood and saw several neighbors mowing their lawns, another trimming the hedges. Several kids rode by on their bikes. No one else was looking at the sky; no one else seemed phased by the object Bert saw hanging in the sky.
"I have completely lost it," Bert said as he dropped the phone to his hip and looked back up to the sky. The object was still there; the sound was still emanating, tickling his ears; Tyrell was still sleeping on the kitchen floor. "Seriously?"
Bert moved to a reclining patio chair, watching the object spinning above his house. He laid in the chair for over an hour. The object was incredible, gorgeous. He wished others could see it, enjoy it as he did.
Bert began to doze off, the reverb vibrating his chair was soothing. As he closed his eyes, the sound changed. Bert grabbed his ears; the reverb emanating from the object changed pitch, got louder. Tyrell jumped up, whining as he came out on to the patio, walking in circles, bobbing his head up and down.
Bert got out of his seat holding his ears as he realized the object was now shimmering, colors resonated off the surface.
"Awesome," he said.
The lawn mowers stopped, a commotion insured; screams and cries filled the neighborhood. Others could see it now, he wasn't crazy. He raised his phone and saw that it was now able to see the object.
"What took so long," he said, "Why could I see it so much longer?" Tyrell barked and ran back inside the house. Bert laughed.
It was a good day. Pending possible vaporization by the alien object.
End Fiction.
Start Fiction:
The wind blew hard, causing the house to creak in ways Bert had never heard before and it made him very nervous. There wasn't much of a warning. They sky had been clear the hour before and the news hadn't plastered radar all over the screen. It seemed to come out of no where, and no one was responding to the severe weather threat.
Tyrell laid on the floor sleeping. It was not unusual for such a lazy dog, but with the severe weather Bert wondered if his dog was seriously impaired. Most animals responded in some manner, be it acting up or trying to escape impending danger. But not Tyrell.
Bert grabbed his cell phone, launched his camcorder and headed for the living room window. He started recording the dark, swirling clouds and noticed the absence of lightening or rain. It was just extremely windy.
Bert moved to the patio door and decided try to step outside. He grabbed the door handle tightly, expecting the door to either blow open or be almost impossible to pull open. It was neither. The door opened with out a problem, as though it were a calm spring day.
"What the," Bert said. The air felt cool, dry. There was a slight draft, air flowing out of his house. Tyrell was still sleeping.
Bert stepped out and looked up immediately. Hanging in the sky directly above his house was a spinning triangle with a smooth black surface reflecting the neighborhood. There were no lights, no discernible cracks or lines in the surface of the object. A pulsating reverb emanating, tickling Bert's eardrums.
"Onyx," Bert said, "a floating triangle of black onyx. Now that's not something you see everyday." In slow motion he lifted his phone and kept recording. As he extended his arm, he looked through the screen on the phone and saw that it was recording only clear blue sky.
"What the hell?" Bert said. He looked around his neighborhood and saw several neighbors mowing their lawns, another trimming the hedges. Several kids rode by on their bikes. No one else was looking at the sky; no one else seemed phased by the object Bert saw hanging in the sky.
"I have completely lost it," Bert said as he dropped the phone to his hip and looked back up to the sky. The object was still there; the sound was still emanating, tickling his ears; Tyrell was still sleeping on the kitchen floor. "Seriously?"
Bert moved to a reclining patio chair, watching the object spinning above his house. He laid in the chair for over an hour. The object was incredible, gorgeous. He wished others could see it, enjoy it as he did.
Bert began to doze off, the reverb vibrating his chair was soothing. As he closed his eyes, the sound changed. Bert grabbed his ears; the reverb emanating from the object changed pitch, got louder. Tyrell jumped up, whining as he came out on to the patio, walking in circles, bobbing his head up and down.
Bert got out of his seat holding his ears as he realized the object was now shimmering, colors resonated off the surface.
"Awesome," he said.
The lawn mowers stopped, a commotion insured; screams and cries filled the neighborhood. Others could see it now, he wasn't crazy. He raised his phone and saw that it was now able to see the object.
"What took so long," he said, "Why could I see it so much longer?" Tyrell barked and ran back inside the house. Bert laughed.
It was a good day. Pending possible vaporization by the alien object.
End Fiction.
08-21-2009
Continued from 08-20-2009...
Start Fiction:
Alan sat at his dining room table looking out his patio door where Rufus was sitting, watching Gary's house. As evening settled in, Alan let his house go dark, wondering if he had been missing something happening at his neighbor's house.
With the patio door open and the screen door closed, Alan listened as the night critters began singing their songs. The cooler evening air creeped across the dining room floor, nipping at Alan's toes. Rufus stood stoic, unwavering in his attention.
Night had arrived and there was very little lit in his backyard. The street lights were blocked by the large oak trees filling both front and back yards throughout the neighborhood. The residual light pollution filled the sky, casting a thin veil of light over the connected back yards.
Alan looked at his stove and saw that it was almost midnight. He had been sitting in his chair for five hours.
Maybe I am as crazy as my dog, Alan thought. He got up and stood next to Rufus. Looking at the house, he decided it was time to go to bed and put his hand on the sliding glass door. As he began to slide the door, Alan saw a light turn on in Gary's basement.
"Interesting," Alan said as he took his hand off the door. Rufus adjusted himself, scooting over just slightly. Alan looked down at him and watched his ears twitch, and that's when he heard it, too; clank, clank. It reminded Alan of the sounds when he tore out a chimney on a remodel earlier that year.
"What the hell?" Alan said. Rufus whimpered. He decided to take a closer look himself, to see if he can figure out what the hell his reclusive neighbor was up to in the middle of the night.
"Stay here," he told Rufus. He slowly slid the screen door open; just enough to get through. Closing the screen door, he walked through his yard squatting, in a guarded position. Stepping sideways, he felt he had actually learn something from his Tae Kwon Do lessons ten years ago. However, perhaps he should have studied the way of the Ninja instead.
Alan reached the fence and stopped. From behind him he could hear Rufus whimper; from in front of him the clanging in continued, but he now heard what sounded like a female crying.
The clanging stopped. A few seconds later, so did the crying. The clanging resumed.
Shit, Alan thought. There was something potentially really bad happening in that basement.
Could he call the police?
Would they listen?
Would they do anything?
Could they do anything?
What would he even say?
Alan went back to his house, walked up to the patio door and found Rufus on his hind legs pushing against the screen, whimpering quite a bit louder now.
"Down," Alan said. He opened the door and pushed Rufus back inside, and closed the sliding glass door to keep him in the house. He grabbed the phone and tried to decide if he should call 9-1-1, or the non-emergency line.
Rufus clawed at the glass door, whimpering loud. 9-1-1 it was.
"9-1-1 operator,"'a female voice said.
End Fiction.
Start Fiction:
Alan sat at his dining room table looking out his patio door where Rufus was sitting, watching Gary's house. As evening settled in, Alan let his house go dark, wondering if he had been missing something happening at his neighbor's house.
With the patio door open and the screen door closed, Alan listened as the night critters began singing their songs. The cooler evening air creeped across the dining room floor, nipping at Alan's toes. Rufus stood stoic, unwavering in his attention.
Night had arrived and there was very little lit in his backyard. The street lights were blocked by the large oak trees filling both front and back yards throughout the neighborhood. The residual light pollution filled the sky, casting a thin veil of light over the connected back yards.
Alan looked at his stove and saw that it was almost midnight. He had been sitting in his chair for five hours.
Maybe I am as crazy as my dog, Alan thought. He got up and stood next to Rufus. Looking at the house, he decided it was time to go to bed and put his hand on the sliding glass door. As he began to slide the door, Alan saw a light turn on in Gary's basement.
"Interesting," Alan said as he took his hand off the door. Rufus adjusted himself, scooting over just slightly. Alan looked down at him and watched his ears twitch, and that's when he heard it, too; clank, clank. It reminded Alan of the sounds when he tore out a chimney on a remodel earlier that year.
"What the hell?" Alan said. Rufus whimpered. He decided to take a closer look himself, to see if he can figure out what the hell his reclusive neighbor was up to in the middle of the night.
"Stay here," he told Rufus. He slowly slid the screen door open; just enough to get through. Closing the screen door, he walked through his yard squatting, in a guarded position. Stepping sideways, he felt he had actually learn something from his Tae Kwon Do lessons ten years ago. However, perhaps he should have studied the way of the Ninja instead.
Alan reached the fence and stopped. From behind him he could hear Rufus whimper; from in front of him the clanging in continued, but he now heard what sounded like a female crying.
The clanging stopped. A few seconds later, so did the crying. The clanging resumed.
Shit, Alan thought. There was something potentially really bad happening in that basement.
Could he call the police?
Would they listen?
Would they do anything?
Could they do anything?
What would he even say?
Alan went back to his house, walked up to the patio door and found Rufus on his hind legs pushing against the screen, whimpering quite a bit louder now.
"Down," Alan said. He opened the door and pushed Rufus back inside, and closed the sliding glass door to keep him in the house. He grabbed the phone and tried to decide if he should call 9-1-1, or the non-emergency line.
Rufus clawed at the glass door, whimpering loud. 9-1-1 it was.
"9-1-1 operator,"'a female voice said.
End Fiction.
Friday, August 21, 2009
08-20-2009
Start Fiction:
Alan wasn't sure what to do with his dog Rufus. He had been getting out of the yard more frequently and always ended up at the neighbor's house, digging around the foundation. It was the strangest thing.
Not only was Alan annoyed, his neighbor, Gary, was becoming more and more agitated as well. All the house in the neighborhood were at least one hundred years old. Foundations weren't built out of concrete, like modern houses, but brick and mortar, sometimes less. A dog digging holes around such a foundation, leaving holes was asking for more water in an already damp basement. And no one wanted to clean up mold and mildew, Gary made that very clear.
Rufus was a three year old Golden Retriever, full blooded. Normally a obeying companion, lately he acted like a pup; short attention span, no obeying orders and the digging.
Gary had moved in next door over a year ago so Rufus had grown used to him, even though he wouldn't get too close to Gary. There hadn't been any new landscaping around Gary's house, normal weather for the year and no reports of critter infestation in the area. Alan wasn't sure what had changed, if anything, other than Rufus.
Alan worked on the fence all day Saturday, making sure it was secure and altering the latches so Rufus couldn't pop them open. Rufus sat in the corner of the yard, staring at Gary's house the whole time Alan was in the yard.
What the hell is up with that dog? he thought. Rufus usually watched Alan as he worked in the yard, worked in his territory. He would follow him around, sitting several feet away, watching.
Rufus was a good dog, one of the best Alan ever owned. He was perhaps not as playful as most dogs, but he didn't bark much, bite, doodle in the house or normally get out and cause trouble.
Alan stood and watched Rufus for a while. He just stared at Gary's house, kinda creepy. A rabbit ran in front of him on the other side of the fence; nothing, not even a flinch.
Maybe it's not Rufus, Alan thought.
What did he really know about his neighbor? Gary was fairly reclusive, seemed to keep odd hours. Alan wasn't too sure he even knew what Gary did for a living, but he assumed it was something that required travel as there were stretches of time when he didn't see Gary.
Days would go by and his car wouldn't move or wouldn't be there at all. There were many consecutive nights when the house remained completely dark. Overflowing trash bins sometimes would sit for several weeks until Gary loaded it all up in his truck and head to the landfill. Then there were the times his empty trash bins would sit on the curb for weeks.
Very strange, indeed, Alan thought.What is it about that house that is attracting a crazy dog?
Rufus was still maintaining his position by the fence. His tail wasn't moving and his ears were flat. There was something about that house, something around the foundation that had Rufus obsessed.
"Come on, boy," Alan called out. Rufus actually responded right away. He walked slowly to Alan, looking back over his shoulder.
"What is it, boy?" Alan said as he knelt down and began to pet him with both hands. Rufus kept his focus on the house and let out a slight whimper.
Alan stood up and began to wonder if there was something other than a crazy dog going on with the house. Perhaps it wasn't the yard at all, but what Gary had in his basement.
End Fiction.
I might revisit this one tomorrow!
Alan wasn't sure what to do with his dog Rufus. He had been getting out of the yard more frequently and always ended up at the neighbor's house, digging around the foundation. It was the strangest thing.
Not only was Alan annoyed, his neighbor, Gary, was becoming more and more agitated as well. All the house in the neighborhood were at least one hundred years old. Foundations weren't built out of concrete, like modern houses, but brick and mortar, sometimes less. A dog digging holes around such a foundation, leaving holes was asking for more water in an already damp basement. And no one wanted to clean up mold and mildew, Gary made that very clear.
Rufus was a three year old Golden Retriever, full blooded. Normally a obeying companion, lately he acted like a pup; short attention span, no obeying orders and the digging.
Gary had moved in next door over a year ago so Rufus had grown used to him, even though he wouldn't get too close to Gary. There hadn't been any new landscaping around Gary's house, normal weather for the year and no reports of critter infestation in the area. Alan wasn't sure what had changed, if anything, other than Rufus.
Alan worked on the fence all day Saturday, making sure it was secure and altering the latches so Rufus couldn't pop them open. Rufus sat in the corner of the yard, staring at Gary's house the whole time Alan was in the yard.
What the hell is up with that dog? he thought. Rufus usually watched Alan as he worked in the yard, worked in his territory. He would follow him around, sitting several feet away, watching.
Rufus was a good dog, one of the best Alan ever owned. He was perhaps not as playful as most dogs, but he didn't bark much, bite, doodle in the house or normally get out and cause trouble.
Alan stood and watched Rufus for a while. He just stared at Gary's house, kinda creepy. A rabbit ran in front of him on the other side of the fence; nothing, not even a flinch.
Maybe it's not Rufus, Alan thought.
What did he really know about his neighbor? Gary was fairly reclusive, seemed to keep odd hours. Alan wasn't too sure he even knew what Gary did for a living, but he assumed it was something that required travel as there were stretches of time when he didn't see Gary.
Days would go by and his car wouldn't move or wouldn't be there at all. There were many consecutive nights when the house remained completely dark. Overflowing trash bins sometimes would sit for several weeks until Gary loaded it all up in his truck and head to the landfill. Then there were the times his empty trash bins would sit on the curb for weeks.
Very strange, indeed, Alan thought.What is it about that house that is attracting a crazy dog?
Rufus was still maintaining his position by the fence. His tail wasn't moving and his ears were flat. There was something about that house, something around the foundation that had Rufus obsessed.
"Come on, boy," Alan called out. Rufus actually responded right away. He walked slowly to Alan, looking back over his shoulder.
"What is it, boy?" Alan said as he knelt down and began to pet him with both hands. Rufus kept his focus on the house and let out a slight whimper.
Alan stood up and began to wonder if there was something other than a crazy dog going on with the house. Perhaps it wasn't the yard at all, but what Gary had in his basement.
End Fiction.
I might revisit this one tomorrow!
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
08-19-2009
60 straight days!
This has potential, with some/a lot of editing...
Start Fiction:
Would any one know if I just nudged her, just a little? Nate thought as he walked behind Jane. She's always in a hurry, going to fast; it would most definitely look like an accident.
There was a lot to dislike about Jane, sure; but did he have that much hate in him to actually physically assault someone? Hate maybe too strong of a feeling; however there was something about her that just made his skin crawl.
Jane was bitchy, loud, obnoxious, rude, selfish, for starters. She acted as though the world should bow down to her, cater to her every whim; when it didn't, she threw a fit like a child.
Two days ago, she got so mad that she couldn't pick the radio station that she got into a confrontation with her direct supervisor and ended up going home "sick" over the matter. Over a freaking radio station. But that was Jane; cause a big enough stink and people fold. She was always right, no matter what. And if she was wrong, it was always someone elses fault.
Even if she said I pushed her, most everyone here would think she was just protecting her pride, Nate thought. But that's just not my style; I couldn't live with myself if I did something that horrible.
Just as he finished his thought, Jane tripped and fell down flight of stairs. At first she screamed, tried to fight the fall. However, by the time she reached the bottom she was silent, appendages flailing. She came to a stop, face down, her hair covering her head like a mop.
Her right arm was tucked under her body, her left was behind her back. She was twisted at the waist, her hips perpendicular to the floor. It looked uncomfortable, but Nate was guessing she wasn't conscious.
Nate didn't rum down to see if she was okay like he would normally, he strolled down the stairs to Jane. He was careful not to move her too much and cause more or permanent damage beyond what she had received already. He felt her pulse; it was strong. She was breathing, no weird sounds that he could hear.
He grabbed his cell phone and called security to report the accident. The response was immediate, doctors and nurses from various departments came to help out and get her prepped for transport to the ER. She was still unconscious. The silence was wonderful.
The security guard that was first on the scene talked with the doctors as a team from the ER wheeled Jane away. Nate sat on the steps a flight above, trying to stay put of the way.
The group talked somewhat softly, pointing up and down the stairs, discussing possible scenarios of how she fell; quick glances were shot in Nate's direction every now and then. He strained his ears in an effort to hear their conversation, but to no avail.
The security guard shook the doctors' hands and turned towards Nate and began to make his way up the stairs. Nate adjusted on the stair, scooting over to make room in case the guard wanted by. No such luck.
"Wanna tell me what happened?" he said as he sat down next to Nate. His name badge read Henry Walters.
He doesn't seem like a Henry, Nate thought.
"Well," Nate began, clearing his throat, "we were making our way down the stairs, not too fast or anything, it didn't seem anyway," he said. "Then she just tripped and went flying down the stairs. That's when I called you."
Henry Walters made notes in his leather bound black notebook as Nate talked. He made no noises, made no eye contact; he just wrote.
"It was the damnedest thing," Nate added.
Still no response from Henry Walters, he just wrote and wrote. Nate sat in silence, listening to Henry Walters pencil scratch across the paper.
"You were behind her?" Henry Walters said breaking the awkward silence.
"I was about half a flight behind her," he said.
"Why so far?"
"Should I have been holding her hand?" Nate said. "We are co-workers, not friends."
Henry Walters just stared at Nate. His eyebrows twitched every now and then, his nostrils flared. He didn't believe Nate.
"Say you pushed her," Henry Walters said.
Nate turned around and pointed up.
"Say you look at the video from that camera, Sherlock." Nate stood up and began to walk away, "Let me know if you need more help figuring this one out, Captain."
End Fiction.
This has potential, with some/a lot of editing...
Start Fiction:
Would any one know if I just nudged her, just a little? Nate thought as he walked behind Jane. She's always in a hurry, going to fast; it would most definitely look like an accident.
There was a lot to dislike about Jane, sure; but did he have that much hate in him to actually physically assault someone? Hate maybe too strong of a feeling; however there was something about her that just made his skin crawl.
Jane was bitchy, loud, obnoxious, rude, selfish, for starters. She acted as though the world should bow down to her, cater to her every whim; when it didn't, she threw a fit like a child.
Two days ago, she got so mad that she couldn't pick the radio station that she got into a confrontation with her direct supervisor and ended up going home "sick" over the matter. Over a freaking radio station. But that was Jane; cause a big enough stink and people fold. She was always right, no matter what. And if she was wrong, it was always someone elses fault.
Even if she said I pushed her, most everyone here would think she was just protecting her pride, Nate thought. But that's just not my style; I couldn't live with myself if I did something that horrible.
Just as he finished his thought, Jane tripped and fell down flight of stairs. At first she screamed, tried to fight the fall. However, by the time she reached the bottom she was silent, appendages flailing. She came to a stop, face down, her hair covering her head like a mop.
Her right arm was tucked under her body, her left was behind her back. She was twisted at the waist, her hips perpendicular to the floor. It looked uncomfortable, but Nate was guessing she wasn't conscious.
Nate didn't rum down to see if she was okay like he would normally, he strolled down the stairs to Jane. He was careful not to move her too much and cause more or permanent damage beyond what she had received already. He felt her pulse; it was strong. She was breathing, no weird sounds that he could hear.
He grabbed his cell phone and called security to report the accident. The response was immediate, doctors and nurses from various departments came to help out and get her prepped for transport to the ER. She was still unconscious. The silence was wonderful.
The security guard that was first on the scene talked with the doctors as a team from the ER wheeled Jane away. Nate sat on the steps a flight above, trying to stay put of the way.
The group talked somewhat softly, pointing up and down the stairs, discussing possible scenarios of how she fell; quick glances were shot in Nate's direction every now and then. He strained his ears in an effort to hear their conversation, but to no avail.
The security guard shook the doctors' hands and turned towards Nate and began to make his way up the stairs. Nate adjusted on the stair, scooting over to make room in case the guard wanted by. No such luck.
"Wanna tell me what happened?" he said as he sat down next to Nate. His name badge read Henry Walters.
He doesn't seem like a Henry, Nate thought.
"Well," Nate began, clearing his throat, "we were making our way down the stairs, not too fast or anything, it didn't seem anyway," he said. "Then she just tripped and went flying down the stairs. That's when I called you."
Henry Walters made notes in his leather bound black notebook as Nate talked. He made no noises, made no eye contact; he just wrote.
"It was the damnedest thing," Nate added.
Still no response from Henry Walters, he just wrote and wrote. Nate sat in silence, listening to Henry Walters pencil scratch across the paper.
"You were behind her?" Henry Walters said breaking the awkward silence.
"I was about half a flight behind her," he said.
"Why so far?"
"Should I have been holding her hand?" Nate said. "We are co-workers, not friends."
Henry Walters just stared at Nate. His eyebrows twitched every now and then, his nostrils flared. He didn't believe Nate.
"Say you pushed her," Henry Walters said.
Nate turned around and pointed up.
"Say you look at the video from that camera, Sherlock." Nate stood up and began to walk away, "Let me know if you need more help figuring this one out, Captain."
End Fiction.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
08-18-2009
Continued from 08-17-2009...
Start Fiction:
"He's confused, disoriented," one of the medics said to his partner, who shook her head agreeing.
"I'm not confused, damn it," Ken said in barely a whisper. The medics didn't hear him and even of they did, they surely wouldn't listen to him.
Ken couldn't move, his gaze was limited to straight above him. As they made their way put of the house, he realized it was night time.
How long did I lay there? he thought.
He didn't ponder it too long as he noticed the full moon over head. No matter what Ken was doing or feeling, he always took the time to enjoy the beauty of a full moon. He was aware of the medics, but wasn't sure who's hand was on his shoulder.
The lights from the ambulance began to blind Ken as he was loaded. Every bump, jerk and wiggle blurred Ken's vision and sent shooting pain up and down his spine.
It's a good thing I can feel pain, right? Ken thought as the pain intensified, he felt himself fading, blacking out.
"The body in the bag," he said in a audible cry as he went unconscious. As he faded he heard a constant alarm, the voices of he medics became more frantic; their voices faded.
He heard a whisper, faint, possibly a hallucination, "I'm right here."
Then, nothing; floating, darkness.
Ken awoke in the hospital and could feel a tube on his mouth.
Oh shit, he thought trying not to panic. What the hell happened to me?
He didn't think he was in the bad of shape, considering he could feel pain, was breathing on his own; maybe the movement from the medics did something. At any rate, he decided to take a slow system diagnostic, wiggling and trying to move muscles to see if pain follows or if he just moves.
Starting with his toes, Ken could feel his right foot move, but was not so sure his left foot was moving. No pain, a good sign. Moving his hands, pain shot across his chest and down his spine. He tried to let out a reactionary scream of pain, but began gagging, choking on the tube down his throat.
Alarms and bells went off all over the place, piercing his ears, inflaming his headache. He tried to relax, not fight it, but the pain continued and his instinct was to pull the tube out which caused more pain as he moved his arms.
As he felt his face warm and his anxiety rose, again the faint whisper spoke to him: "I am right here."
"Hold on, sir," a woman's voice called out.
Two women flanked him, punching buttons and checking medications. Ken wiggled in the bed, feeling his left hand grasp the tube and he began to pull.
"If you're going to pull it out, do it as fast as you can," the gray haired nurse said.
"Like a band-aide," the young nurse said.
Ken yanked as hard as he could, his choking intensified. The gray haired nurse leaned forward and pulled the tube as though she was trying to start a stubborn lawn mower.
Ken gasped, coughed shooting snot and spit across the room.
"The body in the bathroom," he said, his throat burning causing him to gag more.
"Calm yourself down, sir," the gray haired nurse began, "catch your breath before you try to talk, and even then, think long and hard because it's going to hurt, a lot."
Ken shook his head letting her know he understood. Each cough sent shooting pain down his spine, across his chest. He fought the urge to cough, and it was working.
"You're awake," Anne said taking hold of his hand. Her voice echoed in his head. She looked tired.
"The body," Ken said.
"Save your energy," Anne said leaning closer to him, "I'll tell you what they found later. Just know everything is okay." She kissed him on the forehead and smiled with tears welling up in her eyes.
"I freaked out," he said, squeezing her hand, "and fell down the stairs."
"Everything is going to be fine," Anne assured him.
I hope so, Ken thought.
He took as deep a breath as be could and closed his eyes. He had no idea what they found, and he wondered if they did either.
Perhaps something had found him.
End Fiction.
Start Fiction:
"He's confused, disoriented," one of the medics said to his partner, who shook her head agreeing.
"I'm not confused, damn it," Ken said in barely a whisper. The medics didn't hear him and even of they did, they surely wouldn't listen to him.
Ken couldn't move, his gaze was limited to straight above him. As they made their way put of the house, he realized it was night time.
How long did I lay there? he thought.
He didn't ponder it too long as he noticed the full moon over head. No matter what Ken was doing or feeling, he always took the time to enjoy the beauty of a full moon. He was aware of the medics, but wasn't sure who's hand was on his shoulder.
The lights from the ambulance began to blind Ken as he was loaded. Every bump, jerk and wiggle blurred Ken's vision and sent shooting pain up and down his spine.
It's a good thing I can feel pain, right? Ken thought as the pain intensified, he felt himself fading, blacking out.
"The body in the bag," he said in a audible cry as he went unconscious. As he faded he heard a constant alarm, the voices of he medics became more frantic; their voices faded.
He heard a whisper, faint, possibly a hallucination, "I'm right here."
Then, nothing; floating, darkness.
Ken awoke in the hospital and could feel a tube on his mouth.
Oh shit, he thought trying not to panic. What the hell happened to me?
He didn't think he was in the bad of shape, considering he could feel pain, was breathing on his own; maybe the movement from the medics did something. At any rate, he decided to take a slow system diagnostic, wiggling and trying to move muscles to see if pain follows or if he just moves.
Starting with his toes, Ken could feel his right foot move, but was not so sure his left foot was moving. No pain, a good sign. Moving his hands, pain shot across his chest and down his spine. He tried to let out a reactionary scream of pain, but began gagging, choking on the tube down his throat.
Alarms and bells went off all over the place, piercing his ears, inflaming his headache. He tried to relax, not fight it, but the pain continued and his instinct was to pull the tube out which caused more pain as he moved his arms.
As he felt his face warm and his anxiety rose, again the faint whisper spoke to him: "I am right here."
"Hold on, sir," a woman's voice called out.
Two women flanked him, punching buttons and checking medications. Ken wiggled in the bed, feeling his left hand grasp the tube and he began to pull.
"If you're going to pull it out, do it as fast as you can," the gray haired nurse said.
"Like a band-aide," the young nurse said.
Ken yanked as hard as he could, his choking intensified. The gray haired nurse leaned forward and pulled the tube as though she was trying to start a stubborn lawn mower.
Ken gasped, coughed shooting snot and spit across the room.
"The body in the bathroom," he said, his throat burning causing him to gag more.
"Calm yourself down, sir," the gray haired nurse began, "catch your breath before you try to talk, and even then, think long and hard because it's going to hurt, a lot."
Ken shook his head letting her know he understood. Each cough sent shooting pain down his spine, across his chest. He fought the urge to cough, and it was working.
"You're awake," Anne said taking hold of his hand. Her voice echoed in his head. She looked tired.
"The body," Ken said.
"Save your energy," Anne said leaning closer to him, "I'll tell you what they found later. Just know everything is okay." She kissed him on the forehead and smiled with tears welling up in her eyes.
"I freaked out," he said, squeezing her hand, "and fell down the stairs."
"Everything is going to be fine," Anne assured him.
I hope so, Ken thought.
He took as deep a breath as be could and closed his eyes. He had no idea what they found, and he wondered if they did either.
Perhaps something had found him.
End Fiction.
Monday, August 17, 2009
08-17-2009
Start Fiction:
Ken hammered in to the wall, tearing out plaster and lathe as he had in the rest of the house. It was the last section of the house to be remodeled, so he was more energized than the previous two phases. The bathroom held the last of the plaster, the last uninsulated section of the house.
The house was a hundred years old, with a damp basement so musky smells were common place. Hitting the last wall, Ken punched through he wall and was greeted with a pungent odor.
Ken grabbed his mask and pushed it tighter against his face. He ran around the second floor and opened them all the way. He stuck the box fan in the bathroom window. He didn't care that it was snowing; the smell had to get out and fast.
Ken ran downstairs and grabbed two more masks and layered them on top of each other, sticking a peppermint between the outer masks.
He walked up the stairs with hesitation at each step. The idea of having to clean up a large animal carcass was not part of the plan, especially one that was so fresh.
Triple protected and ready to scoop up raccoon or squirrel guts, Ken threw open the bathroom door. Staring at the opposite corner of the room. The plaster dust had cleared, broken lathe stuck out of the wall and what looked like a black garbage bag. Funny; Ken didn't remember finding any sort of lining anywhere else in the house.
He picked up his flat bar and shovel, ready for the task at hand. Ken ripped out more lathe toward the floor, figuring the animal would be laying on the subfloor behind the wall. As he tore away the lathe, he kept his eye on the black bag. It seemed full; a large garbage bag behind a plaster wall that was -
"Holy shit," Ken said, dropping his flat bar, jumping up and backing away fast hitting the wall. He looked at the bag for several minutes to make sure he was seeing what he thought he was there, buried in his wall.
Ken vomited in his mask, spilling out around the edges. Ripping the masks off, he ran out of the bathroom and down the stairs, falling halfway down. He laid in the foyer looking back up the stairs. His eyelids grew heavy, his body ached. He didn't try to move, or maybe he couldn't; he couldn't tell and didn't care.
Ken awoke strapped to a board, medics and firemen surrounded him in his living room. He heard his wife's voice and called for her. Anne came to his side, tears in his eyes.
"Tell them to look in the bathroom wall," he whispered, "I think I found something; a body."
"Don't talk," Anne said, caressing his face, "save your energy."
"Just have someone check the bathroom wall, please," Ken said.
"Okay," Anne said, kissing him on the forehead.
The medics lifted him on to the cot, secured him and began to move him out of the house.
"The bathroom wall," Ken said, his voice strained as he tried to yell.
End Fiction.
I might have to continue this one tomorrow. We'll see...
Ken hammered in to the wall, tearing out plaster and lathe as he had in the rest of the house. It was the last section of the house to be remodeled, so he was more energized than the previous two phases. The bathroom held the last of the plaster, the last uninsulated section of the house.
The house was a hundred years old, with a damp basement so musky smells were common place. Hitting the last wall, Ken punched through he wall and was greeted with a pungent odor.
Ken grabbed his mask and pushed it tighter against his face. He ran around the second floor and opened them all the way. He stuck the box fan in the bathroom window. He didn't care that it was snowing; the smell had to get out and fast.
Ken ran downstairs and grabbed two more masks and layered them on top of each other, sticking a peppermint between the outer masks.
He walked up the stairs with hesitation at each step. The idea of having to clean up a large animal carcass was not part of the plan, especially one that was so fresh.
Triple protected and ready to scoop up raccoon or squirrel guts, Ken threw open the bathroom door. Staring at the opposite corner of the room. The plaster dust had cleared, broken lathe stuck out of the wall and what looked like a black garbage bag. Funny; Ken didn't remember finding any sort of lining anywhere else in the house.
He picked up his flat bar and shovel, ready for the task at hand. Ken ripped out more lathe toward the floor, figuring the animal would be laying on the subfloor behind the wall. As he tore away the lathe, he kept his eye on the black bag. It seemed full; a large garbage bag behind a plaster wall that was -
"Holy shit," Ken said, dropping his flat bar, jumping up and backing away fast hitting the wall. He looked at the bag for several minutes to make sure he was seeing what he thought he was there, buried in his wall.
Ken vomited in his mask, spilling out around the edges. Ripping the masks off, he ran out of the bathroom and down the stairs, falling halfway down. He laid in the foyer looking back up the stairs. His eyelids grew heavy, his body ached. He didn't try to move, or maybe he couldn't; he couldn't tell and didn't care.
Ken awoke strapped to a board, medics and firemen surrounded him in his living room. He heard his wife's voice and called for her. Anne came to his side, tears in his eyes.
"Tell them to look in the bathroom wall," he whispered, "I think I found something; a body."
"Don't talk," Anne said, caressing his face, "save your energy."
"Just have someone check the bathroom wall, please," Ken said.
"Okay," Anne said, kissing him on the forehead.
The medics lifted him on to the cot, secured him and began to move him out of the house.
"The bathroom wall," Ken said, his voice strained as he tried to yell.
End Fiction.
I might have to continue this one tomorrow. We'll see...
08-16-2009
This one is very short, but I just didn't feel it again... dang.
Start Fiction:
"I don't wanna be a chef," the pudgy, scraggly man began, "I gonna be a chef."
Hank gagged on his food. The man's statement didn't fit his demeanor. His black Poison t-shirt, mullet , sloppy appearance and lack of grammar basics just didn't fit the image of a chef, at least a fine dining restaurant. A roadhouse serving fried catfish, maybe.
Hank laughed after catching his breath.
The man's date was asking him how long he had wanted to be a chef to which the man replied since before he was born.
When he was asked when he started cooking he told an elaborate story of being in his high chair next to the counter where his mother had put out all the ingredients for cookies when the phone rang. When she went and answered it in the other room, he crawled from his high chair on to the counter and mixed the ingredients and had it waiting for his mom when she came back in to the kitchen. A story that left his date as wide jawed as Hank.
The man went quiet for several minutes, mainly because he was shoving large parts of his appetizer into his gigantic hole. Hank was annoyed with and entertained by the guy, at least the guy had some table manners.
The room became quiet the way a room with twenty people can right when the mam said to his date, "Try it and I can guarantee you I'll have a fork in your forehead before you even get halfway across the table."
Hank wanted to get up and punch this guy in the face, tell him to shut or something just to knock him down a notch or two; that and teach him how to treat a person better than he was treating his date. But that probably wasn't going to happen as Hank just didn't do things like standing up to bullies.
Maybe it was time he learned a new set of skills.
End Fiction.
Start Fiction:
"I don't wanna be a chef," the pudgy, scraggly man began, "I gonna be a chef."
Hank gagged on his food. The man's statement didn't fit his demeanor. His black Poison t-shirt, mullet , sloppy appearance and lack of grammar basics just didn't fit the image of a chef, at least a fine dining restaurant. A roadhouse serving fried catfish, maybe.
Hank laughed after catching his breath.
The man's date was asking him how long he had wanted to be a chef to which the man replied since before he was born.
When he was asked when he started cooking he told an elaborate story of being in his high chair next to the counter where his mother had put out all the ingredients for cookies when the phone rang. When she went and answered it in the other room, he crawled from his high chair on to the counter and mixed the ingredients and had it waiting for his mom when she came back in to the kitchen. A story that left his date as wide jawed as Hank.
The man went quiet for several minutes, mainly because he was shoving large parts of his appetizer into his gigantic hole. Hank was annoyed with and entertained by the guy, at least the guy had some table manners.
The room became quiet the way a room with twenty people can right when the mam said to his date, "Try it and I can guarantee you I'll have a fork in your forehead before you even get halfway across the table."
Hank wanted to get up and punch this guy in the face, tell him to shut or something just to knock him down a notch or two; that and teach him how to treat a person better than he was treating his date. But that probably wasn't going to happen as Hank just didn't do things like standing up to bullies.
Maybe it was time he learned a new set of skills.
End Fiction.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
08-15-2009
Start Fiction:
Quinn entered the cave unsure if there would be an exit or any hiding places, but he was running out of options. Not many people knew about the cave and he had only walked past it a few times hiking, never venturing inside due to his issues with claustrophobia.
The Marks brothers were relentless in his pursuit, holding up well in the mountain terrain. He figured neither one had been out of the city much, but their determination was impressive. Then again, he knew if they failed, they were as good as dead and another set of hit men would soon follow.
As Quinn moved as quickly as he could through the uneven darkness, he wondered if the brothers would follow, and if they did, would they have anything to see with?
It really didn't matter, the pursuit or his possible "escape". He needed to get to the source, the boss; he needed to get to Big Stan to figure out why he had a hit on him.
First things first.
Quinn had to elude the brothers to have a chance to clear his name, maybe even start over. Or maybe - no that was not acceptable. He couldn't go to the Feds. Witness Protection might not be enough, and there was no guarantee he'd actually get protection. Big Stan was definitely a bad guy doing horrible things, but was he big enough?
Stepping with a probing foot with each step, Quinn heard rocks falling behind him. The brothers were in the cave; impressive. By the sound of the rocks they were just at the first turn, just entering the darkness.
Quinn cursed himself for never exploring the cave. He always had ample lighting, gear and clothing on his hiking expeditions. A lot better than running in to the woods in shorts and sandals, and absolutely nothing to illuminate his path - except his watch. He had just pit a new battery in and it has LED panel that lights up.
He tested it and given the complete darkness, he was able to catch a glimpse of the cave. He moved a little more freely and advance a little faster. Quinn continued to step with care, ensuring that the brothers didn't get the chance to gauge his position.
End Ficiton.
This kinda sucks, so I am stopping. I am struggling and there is no need for that! I guess I could work on it but I am usually not partial to mob stories so I am not sure why I am writing one...
Quinn entered the cave unsure if there would be an exit or any hiding places, but he was running out of options. Not many people knew about the cave and he had only walked past it a few times hiking, never venturing inside due to his issues with claustrophobia.
The Marks brothers were relentless in his pursuit, holding up well in the mountain terrain. He figured neither one had been out of the city much, but their determination was impressive. Then again, he knew if they failed, they were as good as dead and another set of hit men would soon follow.
As Quinn moved as quickly as he could through the uneven darkness, he wondered if the brothers would follow, and if they did, would they have anything to see with?
It really didn't matter, the pursuit or his possible "escape". He needed to get to the source, the boss; he needed to get to Big Stan to figure out why he had a hit on him.
First things first.
Quinn had to elude the brothers to have a chance to clear his name, maybe even start over. Or maybe - no that was not acceptable. He couldn't go to the Feds. Witness Protection might not be enough, and there was no guarantee he'd actually get protection. Big Stan was definitely a bad guy doing horrible things, but was he big enough?
Stepping with a probing foot with each step, Quinn heard rocks falling behind him. The brothers were in the cave; impressive. By the sound of the rocks they were just at the first turn, just entering the darkness.
Quinn cursed himself for never exploring the cave. He always had ample lighting, gear and clothing on his hiking expeditions. A lot better than running in to the woods in shorts and sandals, and absolutely nothing to illuminate his path - except his watch. He had just pit a new battery in and it has LED panel that lights up.
He tested it and given the complete darkness, he was able to catch a glimpse of the cave. He moved a little more freely and advance a little faster. Quinn continued to step with care, ensuring that the brothers didn't get the chance to gauge his position.
End Ficiton.
This kinda sucks, so I am stopping. I am struggling and there is no need for that! I guess I could work on it but I am usually not partial to mob stories so I am not sure why I am writing one...
08-14-2009
Start Fiction:
And so it begins.
Ron had always known his dreams were somehow not just dreams, yet they weren't prophetic, either. They were memories. Memories from years of abductions and being subjected to experiments; painful, torturous experiments that have left him mentally altered.
Or was he actually more mentally aligned?
As he watched the alien craft enter the atmosphere, he felt no apprehension, no anxiety, no panic - no fear of any kind. Ron was collected, calm. He felt at peace knowing he was in fact not completely insane. His unique knowledge of the aliens that might prove useful if he was to survive. They were on his turf now, and down to earth tactics might just prove elusive to the alien's dependence on their technology. Guerrilla warfare.
Ron was at first impressed with the ease and precision with which the crafts descend through the atmosphere compared to the red hot re-entry of humanity's space craft. Obviously they had technology beyond comprehension, knowledge many moons past the infant species of humans.
Ron took to the street. People were beginning to gather, pointing at the sky. While many were frightened, many we excited. Then there were the ones who looked as Ron felt; expressionless, calm, steady. He and the Others made eye contact and although they didn't recognize each other, they knew.
Ron and the Others kept a partial eye on the crafts. They were more concerned with the people around them and what kind of resistance they could begin to form, before it was too late.
As he strolled through the streets headed to the downtown area, he felt as though he was making more and more eye contact; more and more Others.
They were gathering.
Ron decided to stop and stare at the sky, resist his urge to head to the old Jefferson Building. He wondered if they were gathering because they were programmed by the aliens; a human transition party to help them conquer earth. He wanted no part of that mess.
Then again, perhaps they were gathering due to the seeds of resistance formed in alien detention cell blocks, a plan buried deep in their subconscious.
It made sense; the sheer magnitude, the emotional trauma of the crafts actually arriving pushed them over the edge. Now, it was secondary protocols all around - payback.
End Fiction.
And so it begins.
Ron had always known his dreams were somehow not just dreams, yet they weren't prophetic, either. They were memories. Memories from years of abductions and being subjected to experiments; painful, torturous experiments that have left him mentally altered.
Or was he actually more mentally aligned?
As he watched the alien craft enter the atmosphere, he felt no apprehension, no anxiety, no panic - no fear of any kind. Ron was collected, calm. He felt at peace knowing he was in fact not completely insane. His unique knowledge of the aliens that might prove useful if he was to survive. They were on his turf now, and down to earth tactics might just prove elusive to the alien's dependence on their technology. Guerrilla warfare.
Ron was at first impressed with the ease and precision with which the crafts descend through the atmosphere compared to the red hot re-entry of humanity's space craft. Obviously they had technology beyond comprehension, knowledge many moons past the infant species of humans.
Ron took to the street. People were beginning to gather, pointing at the sky. While many were frightened, many we excited. Then there were the ones who looked as Ron felt; expressionless, calm, steady. He and the Others made eye contact and although they didn't recognize each other, they knew.
Ron and the Others kept a partial eye on the crafts. They were more concerned with the people around them and what kind of resistance they could begin to form, before it was too late.
As he strolled through the streets headed to the downtown area, he felt as though he was making more and more eye contact; more and more Others.
They were gathering.
Ron decided to stop and stare at the sky, resist his urge to head to the old Jefferson Building. He wondered if they were gathering because they were programmed by the aliens; a human transition party to help them conquer earth. He wanted no part of that mess.
Then again, perhaps they were gathering due to the seeds of resistance formed in alien detention cell blocks, a plan buried deep in their subconscious.
It made sense; the sheer magnitude, the emotional trauma of the crafts actually arriving pushed them over the edge. Now, it was secondary protocols all around - payback.
End Fiction.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
08-13-2009
HAPPY INTERNATIONAL LEFT HANDER'S DAY!
Start Fiction:
The temperature in the bistro seemed to rise. Erik felt a bead of sweat run down his forehead. Sitting in the corner booth wasn't such a good idea, especially now that he was up against professionals; and two just walked in the bistro.
Erik hoped the fact that he was so new to the trade that he wouldn't be recognized as quickly. No such luck today. The two men motioned to each other and made their way towards Erik.
The larger of the two men was built like a linebacker; solid frame, penetrating stare and fluid in his movements. He had a scar across his forehead that made his appearance even more intimidating. The suit he was wearing was a tailored fit, and his shoes were unnaturally shiny.
The other guy was more portly, definitely not in shape. He had a solid build, but Erik didn't think he could run more than a block or two before being exhausted. His flat top told Erik he was old school in thought and tactic. Hopefully his new school tactics would counter those tactics effectively, as he was sure they would. Even though he had cornered himself, he had several options available, and only one involved lethal means.
The men sat at the table across from Erik. They grabbed their menus, said nothing, did nothing. Erik drank his water, making slow deliberate movements. He stared ahead, watching the door while keeping an eye on his new friends.
"Fried squirrel," the portly man said as though he was reading it off his menu.
I'm not making any new contacts today, Erik thought. Is this a test to see if I'll break protocol? he continued to drink his water, not batting an eye. These men were up to something, and Erik didn't really care what their angle was, but he had a feeling they were going to make him care, and soon.
The bigger man got up and went to the bathroom. Even though Erik's target had not arrived, he decided to vacate the bistro and approach his target from another angle. This thought came to him since one on one with the portly fellow seemed more acceptable in case they didn't want him to leave.
Erik slid out of his booth and dipped in to his pocket for the tip. He jingled the change in his pocket; in his mind it would give the impression he wasn't reaching for a weapon. What he didn't realize was it was in fact an old school tactic of distraction.
The portly man jumped up, moving much faster than
Erik had anticipated. He pulled a knife from an ankle holster and lunged towards Erik as he moved just in time to throw a deflection, knocking the knife from the man's hand and landing a blow to his face sending him back over the table.
Damn,Erik thought, Training did me some good.
The portly man remained in the floor, rolling around holding his face. For some reason Erik expected him to get back up, instead his partner, the linebacker, came charging down the hallway from the bathroom.
Erik wanted to flee, but he knew he had to take a stand and make a name for himself. That, and he was pretty sure this guy could chase him down and would kill him just the same.
The linebacker threw a series of jabs, Erik was unsure their origin. With each jab he moved Erik back one step at a time. Erik held the defensive, waiting for the moment to strike.
Patience, he told himself as the fury of jabs continued.
The linebacker began to conduct a reverse kick, Erik countered with a sweep of his pivot foot. The linebacker fell, hard, on to a table with a loud crack; wood splintered in the explosion. The linebacker let out a scream, a death cry. Erik step forward as the man slid down a leg of a chair that had impaled him sticking out of his chest, blood ran everywhere.
Erik decided it was time to disappear. He ran to the back hall and stepped on the portly man who was still on the floor. He blew through the emergency exit, in to the alley and ran in to the darkness.
I guess I passed my first test.
End Fiction.
Start Fiction:
The temperature in the bistro seemed to rise. Erik felt a bead of sweat run down his forehead. Sitting in the corner booth wasn't such a good idea, especially now that he was up against professionals; and two just walked in the bistro.
Erik hoped the fact that he was so new to the trade that he wouldn't be recognized as quickly. No such luck today. The two men motioned to each other and made their way towards Erik.
The larger of the two men was built like a linebacker; solid frame, penetrating stare and fluid in his movements. He had a scar across his forehead that made his appearance even more intimidating. The suit he was wearing was a tailored fit, and his shoes were unnaturally shiny.
The other guy was more portly, definitely not in shape. He had a solid build, but Erik didn't think he could run more than a block or two before being exhausted. His flat top told Erik he was old school in thought and tactic. Hopefully his new school tactics would counter those tactics effectively, as he was sure they would. Even though he had cornered himself, he had several options available, and only one involved lethal means.
The men sat at the table across from Erik. They grabbed their menus, said nothing, did nothing. Erik drank his water, making slow deliberate movements. He stared ahead, watching the door while keeping an eye on his new friends.
"Fried squirrel," the portly man said as though he was reading it off his menu.
I'm not making any new contacts today, Erik thought. Is this a test to see if I'll break protocol? he continued to drink his water, not batting an eye. These men were up to something, and Erik didn't really care what their angle was, but he had a feeling they were going to make him care, and soon.
The bigger man got up and went to the bathroom. Even though Erik's target had not arrived, he decided to vacate the bistro and approach his target from another angle. This thought came to him since one on one with the portly fellow seemed more acceptable in case they didn't want him to leave.
Erik slid out of his booth and dipped in to his pocket for the tip. He jingled the change in his pocket; in his mind it would give the impression he wasn't reaching for a weapon. What he didn't realize was it was in fact an old school tactic of distraction.
The portly man jumped up, moving much faster than
Erik had anticipated. He pulled a knife from an ankle holster and lunged towards Erik as he moved just in time to throw a deflection, knocking the knife from the man's hand and landing a blow to his face sending him back over the table.
Damn,Erik thought, Training did me some good.
The portly man remained in the floor, rolling around holding his face. For some reason Erik expected him to get back up, instead his partner, the linebacker, came charging down the hallway from the bathroom.
Erik wanted to flee, but he knew he had to take a stand and make a name for himself. That, and he was pretty sure this guy could chase him down and would kill him just the same.
The linebacker threw a series of jabs, Erik was unsure their origin. With each jab he moved Erik back one step at a time. Erik held the defensive, waiting for the moment to strike.
Patience, he told himself as the fury of jabs continued.
The linebacker began to conduct a reverse kick, Erik countered with a sweep of his pivot foot. The linebacker fell, hard, on to a table with a loud crack; wood splintered in the explosion. The linebacker let out a scream, a death cry. Erik step forward as the man slid down a leg of a chair that had impaled him sticking out of his chest, blood ran everywhere.
Erik decided it was time to disappear. He ran to the back hall and stepped on the portly man who was still on the floor. He blew through the emergency exit, in to the alley and ran in to the darkness.
I guess I passed my first test.
End Fiction.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
08-12-2009
Part II
Start Fiction:
Jay sat and listened to his family talk to Emma and get caught up on her life. Normally, he would interject or add a comment to the conversation, but instead he was content to just listen. It had been so long since he felt so relaxed and he loved the fact that it seemed as though his family was as excited she was back in town.
In one fluid motion Jay laid his head on Emma's lap and she immediately began to run her fingers through his hair. He felt as though he was going to cry. It was as though no time had passed, nothing had changed.
This is how it's suppose to be he thought as he laid there, almost in a trance.
"Where's your beer?" Emma said.
"I have been sober for over six years," Jay said. Emma laughed. "Did you just laugh at me?"
"Yes," she said, "you are kidding, right?
Jay sat up and turned to her. She was startled by his quick movement.
"Seriously, it has been six years, and forty-five days since my last drink." Emma's smile faded as her eyes widened; she blushed slightly.
"Wow, that's amazing," she said. "I'm sorry if I offended you."
"No," he said as he laid back down, "I don't joke around ALL the time anymore."
"Well, as long as you still joke around, we'll be just fine," she said as she leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead. "I need to use the rest room."
"Let' head to house," Jay said as he made his way to his feet. "The bathroom might be a little more sanitary than the port-a-potty's out here."
"And perhaps a tour of your uncle's house," she said extending her hand for Jay to take and help her to her feet. She kissed him on the cheek as they began to descend the hill. Hand and hand, they both smiled.
They walked into the house and Jay showed her to the little bathroom off the mud room.
"Wow, only skinny-assed people can use this bathroom," she said. "I'm gonna have to take off my hat just to sit on the toilet!"
Jay left Emma as she closed the door and he walked down the hall to the kitchen. There were people milling around, mixing drinks, making snacks. The layout of the house was completely different than in reality. However, it didn't register with Jay that it was different house as he had been in that house before and was somewhat distracted by the presence of Emma.
As he looked out over the living room, he heard a drill running. He opened what he thought was a closet door but there was a room with all kinds of machinery and a man doing work on a helmet.
Wait a minute, Jay thought, some thing's not right. He turned back to he kitchen and living room and took a closer look. This wasn't his uncle's house; he wasn't sure it was even a house at all.
Jay quickly made his way back through the house, finding the house changing slightly as he moved from room to room, his anxiety building.
Please don't be a dream, please! His heart raced as he finally approached the bathroom where he left Emma.
The door was open and the bathroom was empty. He bolted out to the door and ran outside. There stood Emma, twirling her hat.
"You figured it out, huh?" she said. She appeared to be as disappointed as Jay was by his realization: this was a dream.
"But it's so real," Jay said as he stood in front of Emma. She handed him her hat, and turned to walk away.
"It was nice to be with you again," Emma said as she walked up the driveway. "Maybe we can do this again sometime soon."
"Maybe," Jay said as he just let her go.
Typical Jay.
Jay awoke and shot up in bed. He placed his hands over face and fell back on the bed.
It was just a dream.
Damn my dreams, he thought. Damn them for being so real.
He laid in his bed staring at the ceiling wondering if that dream was perhaps a view into another world. In that world, he and Emma came back to each other, as he had often thought they would.
While he was pleased with the idea of an alternate reality in which he was loved as deeply as he loved, he wondered what stopped him from being pleased in this reality.
The grass is always greener, right?
End Fiction.
Start Fiction:
Jay sat and listened to his family talk to Emma and get caught up on her life. Normally, he would interject or add a comment to the conversation, but instead he was content to just listen. It had been so long since he felt so relaxed and he loved the fact that it seemed as though his family was as excited she was back in town.
In one fluid motion Jay laid his head on Emma's lap and she immediately began to run her fingers through his hair. He felt as though he was going to cry. It was as though no time had passed, nothing had changed.
This is how it's suppose to be he thought as he laid there, almost in a trance.
"Where's your beer?" Emma said.
"I have been sober for over six years," Jay said. Emma laughed. "Did you just laugh at me?"
"Yes," she said, "you are kidding, right?
Jay sat up and turned to her. She was startled by his quick movement.
"Seriously, it has been six years, and forty-five days since my last drink." Emma's smile faded as her eyes widened; she blushed slightly.
"Wow, that's amazing," she said. "I'm sorry if I offended you."
"No," he said as he laid back down, "I don't joke around ALL the time anymore."
"Well, as long as you still joke around, we'll be just fine," she said as she leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead. "I need to use the rest room."
"Let' head to house," Jay said as he made his way to his feet. "The bathroom might be a little more sanitary than the port-a-potty's out here."
"And perhaps a tour of your uncle's house," she said extending her hand for Jay to take and help her to her feet. She kissed him on the cheek as they began to descend the hill. Hand and hand, they both smiled.
They walked into the house and Jay showed her to the little bathroom off the mud room.
"Wow, only skinny-assed people can use this bathroom," she said. "I'm gonna have to take off my hat just to sit on the toilet!"
Jay left Emma as she closed the door and he walked down the hall to the kitchen. There were people milling around, mixing drinks, making snacks. The layout of the house was completely different than in reality. However, it didn't register with Jay that it was different house as he had been in that house before and was somewhat distracted by the presence of Emma.
As he looked out over the living room, he heard a drill running. He opened what he thought was a closet door but there was a room with all kinds of machinery and a man doing work on a helmet.
Wait a minute, Jay thought, some thing's not right. He turned back to he kitchen and living room and took a closer look. This wasn't his uncle's house; he wasn't sure it was even a house at all.
Jay quickly made his way back through the house, finding the house changing slightly as he moved from room to room, his anxiety building.
Please don't be a dream, please! His heart raced as he finally approached the bathroom where he left Emma.
The door was open and the bathroom was empty. He bolted out to the door and ran outside. There stood Emma, twirling her hat.
"You figured it out, huh?" she said. She appeared to be as disappointed as Jay was by his realization: this was a dream.
"But it's so real," Jay said as he stood in front of Emma. She handed him her hat, and turned to walk away.
"It was nice to be with you again," Emma said as she walked up the driveway. "Maybe we can do this again sometime soon."
"Maybe," Jay said as he just let her go.
Typical Jay.
Jay awoke and shot up in bed. He placed his hands over face and fell back on the bed.
It was just a dream.
Damn my dreams, he thought. Damn them for being so real.
He laid in his bed staring at the ceiling wondering if that dream was perhaps a view into another world. In that world, he and Emma came back to each other, as he had often thought they would.
While he was pleased with the idea of an alternate reality in which he was loved as deeply as he loved, he wondered what stopped him from being pleased in this reality.
The grass is always greener, right?
End Fiction.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
08-11-2009
Start Fiction:
Jay couldn't sleep anymore, regardless how hard he tried, wanted. It had been a long time since he had dreamed about Emma, and one of his most enjoyable, calming, peaceful dreams in almost as long.
It was nothing special, the dream. His uncle used to have a party every year at his farm house and there was a year or two when Emma had gone with Jay.
The atmosphere was the same in the dream as it had been in the days of the party: relaxed, friendly and fun.
The land in the dream was built on a hill and a bit of a valley. The house was located down below, with a garage about half way up the hill and at the top was another put building. It wasn't exactly a shed, but it wasn't living quarters either.
The party was always held in July, so it was good and hot in the dream. Jay had changed his shirt several times in the dream as he was running up and down the hill to fetch this and that, helping get things organized for the volleyball games.
People were arriving in large groups, Jay weaved in and around people as they headed up the hill to the volleyball courts. Some groups were wearing t-shirts as though they were on a pub crawl. Friends and family mixed and mingled with friends of friends.
Damn, there are a lot of people this year, Jay thought.
As he came down the hill for the tenth time, Emma was standing there with a summer hat, tank top and jeans.
"Hey you," she said.
"Hey yourself," Jay said as he walked up to her. She looked good, although he wasn't sure about the hat. Her skin looked smooth, her smile was wide; her eyes were still blue like a Tahitian bay.
The music faded and the hustle and bustle of the people muted. The only thing Jay could, would hear was Emma. A group walked by and told Jay his party sucked and they were leaving, and he merely responded "Thanks, see you next year."
"I hope it's okay that I am here," Emma said.
"I am glad you are here," Jay said. He stepped forward and gave her a hug.
She squeezed him tight. He didn't mention her husband, nor did she. This wouldn't be the first time she came to Jay behind his back. However, it wasn't like they were sneaking off to the park for a late night rendezvous as in the past; this was a highly public event.
"God, I've missed you," she whispered. Jay squeezed her tighter.
"Come on," he said as he grabbed her hand, "there are people who are going to be happy to see you."
They walked up the hill to the volleyball games and went to sit down with Jay's parents, John and Beth, who stood up and hugged Emma, laughing and smiling. His aunt Tina and uncle Bert gave her a warm welcome, and his cousin Stan as well. A dozen other family members playing volleyball all paused to wave a hello.
Everyone remembered Emma. She was impossible to forget.
End Fiction.
Yeah, this is a two parter...
Jay couldn't sleep anymore, regardless how hard he tried, wanted. It had been a long time since he had dreamed about Emma, and one of his most enjoyable, calming, peaceful dreams in almost as long.
It was nothing special, the dream. His uncle used to have a party every year at his farm house and there was a year or two when Emma had gone with Jay.
The atmosphere was the same in the dream as it had been in the days of the party: relaxed, friendly and fun.
The land in the dream was built on a hill and a bit of a valley. The house was located down below, with a garage about half way up the hill and at the top was another put building. It wasn't exactly a shed, but it wasn't living quarters either.
The party was always held in July, so it was good and hot in the dream. Jay had changed his shirt several times in the dream as he was running up and down the hill to fetch this and that, helping get things organized for the volleyball games.
People were arriving in large groups, Jay weaved in and around people as they headed up the hill to the volleyball courts. Some groups were wearing t-shirts as though they were on a pub crawl. Friends and family mixed and mingled with friends of friends.
Damn, there are a lot of people this year, Jay thought.
As he came down the hill for the tenth time, Emma was standing there with a summer hat, tank top and jeans.
"Hey you," she said.
"Hey yourself," Jay said as he walked up to her. She looked good, although he wasn't sure about the hat. Her skin looked smooth, her smile was wide; her eyes were still blue like a Tahitian bay.
The music faded and the hustle and bustle of the people muted. The only thing Jay could, would hear was Emma. A group walked by and told Jay his party sucked and they were leaving, and he merely responded "Thanks, see you next year."
"I hope it's okay that I am here," Emma said.
"I am glad you are here," Jay said. He stepped forward and gave her a hug.
She squeezed him tight. He didn't mention her husband, nor did she. This wouldn't be the first time she came to Jay behind his back. However, it wasn't like they were sneaking off to the park for a late night rendezvous as in the past; this was a highly public event.
"God, I've missed you," she whispered. Jay squeezed her tighter.
"Come on," he said as he grabbed her hand, "there are people who are going to be happy to see you."
They walked up the hill to the volleyball games and went to sit down with Jay's parents, John and Beth, who stood up and hugged Emma, laughing and smiling. His aunt Tina and uncle Bert gave her a warm welcome, and his cousin Stan as well. A dozen other family members playing volleyball all paused to wave a hello.
Everyone remembered Emma. She was impossible to forget.
End Fiction.
Yeah, this is a two parter...
Monday, August 10, 2009
08-10-2009
Start Fiction:
The line was getting fuzzier, less defined. Robert had moments when he was not sure if he was awake or dreaming more frequently these days. Perhaps he was just tired, worn out, he often told himself. But he knew something was amiss.
It hit him pretty hard today when he finally decided to confront Jane about her affairs. He was still upset about her kissing a man in front of him, in their living room, on their couch.
She had acted as though nothing happened in the few days since. Then again, she wasn't too concerned with Robert standing there while she was acting like a teenage girl when the man she was kissing was whispering in her ear.
It was ten minutes after five and Jane would be home soon. Pacing around the kitchen, Robert tried not to rehearse what he was going to say, what Jane was going to say. He knew it was time to speak up and he expected an apology, at least. However, he wasn't sure that was enough.
Jane came through the garage door smiling, walked up to Robert and kissed him on the cheek hello. He pulled away a little, trying to keep his focus.
"Something the matter?" Jane said.
"I want to talk about what happened," he said as he leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms.
"Ok," Jane said as she set her purse on the island. "What happened?"
"The other night," he said, "you and that Cabana boy in the living room?"
"What are you talking about, Robert?" Jane said as she leaned forward on the island.
"Jane, I have put up with your promiscuity for years," he said, "but when I am standing there and you don't even care, or acknowledge me, that just tears me apart." Robert had made various comments and accusations over the years, usually in passing, but this was different, more intense.
"Promiscuity?" Jane said, stepping back from the island. She stared at Robert, dumbfounded. "Robert, I can assure you I have always been faithful to you."
"You're going to deny what happened in the living room of our own house?" he said as he threw his hands into the air. "It just happened three days ago!"
"Robert," Jane said, "I was at my mother's in Chicago three days ago, remember?"
"What? That wasn't three days ago," he said scratching his head. "That was a couple of weeks ago, wasn't it?"
He felt nauseous; he was losing his mind, or perhaps he had already lost it.
"Robert, can we please sit down and figure this out?"
He nodded and moved to the table. As he sat, he did remember watching Die Hard over the weekend, and he was struggling to remember if that was Friday or Saturday night.
"You were at your mom's Saturday?" he asked, almost whispering.
"Yes, Robert, I was," Jane said taking hold of his hands. "What's going on with you? Are you feeling ok?"
"I don't know," he began, "I guess maybe everything is a little jumbled in my head. Sometimes I can't tell if it is a dream or real. Maybe the Cabana boy was a dream."
"Maybe we need to get you some help," she said.
They sat in silence for several minutes. Robert stared at the table and Jane stared at him. Both of them were not sure what to do next, where to go, but where ever they were going, they were going together.
End Fiction.
The line was getting fuzzier, less defined. Robert had moments when he was not sure if he was awake or dreaming more frequently these days. Perhaps he was just tired, worn out, he often told himself. But he knew something was amiss.
It hit him pretty hard today when he finally decided to confront Jane about her affairs. He was still upset about her kissing a man in front of him, in their living room, on their couch.
She had acted as though nothing happened in the few days since. Then again, she wasn't too concerned with Robert standing there while she was acting like a teenage girl when the man she was kissing was whispering in her ear.
It was ten minutes after five and Jane would be home soon. Pacing around the kitchen, Robert tried not to rehearse what he was going to say, what Jane was going to say. He knew it was time to speak up and he expected an apology, at least. However, he wasn't sure that was enough.
Jane came through the garage door smiling, walked up to Robert and kissed him on the cheek hello. He pulled away a little, trying to keep his focus.
"Something the matter?" Jane said.
"I want to talk about what happened," he said as he leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms.
"Ok," Jane said as she set her purse on the island. "What happened?"
"The other night," he said, "you and that Cabana boy in the living room?"
"What are you talking about, Robert?" Jane said as she leaned forward on the island.
"Jane, I have put up with your promiscuity for years," he said, "but when I am standing there and you don't even care, or acknowledge me, that just tears me apart." Robert had made various comments and accusations over the years, usually in passing, but this was different, more intense.
"Promiscuity?" Jane said, stepping back from the island. She stared at Robert, dumbfounded. "Robert, I can assure you I have always been faithful to you."
"You're going to deny what happened in the living room of our own house?" he said as he threw his hands into the air. "It just happened three days ago!"
"Robert," Jane said, "I was at my mother's in Chicago three days ago, remember?"
"What? That wasn't three days ago," he said scratching his head. "That was a couple of weeks ago, wasn't it?"
He felt nauseous; he was losing his mind, or perhaps he had already lost it.
"Robert, can we please sit down and figure this out?"
He nodded and moved to the table. As he sat, he did remember watching Die Hard over the weekend, and he was struggling to remember if that was Friday or Saturday night.
"You were at your mom's Saturday?" he asked, almost whispering.
"Yes, Robert, I was," Jane said taking hold of his hands. "What's going on with you? Are you feeling ok?"
"I don't know," he began, "I guess maybe everything is a little jumbled in my head. Sometimes I can't tell if it is a dream or real. Maybe the Cabana boy was a dream."
"Maybe we need to get you some help," she said.
They sat in silence for several minutes. Robert stared at the table and Jane stared at him. Both of them were not sure what to do next, where to go, but where ever they were going, they were going together.
End Fiction.
08-09-2009
I decided to try another round of 1st person writing. Not sure I am any more comfortable with it, but it is kinda fun...
Start Fiction:
I got nothing. I sat in the middle of the street at four a.m., I think, and realized I had no where to go.
I had no job, no home, no friends who dared to be around someone so down and out. I was an outcast, a social pariah. I now understood what it meant for the mighty fall.
After attempting to get a room at the shelter earlier in the day and getting turned away, I was shown the street for the first time in the thirteen months I had been homeless.
I laid down in the street and I felt I had hit the bottom of the bottom, that it couldn't get any worse. Then the rain came.
The rain pelted me as I sat in the street. I took a inventory of my body and came to the conclusion I was not injured from my fall. I didn't see the point in getting up; I had no where to go, nothing to do and there was no one around.
The rain gently hit the ground around me, slowly filling small puddles, and the noise made me think of a bowl of Rice Crispies. The various sounds snapped, crackled and popped hitting the ground, cars, trees, falling from clogged gutters and down in to the storm sewer. It was soothing, calming. Why have I never noticed this before?
I stood up and made my way in to the park. In the center under an opening in the trees I sat the bench. I leaned back and put my face to the sky. The smell of the rain was fresh, the wet grass sweet. It was definitely more quiet in the center of the park, and more relaxing.
I had driven past this park for years, seen dozens of people playing freebie, hacky sack, sun bathing, but I had never actually stopped or even merely walked through the park.
As I sat in the park, I realized there were many things in this town I had taken for granted. I had always been in such a hurry to do this or do that; working long hours, drinking in the few hours in between work, but playing very little. I was not one to smell the roses, but I wanted to know how the roses could make me money. Ironically, now I had nothing but time to smell the roses.
Maybe this is a new beginning for me, a second shot at contentment and inner peace. Maybe this time around I will walk a little slower, look at the sky from time to time and definitely find time to sit in the park during a gentle rain.
End Fiction.
Start Fiction:
I got nothing. I sat in the middle of the street at four a.m., I think, and realized I had no where to go.
I had no job, no home, no friends who dared to be around someone so down and out. I was an outcast, a social pariah. I now understood what it meant for the mighty fall.
After attempting to get a room at the shelter earlier in the day and getting turned away, I was shown the street for the first time in the thirteen months I had been homeless.
I laid down in the street and I felt I had hit the bottom of the bottom, that it couldn't get any worse. Then the rain came.
The rain pelted me as I sat in the street. I took a inventory of my body and came to the conclusion I was not injured from my fall. I didn't see the point in getting up; I had no where to go, nothing to do and there was no one around.
The rain gently hit the ground around me, slowly filling small puddles, and the noise made me think of a bowl of Rice Crispies. The various sounds snapped, crackled and popped hitting the ground, cars, trees, falling from clogged gutters and down in to the storm sewer. It was soothing, calming. Why have I never noticed this before?
I stood up and made my way in to the park. In the center under an opening in the trees I sat the bench. I leaned back and put my face to the sky. The smell of the rain was fresh, the wet grass sweet. It was definitely more quiet in the center of the park, and more relaxing.
I had driven past this park for years, seen dozens of people playing freebie, hacky sack, sun bathing, but I had never actually stopped or even merely walked through the park.
As I sat in the park, I realized there were many things in this town I had taken for granted. I had always been in such a hurry to do this or do that; working long hours, drinking in the few hours in between work, but playing very little. I was not one to smell the roses, but I wanted to know how the roses could make me money. Ironically, now I had nothing but time to smell the roses.
Maybe this is a new beginning for me, a second shot at contentment and inner peace. Maybe this time around I will walk a little slower, look at the sky from time to time and definitely find time to sit in the park during a gentle rain.
End Fiction.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
08-08-2009
Start Fiction:
"Who the fuck are you?" the man said spinning around, not expecting anyone to interrupt his work. He hated it when things didn't go as planned. It just pissed him off. "Shit, two for one, I guess."
Jon's arms shot up in the air as he stepped back as a gun was flung in his face. "Don' shoot!"
He grabbed Jon by the neck and flung him on to the couch next to Sam. The gun man began to pace in front of the two, occasionally kicking the coffee table, the recliner. He scratched his head with the butt of the gun, talking to himself under his breath.
"How's it going, Sam?" Jon said keeping his eyes on the irritated gunman.
"I've had better days," he said. "You?" Sam turned his head slightly, managing a smile of sorts.
Jon and Sam had known each other since junior high, attended Illinois for undergrad and ended up living in Boston. Sam was prepping for graduate school at Harvard while Jon was pursing his life's passion at MIT. Two incredibly smart guys caught in a rather unlikely situation.
"So, how long have you known this guy?" Jon said. Tapping his foot, he realized he was rather up anxious. He tried to stop, not wanting to further irritate the gunman.
"Apparently not long enough," Sam began, "he lives in one of the emergency housing locations I volunteer at twice a week. I've never seen him this agitated."
"What's his story?"
"Nothing really, Ben just lost his job and is trying to get back on his feet," Sam said. "He told me something might have come his way, but he wasn't sure he would be cut out for 'that kind of work'. I thought he was thinking of becoming a gigolo." Sam took a deep breath and adjusted slowly in his seat. "At any rate, I think he's here to kill me; something about job training, so I don't know what he is mixed up in now."
"I am guessing it is not a good career choice." Jon felt the gunman was capable of anything. To be so desperate for money to fall into a crowd that required you to kill someone you knew? Things could get incredibly wild in a very short time.
"Would you two just shut the hell up!" Ben shouted. He stopped pacing and fixed his gun on them.
End Fiction.
"Who the fuck are you?" the man said spinning around, not expecting anyone to interrupt his work. He hated it when things didn't go as planned. It just pissed him off. "Shit, two for one, I guess."
Jon's arms shot up in the air as he stepped back as a gun was flung in his face. "Don' shoot!"
He grabbed Jon by the neck and flung him on to the couch next to Sam. The gun man began to pace in front of the two, occasionally kicking the coffee table, the recliner. He scratched his head with the butt of the gun, talking to himself under his breath.
"How's it going, Sam?" Jon said keeping his eyes on the irritated gunman.
"I've had better days," he said. "You?" Sam turned his head slightly, managing a smile of sorts.
Jon and Sam had known each other since junior high, attended Illinois for undergrad and ended up living in Boston. Sam was prepping for graduate school at Harvard while Jon was pursing his life's passion at MIT. Two incredibly smart guys caught in a rather unlikely situation.
"So, how long have you known this guy?" Jon said. Tapping his foot, he realized he was rather up anxious. He tried to stop, not wanting to further irritate the gunman.
"Apparently not long enough," Sam began, "he lives in one of the emergency housing locations I volunteer at twice a week. I've never seen him this agitated."
"What's his story?"
"Nothing really, Ben just lost his job and is trying to get back on his feet," Sam said. "He told me something might have come his way, but he wasn't sure he would be cut out for 'that kind of work'. I thought he was thinking of becoming a gigolo." Sam took a deep breath and adjusted slowly in his seat. "At any rate, I think he's here to kill me; something about job training, so I don't know what he is mixed up in now."
"I am guessing it is not a good career choice." Jon felt the gunman was capable of anything. To be so desperate for money to fall into a crowd that required you to kill someone you knew? Things could get incredibly wild in a very short time.
"Would you two just shut the hell up!" Ben shouted. He stopped pacing and fixed his gun on them.
End Fiction.
Friday, August 7, 2009
08-07-2009
The first paragraph actually was said to me one day. The rest is fiction, but from other encounters I have had and conversations I have heard this individual engaged in makes him almost a cliche...
I may have to revist this one as it it too short.
Start Fiction:
"You know, I've always said I'd never mix," Russ said as he turned his head and watched the young attractive Filipino woman walk by, "but for her, I would break that rule."
Stanley stared at Russ, caught off guard. The young woman was extremely attractive and deserved acknowledgement, he did not know Russ very well, only passing 'hellos' in the hallway.
What would make him think he can say that to someone, or anyone? Stanley thought. Russ didn't know if he had a wife or girlfriend that was not of the same ethnicity, he could have just insulted Stanley's family.
Maybe he doesn't know how ignorant, racist that is.
"What difference does it make? Stanley asked as the words were now coming out of his mouth and not staying in his head where he preferred.
Russ snapped his head back to Stanley. Eyes wide, he stood up straight, pushing out his chest ever so slightly. "She's not American," he said loudly, proudly.
Stanley was dumbfounded.
Not American? He scratched his head, put his other hand on his hip, switched back and forth from looking at Russ and following the woman in question as she walked in the distance. He tried to formulate his thoughts carefully, but the only words that ran through his head were "she's", "not", and "American".
"You think that's ok? Mixing species?" Russ said, crossing his arms and widening his stance. In the distance, Stanley swore he could hear that opportunistic country song Proud to be an American, creating a powerfully dramatic moment. At lest in Stanley's head.
"Mix species?" Stanley managed to say.
"Yeah, like that oriental girl and an American," Russ said.
"Not American?"
"Is there something wrong with you in the head, there fella?" Russ said as he dropped his arms. He looked Stanley over, realizing he didn't know Stanley at all and he might possibly not understand a thing he was saying.
"Unbelievable," Stanley said. "How do you know she's not American?"
End Fiction.
I may have to revist this one as it it too short.
Start Fiction:
"You know, I've always said I'd never mix," Russ said as he turned his head and watched the young attractive Filipino woman walk by, "but for her, I would break that rule."
Stanley stared at Russ, caught off guard. The young woman was extremely attractive and deserved acknowledgement, he did not know Russ very well, only passing 'hellos' in the hallway.
What would make him think he can say that to someone, or anyone? Stanley thought. Russ didn't know if he had a wife or girlfriend that was not of the same ethnicity, he could have just insulted Stanley's family.
Maybe he doesn't know how ignorant, racist that is.
"What difference does it make? Stanley asked as the words were now coming out of his mouth and not staying in his head where he preferred.
Russ snapped his head back to Stanley. Eyes wide, he stood up straight, pushing out his chest ever so slightly. "She's not American," he said loudly, proudly.
Stanley was dumbfounded.
Not American? He scratched his head, put his other hand on his hip, switched back and forth from looking at Russ and following the woman in question as she walked in the distance. He tried to formulate his thoughts carefully, but the only words that ran through his head were "she's", "not", and "American".
"You think that's ok? Mixing species?" Russ said, crossing his arms and widening his stance. In the distance, Stanley swore he could hear that opportunistic country song Proud to be an American, creating a powerfully dramatic moment. At lest in Stanley's head.
"Mix species?" Stanley managed to say.
"Yeah, like that oriental girl and an American," Russ said.
"Not American?"
"Is there something wrong with you in the head, there fella?" Russ said as he dropped his arms. He looked Stanley over, realizing he didn't know Stanley at all and he might possibly not understand a thing he was saying.
"Unbelievable," Stanley said. "How do you know she's not American?"
End Fiction.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
08-06-2009
Start Fiction:
Sweat trickled down Lou's back. A sick feeling that made him feel dirty, even just out of the shower. But having a gun pointed at your head can do strange things to a person. At least his shorts were clean, for now.
"Where is she?" the man shouted at Lou. He looked to be in his early twenties; standing about six foot, maybe two hundred pounds, with an athletic build. His baseball cap was pulled down tight over his dark hair.
"Who are you talking about?" he pleaded which earned him a smack from the butt of the man's pistol. "Son of a bitch!" Lou cried out, grabbing his head dropping to his knees.
"I ain't playing no games," the man said grabbing his collar, pulling him up. "I know you and you know her, so let's stop me kicking the shit out of you and go about our business."
"Great," Lou said, "I'd be all for it if I knew who in the hell you were talking about!"
"Eileen," he shouted through his teeth. He pushed Lou against the wall, tightening his grip on his collar, and kept pushing Lou into the wall.
"I don't know any Eileen," Lou said. He searched his mind for any Eileen's he had ever met. Nothing came to him. "Perhaps a last name or a nickname would jog my memory," he said smiling. The man did not find it humorous, not that it necessarily was meant to be funny.
"Like an alias?"
"Maybe I do know her," Lou said as the man's grip loosened slightly.
"Yeah, maybe," he said as he let go of Lou.
"What's your name again?"
The man stepped back and pointed the gun at Lou's chest. He twisted his head hard and fast, several loud pops came from his neck.
"Don't try and trick me, pretty boy," he said. "You can just call me Gus."
"Nice to meet you Gus," Said as he stuck out his hand only to quickly pull it back. "Sorry, stupid move!"
"Boy, are you retarded or something?"
"I could be, but why don't you shoot me and put me out of my misery as this storyline is going absolutely nowhere," Lou said. And he was right, this is going absolutely nowhere...
End Fiction.
Sweat trickled down Lou's back. A sick feeling that made him feel dirty, even just out of the shower. But having a gun pointed at your head can do strange things to a person. At least his shorts were clean, for now.
"Where is she?" the man shouted at Lou. He looked to be in his early twenties; standing about six foot, maybe two hundred pounds, with an athletic build. His baseball cap was pulled down tight over his dark hair.
"Who are you talking about?" he pleaded which earned him a smack from the butt of the man's pistol. "Son of a bitch!" Lou cried out, grabbing his head dropping to his knees.
"I ain't playing no games," the man said grabbing his collar, pulling him up. "I know you and you know her, so let's stop me kicking the shit out of you and go about our business."
"Great," Lou said, "I'd be all for it if I knew who in the hell you were talking about!"
"Eileen," he shouted through his teeth. He pushed Lou against the wall, tightening his grip on his collar, and kept pushing Lou into the wall.
"I don't know any Eileen," Lou said. He searched his mind for any Eileen's he had ever met. Nothing came to him. "Perhaps a last name or a nickname would jog my memory," he said smiling. The man did not find it humorous, not that it necessarily was meant to be funny.
"Like an alias?"
"Maybe I do know her," Lou said as the man's grip loosened slightly.
"Yeah, maybe," he said as he let go of Lou.
"What's your name again?"
The man stepped back and pointed the gun at Lou's chest. He twisted his head hard and fast, several loud pops came from his neck.
"Don't try and trick me, pretty boy," he said. "You can just call me Gus."
"Nice to meet you Gus," Said as he stuck out his hand only to quickly pull it back. "Sorry, stupid move!"
"Boy, are you retarded or something?"
"I could be, but why don't you shoot me and put me out of my misery as this storyline is going absolutely nowhere," Lou said. And he was right, this is going absolutely nowhere...
End Fiction.
08-05-2009
Start Fiction:
Wayne's left eye twitched. A cold chill stabbed him in the back of his neck, spreading over the back of his head. His teeth chattered uncontrollably. Trying to step forward, he fell back in to the recliner with a snap. He raised his left hand and didn't recognize it as his own, but he knew it was his. The color of the room changed and music played, as well as someone whispering in his ear.
Oh god, it's happening, Wayne thought as he tried to take deep breaths, but realized he had no control.
People appeared in his living room. Two individuals sat on the couch conversing. Another couple, arm in arm, simply walked through one wall, across the room and through another wall. The people didn't seem to notice Wayne or their surroundings, except for the music. All of them could hear the music.
Wayne was paralyzed with fear, yet he wasn't afraid. He wanted to scream, but knew he was to be quiet. He felt as though he wanted to jump out the window or run out of the house, but he knew he was safe.
The duality made him dizzy, nauseous. His head throbbed as he argued with himself inside his mind; but was he arguing with himself, or someone else? It was distinct, the voice. Confidant and commanding; wildly different than Wayne playing Devil's Advocate with himself. Familiar...
He was returning. Wayne fought harder against his immobility, the paralysis.
He knew this presence, this entity. He had experienced him before, his emotion, his anger. But it was always fleeting. Nothing special ever seemed to precipitate the rising, he just came on a whim, and was usually gone just as quick.
Wayne was typically able to hold him at bay, keep him under control, but this time things felt different. He was stronger, more intense than all the previous experiences; he felt permanent.
"Ah, cowherd," it said to Wayne. The voice was hoarse, crackly. Wayne envisioned someone awakening from a coma and the voice coming from their dry, scratchy throat.
He did his best to ignore the voice, focusing on his movement.
"Of course, ignore me," it said, "as if you could!"
While Wayne was scared, uncertain, terrified even, he was also curious. He wondered what this visitor had to offer, or was coming to take. It maybe just a dream, a mild hallucination; nothing bit his imagination. The possibility of no harm to come led him to he decision to interact with this presence.
"I know you are there," Wayne said. "What makes you stop by today?"
"I am not just stopping by, Wayne," he said.
"We'll see," he said. That voice sounded familiar. "What's your name again?"
There was a pause, a slight grumble.
"Don't be silly, Wayne," the voice said. "How could you forget me so soon?"
At that moment, Wayne heard a woman chuckle, somewhat a echo in his mind. It gave him a chill, a slight rush of adrenaline. His face grew warm and he realized he had control over his breathing once again. A nice surprise, but an more unexpected response.
"Who was that?" the voice growled. "There should not be anyone in here without me knowing!" Wayne could feel his anger, his chest pounded.
"I have no idea," Wayne said as he sat up in the chair.
End Fiction.
Wayne's left eye twitched. A cold chill stabbed him in the back of his neck, spreading over the back of his head. His teeth chattered uncontrollably. Trying to step forward, he fell back in to the recliner with a snap. He raised his left hand and didn't recognize it as his own, but he knew it was his. The color of the room changed and music played, as well as someone whispering in his ear.
Oh god, it's happening, Wayne thought as he tried to take deep breaths, but realized he had no control.
People appeared in his living room. Two individuals sat on the couch conversing. Another couple, arm in arm, simply walked through one wall, across the room and through another wall. The people didn't seem to notice Wayne or their surroundings, except for the music. All of them could hear the music.
Wayne was paralyzed with fear, yet he wasn't afraid. He wanted to scream, but knew he was to be quiet. He felt as though he wanted to jump out the window or run out of the house, but he knew he was safe.
The duality made him dizzy, nauseous. His head throbbed as he argued with himself inside his mind; but was he arguing with himself, or someone else? It was distinct, the voice. Confidant and commanding; wildly different than Wayne playing Devil's Advocate with himself. Familiar...
He was returning. Wayne fought harder against his immobility, the paralysis.
He knew this presence, this entity. He had experienced him before, his emotion, his anger. But it was always fleeting. Nothing special ever seemed to precipitate the rising, he just came on a whim, and was usually gone just as quick.
Wayne was typically able to hold him at bay, keep him under control, but this time things felt different. He was stronger, more intense than all the previous experiences; he felt permanent.
"Ah, cowherd," it said to Wayne. The voice was hoarse, crackly. Wayne envisioned someone awakening from a coma and the voice coming from their dry, scratchy throat.
He did his best to ignore the voice, focusing on his movement.
"Of course, ignore me," it said, "as if you could!"
While Wayne was scared, uncertain, terrified even, he was also curious. He wondered what this visitor had to offer, or was coming to take. It maybe just a dream, a mild hallucination; nothing bit his imagination. The possibility of no harm to come led him to he decision to interact with this presence.
"I know you are there," Wayne said. "What makes you stop by today?"
"I am not just stopping by, Wayne," he said.
"We'll see," he said. That voice sounded familiar. "What's your name again?"
There was a pause, a slight grumble.
"Don't be silly, Wayne," the voice said. "How could you forget me so soon?"
At that moment, Wayne heard a woman chuckle, somewhat a echo in his mind. It gave him a chill, a slight rush of adrenaline. His face grew warm and he realized he had control over his breathing once again. A nice surprise, but an more unexpected response.
"Who was that?" the voice growled. "There should not be anyone in here without me knowing!" Wayne could feel his anger, his chest pounded.
"I have no idea," Wayne said as he sat up in the chair.
End Fiction.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
08-04-2009
Exercise: 3rd POV clash between clerk and customer from customer POV.
Start Fiction:
Wanda walked up to the counter and the clerk simply ignored her, standing there picking at her fingernails.
She is probably picking flesh out from under her nails as a result of attacking someone, Wanda thought.
She waited a few seconds to let her gather her twiggy, dog collar wearing ass and get to work. Apparently she needed some motivation.
"Hello?" She said. The clerk didn't acknowledge Wanda. "Excuse me," she said louder. She slowly turned her head and stared at Wanda.
"What?" she said.
"I am ready to checkout," Wanda said as she set her items on the counter.
The clerk sighed and moved towards the cash register. She zipped the items over the scanner and threw them, literally, in a bag. She rang up the total and mumbled it to Wanda.
"Ok, two things," Wanda said. "One, you are mumbling and non one can understand you, so pronounce you words." The clerk just stared at her. It almost seemed to Wanda that "fuck off" was slowly appearing on her forehead. "Second," she continued, "you don't need to be treating the stuff I am buying like garbage and just throw it around."
"They're shirts," she smarted back.
"It don't matter, little girl," Wanda said. "You need to remember that every person that you face pays your wages with every item you touch." she tried to not get mad, to not completely go off on the freaky looking clerk.
"If you don't come in and buy this shit," the clerk said as she put the bag on the counter, "some other lonely housewife will be in here ten minutes from now to suck it up just as fast."
"Who in the hell do you think you are thinking you know a damn thing about me?" Wanda said. She leaned towards the clerk and took a deep breath. "You're just a child who doesn't know shit about shit. You need to learn your place and learn to respect people." Their faces were inches apart; Wanda could smell the incense on the clerk and her bubble gum flavored gum.
"And I suppose you're just the one to teach me?" the clerk said. She blew a bubble, almost hitting Wanda on the nose.
Wanda raised he hand and popped the bubble with her index finger. She pointed her finger at the clerk, her arm shaking, her breathing became rapid, her teeth grinding. The clerk's eyes widened, bubble gum hanging from her mouth.
Hearing her teeth grind, Wanda slowly stood up and stepped back. She put her wallet back in her purse and walked out of the store. No purchase today, or any more from this store.
Wanda was embarrassed she had let that punk ass bitch get to her, but she was sick of working with kids like the clerk who not only don't have respect for anyone else, they don't have respect for themselves. It weighed heavy on her mind, her heart, but most days she just didn't know what to do to help these kids.
End Fiction.
Start Fiction:
Wanda walked up to the counter and the clerk simply ignored her, standing there picking at her fingernails.
She is probably picking flesh out from under her nails as a result of attacking someone, Wanda thought.
She waited a few seconds to let her gather her twiggy, dog collar wearing ass and get to work. Apparently she needed some motivation.
"Hello?" She said. The clerk didn't acknowledge Wanda. "Excuse me," she said louder. She slowly turned her head and stared at Wanda.
"What?" she said.
"I am ready to checkout," Wanda said as she set her items on the counter.
The clerk sighed and moved towards the cash register. She zipped the items over the scanner and threw them, literally, in a bag. She rang up the total and mumbled it to Wanda.
"Ok, two things," Wanda said. "One, you are mumbling and non one can understand you, so pronounce you words." The clerk just stared at her. It almost seemed to Wanda that "fuck off" was slowly appearing on her forehead. "Second," she continued, "you don't need to be treating the stuff I am buying like garbage and just throw it around."
"They're shirts," she smarted back.
"It don't matter, little girl," Wanda said. "You need to remember that every person that you face pays your wages with every item you touch." she tried to not get mad, to not completely go off on the freaky looking clerk.
"If you don't come in and buy this shit," the clerk said as she put the bag on the counter, "some other lonely housewife will be in here ten minutes from now to suck it up just as fast."
"Who in the hell do you think you are thinking you know a damn thing about me?" Wanda said. She leaned towards the clerk and took a deep breath. "You're just a child who doesn't know shit about shit. You need to learn your place and learn to respect people." Their faces were inches apart; Wanda could smell the incense on the clerk and her bubble gum flavored gum.
"And I suppose you're just the one to teach me?" the clerk said. She blew a bubble, almost hitting Wanda on the nose.
Wanda raised he hand and popped the bubble with her index finger. She pointed her finger at the clerk, her arm shaking, her breathing became rapid, her teeth grinding. The clerk's eyes widened, bubble gum hanging from her mouth.
Hearing her teeth grind, Wanda slowly stood up and stepped back. She put her wallet back in her purse and walked out of the store. No purchase today, or any more from this store.
Wanda was embarrassed she had let that punk ass bitch get to her, but she was sick of working with kids like the clerk who not only don't have respect for anyone else, they don't have respect for themselves. It weighed heavy on her mind, her heart, but most days she just didn't know what to do to help these kids.
End Fiction.
08-03-2009
Ok, I am not sure this one hits the mark, or if it even hits the same landing zone... perhaps too vague. Blah.
Exercise: Big issue for desire. (wealth, fame, love, etc.).
Start Fiction:
The old cliche of "careful what you wish for" just didn't apply. I wasn't wishing. I knew what I wanted, and wealth was what I was going to get.
I was going to make a ton of money when I sold my patent for a snow shovel.
Long, cold winters spent shoveling tons, literally, tons of snow growing up made me develop several ideas on a better shovel.
Why not just buy a snow blower? Pussy. It wasn't like we had parking lots or roads to clear, we had driveways and sidewalks. It would have taken the same amount of time with a shovel, plus there was no expenses with a shovel and it was great exercise.'it was just hard on your back.
So, I kept working on developing what I thought was a highly unique idea. I worked with Grandpa on learning some welding, and while that gave me some great prototypes the metal was extremely heavy.
Dad helped me turn some of my prototypes into wood models, which helped, but was still somewhat cumbersome. That's when I decided to patent my ideas and just wait for the cash to roll in.
Well, I sent the specs in and waited for approval. I had researched several companies I was going to present my invention to by summer so they could get production going for winter.
Two long months dragged by and my letter from the patent office finally arrived. It was a regular envelope, much smaller than I had expected. I opened the envelope with dollar signs swirling about my head.
"What the fuck?" I remember yelling that seemingly unseasonably cold July afternoon. As I read the letter, I couldn't believe someone had already patented my idea - two years earlier! Unbelievable. All that time, effort and snow!
I was pissed, but I was not about to give up because of one small glitch. I noted the patent and decided I wanted to look at that patent myself and see if it really was my idea or if they made a huge mistake. I mean, my fortune was at stake here.
As I sent a request for the patent information I felt as though things were not looking good. In order to not get discouraged, I decided to head back to the drawing board. An obstacle, not a dead end, I kept telling myself.
One way or another, I was going to think of some ingenious idea, make a ton of money and go fishin' for the rest of my life.
End Fiction.
Exercise: Big issue for desire. (wealth, fame, love, etc.).
Start Fiction:
The old cliche of "careful what you wish for" just didn't apply. I wasn't wishing. I knew what I wanted, and wealth was what I was going to get.
I was going to make a ton of money when I sold my patent for a snow shovel.
Long, cold winters spent shoveling tons, literally, tons of snow growing up made me develop several ideas on a better shovel.
Why not just buy a snow blower? Pussy. It wasn't like we had parking lots or roads to clear, we had driveways and sidewalks. It would have taken the same amount of time with a shovel, plus there was no expenses with a shovel and it was great exercise.'it was just hard on your back.
So, I kept working on developing what I thought was a highly unique idea. I worked with Grandpa on learning some welding, and while that gave me some great prototypes the metal was extremely heavy.
Dad helped me turn some of my prototypes into wood models, which helped, but was still somewhat cumbersome. That's when I decided to patent my ideas and just wait for the cash to roll in.
Well, I sent the specs in and waited for approval. I had researched several companies I was going to present my invention to by summer so they could get production going for winter.
Two long months dragged by and my letter from the patent office finally arrived. It was a regular envelope, much smaller than I had expected. I opened the envelope with dollar signs swirling about my head.
"What the fuck?" I remember yelling that seemingly unseasonably cold July afternoon. As I read the letter, I couldn't believe someone had already patented my idea - two years earlier! Unbelievable. All that time, effort and snow!
I was pissed, but I was not about to give up because of one small glitch. I noted the patent and decided I wanted to look at that patent myself and see if it really was my idea or if they made a huge mistake. I mean, my fortune was at stake here.
As I sent a request for the patent information I felt as though things were not looking good. In order to not get discouraged, I decided to head back to the drawing board. An obstacle, not a dead end, I kept telling myself.
One way or another, I was going to think of some ingenious idea, make a ton of money and go fishin' for the rest of my life.
End Fiction.
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