Start Fiction:
It all started when I was nine, the first time I saw a dead body; swollen, bloated, discolored, deformed; its open mouth let out a silent scream that echoes in my ears still.
I tried all sorts of things the last twenty years to get the body out of my head, to stop seeing its face in the shadows, my dreams. Mostly, I just didn't sleep, and when I did, in spurts, it was always during the day with the blinds open.
It seems such a thing would pass for most people rather than linger on, festering. An average life requires attendance of funerals, which mine did. But a made up corpse never struck me the same; they never instilled the same intensity of fear, disgust, terror as a half mangled body, exposed to the elements for several summer days. Not to mention critters taking nibbles here and there.
Maybe I just needed to see a body like that once again to deal with such a scene as a adult with a rational mind, with an understanding of the human body, the nature of disease and decay. But where was I going to come across such a horrific scene other than in the confines of my mind?
End Fiction.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Thursday, April 29, 2010
04-29-2010
Start Fiction:
Harold Hadaway folded his flag as he did every evening, ignoring the Smiths who were on their porch arguing, again. He wondered what could not only bring two people together that genuinely disliked each other, let alone keep them together for over thirty years.
He paid it little attention as their antics were years old now; similar words, similar actions, no resolve. Garold chuckled a bit to himself as he walked to the house, his empty, quiet house to put his flag away for the evening. As he reached for the front door knob a loud bang sounded behind him, loud enough to make Harold drop to the ground.
He rolled behind the patio wall, taking cover, waiting for a second blast. It never came; it was silent. No dog barking, no neighbors yelling at each other, no screams of horror. Nothing. Hesitating, Harold began to lift himself to peek over the wall. Slowly ascending, he looked around quickly, seeking any immediate threats. There were none; Maude Smith was standing over Frank Smith with a shotgun, staring down at his motionless body.
End Fiction.
Harold Hadaway folded his flag as he did every evening, ignoring the Smiths who were on their porch arguing, again. He wondered what could not only bring two people together that genuinely disliked each other, let alone keep them together for over thirty years.
He paid it little attention as their antics were years old now; similar words, similar actions, no resolve. Garold chuckled a bit to himself as he walked to the house, his empty, quiet house to put his flag away for the evening. As he reached for the front door knob a loud bang sounded behind him, loud enough to make Harold drop to the ground.
He rolled behind the patio wall, taking cover, waiting for a second blast. It never came; it was silent. No dog barking, no neighbors yelling at each other, no screams of horror. Nothing. Hesitating, Harold began to lift himself to peek over the wall. Slowly ascending, he looked around quickly, seeking any immediate threats. There were none; Maude Smith was standing over Frank Smith with a shotgun, staring down at his motionless body.
End Fiction.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
04-26-2010
Start Fiction:
Wilbur Jones had never shot a man before, but his first day on duty was headed that way quickly. A call from the State Bank on Main Street had come in and Wilbur Jones was the first deputy on the scene.
A thin rail of an adult boy, Wilbur Jones looked more like he was wearing a Halloween costume than a uniform; nothing fit right from his cap to his shoes. Maybe the Sheriff thought he'd grow in to them someday, but not any day too soon.
Now, being so new, Wilbur Jones was a beat cop; an adult boy with a gun and a walkie-talkie. And for one reason or another, he was on his own on his first shift. Who knew there would be any excitement this big in his first year, let alone his first day.
Upon getting the call, Wilbur responded on his walkie-talkie, his mouth dry and voice strained. He had to repeat himself a few times before dispatch understood what he was saying. The Sheriff, who was listening, tried to be confident in Wilbur, but he sure was making it hard to do.
Wilbur positioned himself behind a bright red Buick across the street from the bank. He fumbled and fought with the latch on his holster, trying to get his gun ready for the bank robbers as they left the building. Wilbur looked up and down the street waiting for more back up, but a few minutes seemed to be taking an awfully long time.
Sweat ran into eyes as he finally removed his gun from the holster, stinging. Wilbur tried to ear the pounding from his ears, as though they were merely plugged. No such luck, but Wilbur was stubborn that way.
End Fiction.
Kind of lost it after I fell asleep!
Wilbur Jones had never shot a man before, but his first day on duty was headed that way quickly. A call from the State Bank on Main Street had come in and Wilbur Jones was the first deputy on the scene.
A thin rail of an adult boy, Wilbur Jones looked more like he was wearing a Halloween costume than a uniform; nothing fit right from his cap to his shoes. Maybe the Sheriff thought he'd grow in to them someday, but not any day too soon.
Now, being so new, Wilbur Jones was a beat cop; an adult boy with a gun and a walkie-talkie. And for one reason or another, he was on his own on his first shift. Who knew there would be any excitement this big in his first year, let alone his first day.
Upon getting the call, Wilbur responded on his walkie-talkie, his mouth dry and voice strained. He had to repeat himself a few times before dispatch understood what he was saying. The Sheriff, who was listening, tried to be confident in Wilbur, but he sure was making it hard to do.
Wilbur positioned himself behind a bright red Buick across the street from the bank. He fumbled and fought with the latch on his holster, trying to get his gun ready for the bank robbers as they left the building. Wilbur looked up and down the street waiting for more back up, but a few minutes seemed to be taking an awfully long time.
Sweat ran into eyes as he finally removed his gun from the holster, stinging. Wilbur tried to ear the pounding from his ears, as though they were merely plugged. No such luck, but Wilbur was stubborn that way.
End Fiction.
Kind of lost it after I fell asleep!
Friday, April 23, 2010
04-23-2010
I have been reading a lot of short stories by Mark Twain and Oscar Wilde; I may be falling under a bit of influence... influence to let go and write what I want to write and refrain from self censorship.
Start Fiction:
Billy Junge was a sore sort of fella. He wasn't blessed with more than a dash of looks, a sprinkle of smarts and a pinch or less of personality. Billy was a tall, slender and gangly man with short, greasy flat hair. He wore stained overalls everyday, as everyday was a workday; Billy had no need for fancy clothes, not even on Sunday.
One could see why he was sore; but for such a fella, he was abundantly blessed with success, family and financial security. The Junge family owned the local fruit & vegetable market; a very popular market. What Billy lacked, his twin sister, Bethany, had in abundance. His parents, Herb and Barb, were, well, let's just say they were a little off, but kind, gentle and hard working folk. They, like Bethany, loved to sing, dance and laugh. A lot.
The Junge's had farmed this lot of land for four generations now. It all started when young Jebidiah Junge bought the land with his inheritance from a distant uncle who chose Jebidiah to spite his family. It worked, and Jebediah's purchase was salt in their wounds. He turned that land in to a productive farm in merely two seasons; and in the third, he married and started his family. His great grandson, Herb, had kept the farm successful and the next generation was a big part of that success.
The Junge's worked well together, even with Billy's shortcomings. Luckily, Bethany dealt with the customers, Herb and Barb dealt with the suppliers and Billy dealt with the crops. What Billy lacked elsewhere he made up for in managing the crops and delivering an abundant harvest. The crops didn't mind he was sore. It was a perfect situation for everyone. For the time being, at least.
The rooster bellowed as the dawn began to crack. Billy was already in the barn, hooking up his tractor, getting ready for the day's rounds. He walked to the barn door and gave the rooster a stern look. The rooster ceased; the goats tiptoed to the back of the barnyard, squeezing out the sheep. Billy could be that sore.
"Brother, let him sing," Bethany said as she stepped off the porch. Billy was rarely sore with his twin sister, she had that effect on him. Even though he was slow witted compared to most, he believed that in many ways she was his better half and always gave way to her wisdom. "For me, please?" Billy said nothing as he looked as his smiling, wide eyed sister. That was his way of smiling; no flared nostrils, no furrowed brow, just a plain, blank stare of acknowledgment. Billy could be just that sore.
Now, Bethany loved her brother dearly and wished for him to be happy. Although she often doubted he would, or even could, be happy, she thought about ways to make him happy. Nothing seemed more pleasing to Billy than working in the field, alone; or would he like some company from time to time. Bethany felt this was worth figuring out and walked into the barn where Billy was working.
"Maybe I could help you in the fields today," she said as she began to climb on Billy's tractor. He just ignored her, minding his task. "You work so hard, all by yourself, all day, everyday," Bethany went on, sitting on the driver's seat.
"We all work hard, sister," Billy mumbled, "that's the kinda folk we is." He stood up and walked to the tractor, looking at Bethany. "I don't think you'd make it all day in the fields, sister." He pushed his hat back, leaned on the tractor wheel.
"My goodness," Bethany said. "Did you just make a joke, Billy Junge?" She smiled wide and let out a bellow of a laugh; a laugh that echoed through the barn, startling the sparrows from their perch and sending them in a fluttering fury out the barn door. "Maybe there is hope for you yet, dear brother."
And there was.
End Fiction.
Start Fiction:
Billy Junge was a sore sort of fella. He wasn't blessed with more than a dash of looks, a sprinkle of smarts and a pinch or less of personality. Billy was a tall, slender and gangly man with short, greasy flat hair. He wore stained overalls everyday, as everyday was a workday; Billy had no need for fancy clothes, not even on Sunday.
One could see why he was sore; but for such a fella, he was abundantly blessed with success, family and financial security. The Junge family owned the local fruit & vegetable market; a very popular market. What Billy lacked, his twin sister, Bethany, had in abundance. His parents, Herb and Barb, were, well, let's just say they were a little off, but kind, gentle and hard working folk. They, like Bethany, loved to sing, dance and laugh. A lot.
The Junge's had farmed this lot of land for four generations now. It all started when young Jebidiah Junge bought the land with his inheritance from a distant uncle who chose Jebidiah to spite his family. It worked, and Jebediah's purchase was salt in their wounds. He turned that land in to a productive farm in merely two seasons; and in the third, he married and started his family. His great grandson, Herb, had kept the farm successful and the next generation was a big part of that success.
The Junge's worked well together, even with Billy's shortcomings. Luckily, Bethany dealt with the customers, Herb and Barb dealt with the suppliers and Billy dealt with the crops. What Billy lacked elsewhere he made up for in managing the crops and delivering an abundant harvest. The crops didn't mind he was sore. It was a perfect situation for everyone. For the time being, at least.
The rooster bellowed as the dawn began to crack. Billy was already in the barn, hooking up his tractor, getting ready for the day's rounds. He walked to the barn door and gave the rooster a stern look. The rooster ceased; the goats tiptoed to the back of the barnyard, squeezing out the sheep. Billy could be that sore.
"Brother, let him sing," Bethany said as she stepped off the porch. Billy was rarely sore with his twin sister, she had that effect on him. Even though he was slow witted compared to most, he believed that in many ways she was his better half and always gave way to her wisdom. "For me, please?" Billy said nothing as he looked as his smiling, wide eyed sister. That was his way of smiling; no flared nostrils, no furrowed brow, just a plain, blank stare of acknowledgment. Billy could be just that sore.
Now, Bethany loved her brother dearly and wished for him to be happy. Although she often doubted he would, or even could, be happy, she thought about ways to make him happy. Nothing seemed more pleasing to Billy than working in the field, alone; or would he like some company from time to time. Bethany felt this was worth figuring out and walked into the barn where Billy was working.
"Maybe I could help you in the fields today," she said as she began to climb on Billy's tractor. He just ignored her, minding his task. "You work so hard, all by yourself, all day, everyday," Bethany went on, sitting on the driver's seat.
"We all work hard, sister," Billy mumbled, "that's the kinda folk we is." He stood up and walked to the tractor, looking at Bethany. "I don't think you'd make it all day in the fields, sister." He pushed his hat back, leaned on the tractor wheel.
"My goodness," Bethany said. "Did you just make a joke, Billy Junge?" She smiled wide and let out a bellow of a laugh; a laugh that echoed through the barn, startling the sparrows from their perch and sending them in a fluttering fury out the barn door. "Maybe there is hope for you yet, dear brother."
And there was.
End Fiction.
Monday, April 19, 2010
04-19-2010
Start Fiction:
Danny slid with back to the wall, scraping. The old brick in the alley was coarse; he could hear little tears with each slide. Even though he moved slow, he knew any faster movements could be his demise.
He never really cared for poker; why he agreed to a private game was lost on him. Tony and Stu had invited him, said they had fine to this game all the time. And it was total bullshit; no one there knew who they were, except that they were the two dead guys at the table.
The cuts on Danny's face burned as sweat began to creep in the wounds, flushing out the blood. He was lucky there was a fire escape on the other side of the window he dove through, although his ribs and shoulder would disagree. And his ankle might also have objections after jumping off the fire escape. Their objections would just gave to wait; this was far from over.
Now several blocks away, Danny thought, he slid behind a dumpster. The street light fell short of his location by an inch or two. The traffic was rather light, helping Danny listen for any voices, foot steps, or just too much silence. And that is how it was: silent. He knew that was a not a good sign. They were close, and listening just like him.
They were at the advantage. This was their neighborhood, their streets, their alley. Trying to control he breath, Danny wondered if he wasn't merely game for the hunt; they maybe waiting for the right moment to flush him out of hiding. He was determined not to let that happen.
Danny gathered himself, his breathing under control, he closed his eyes and listened. A TV; an old woman nagging someone, an a.m. radio; the L; distant sirens; a can down the alley. Danny's eyes popped open as his breath left him. He tried not to react; that would get him killed for sure He felt himself begin to slide down the wall a bit, but he stopped. No noise was good noise.
Damn I hurt.
End Fiction.
Danny slid with back to the wall, scraping. The old brick in the alley was coarse; he could hear little tears with each slide. Even though he moved slow, he knew any faster movements could be his demise.
He never really cared for poker; why he agreed to a private game was lost on him. Tony and Stu had invited him, said they had fine to this game all the time. And it was total bullshit; no one there knew who they were, except that they were the two dead guys at the table.
The cuts on Danny's face burned as sweat began to creep in the wounds, flushing out the blood. He was lucky there was a fire escape on the other side of the window he dove through, although his ribs and shoulder would disagree. And his ankle might also have objections after jumping off the fire escape. Their objections would just gave to wait; this was far from over.
Now several blocks away, Danny thought, he slid behind a dumpster. The street light fell short of his location by an inch or two. The traffic was rather light, helping Danny listen for any voices, foot steps, or just too much silence. And that is how it was: silent. He knew that was a not a good sign. They were close, and listening just like him.
They were at the advantage. This was their neighborhood, their streets, their alley. Trying to control he breath, Danny wondered if he wasn't merely game for the hunt; they maybe waiting for the right moment to flush him out of hiding. He was determined not to let that happen.
Danny gathered himself, his breathing under control, he closed his eyes and listened. A TV; an old woman nagging someone, an a.m. radio; the L; distant sirens; a can down the alley. Danny's eyes popped open as his breath left him. He tried not to react; that would get him killed for sure He felt himself begin to slide down the wall a bit, but he stopped. No noise was good noise.
Damn I hurt.
End Fiction.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
04-18-2010 -- Crazy dream...
I awoke this morning laughing a bit. I had a rather... entertaining dream. I will do my best to recapture the experience. This needs revision, without doubt, so I apologize for the sloppy nature of this post.
Here we go:
It was late evening. I left my parents house where my wife and several others were having a party. I was on a beer run; ironic, the recovering alcoholic making the run. I am not sure who I was making this beer run with, but I sensed he was coworker; no one I knew, however. We drive my car, of course, which was my last car that had died several years ago.
Upon arriving at the liquor store, we didn't grab beer, but several bottles of hard liquor; whiskey, tequila, vodka, and I believe a bottle of Thunderbird. No idea why we would grab Thunderbird.
We set the bottles on the counter, I felt nervous. Almost seven years sober, and here I was buying a shit ton of booze. The nervousness passed quickly as the cashier turned around and who was none other than Sidney Poitier! I looked to my coworker who was equally excited, and we were speechless. That is until Mr. Poitier asked for some identification.
As I was giddy standing opposite Mr. Poitier, I fumbled my wallet and ended up dropping my ID on the counter. He looked at the ID, never making eye contact, walked over to the phone and paged a manager. I told him it wasn't fake, just look at the ears and he would see it was in fact my ID. Mr. Poitier responded by holding the ID up to the light. Still, no eye contact.
Five minutes later the manager arrived, took the ID and called the local police department to verify the ID was real, almost as though she was verifying a credit card. Very strange. My coworker and I decided this was bogus and agreed that once I got my ID back we were going somewhere else.
The manager hung up the phone, walked back to the register and told me she guessed it was legit, so we were ok to buy the booze. And still, no eye contact from her or Mr. Poitier. I took the ID and as I put it back in my wallet I told her that their inability to make any eye contact whatsoever, plus the long delay, just lost our business and we were going elsewhere to get our booze.
We walked out and got into my Grand Am, my now deceased car. And, much like reality, the car wouldn't start. Perfect. Now, the season had been either early spring or early fall up to this point, but as soon as the car wouldn't start, it was the middle of winter; snow banks, covered street, icicles hung from the bumper.
I walked back up to the liquor store to call my dad to come and give us a jump. Uncharacteristically, he hesitated, so I hung up on him and we decided to walk to Kum 'n Go to get our booze. We walked in, stomping the snow from our shoes, brushing off our heads.
Kyle was working (I had previously worked with Kyle at property management). He and his coworkers were in Iowa State tee-shirts behind want felt more like an information table than a convenience store counter. We exchanged a few sarcastic remarks, as usual, and after hearing about Mr. Poitier, said he'd would be willing to give me a jump. So we bought our booze and made our way out in to the parking lot where my car now was - not really sure how it made the trip with us!
As payment, Kyle wanted a shot for him and his buddies, which for some reason was about eight guys. And of course, I had ten shot glasses in my car, so I set up a round on the roof of my car while they hooked up the jumper cables. Two of the guys were playing badminton it the snowy parking lot, and we had to wait for them to finish their volley before we could do the shot.
After taking the shot, it was time to fire up the cars. Kyle's car had been running, charging my battery for over five minutes at this point. I turned the key and my engine burst into flames! Everyone rushed around, laughing and giggling. All at once, all ten of us lifted up our fire extinguishers and worked feverishly to subdue the flames. Why we each had extinguishers in our hands is beyond me, but it seemed so natural in the dream!
With the fire extinguished, my coworker and I got in the car and drove off, heading back to my parents house with the long awaited booze as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
Other than Sidney Poitier, that is.
A little crazy, but a lot of fun.
Here we go:
It was late evening. I left my parents house where my wife and several others were having a party. I was on a beer run; ironic, the recovering alcoholic making the run. I am not sure who I was making this beer run with, but I sensed he was coworker; no one I knew, however. We drive my car, of course, which was my last car that had died several years ago.
Upon arriving at the liquor store, we didn't grab beer, but several bottles of hard liquor; whiskey, tequila, vodka, and I believe a bottle of Thunderbird. No idea why we would grab Thunderbird.
We set the bottles on the counter, I felt nervous. Almost seven years sober, and here I was buying a shit ton of booze. The nervousness passed quickly as the cashier turned around and who was none other than Sidney Poitier! I looked to my coworker who was equally excited, and we were speechless. That is until Mr. Poitier asked for some identification.
As I was giddy standing opposite Mr. Poitier, I fumbled my wallet and ended up dropping my ID on the counter. He looked at the ID, never making eye contact, walked over to the phone and paged a manager. I told him it wasn't fake, just look at the ears and he would see it was in fact my ID. Mr. Poitier responded by holding the ID up to the light. Still, no eye contact.
Five minutes later the manager arrived, took the ID and called the local police department to verify the ID was real, almost as though she was verifying a credit card. Very strange. My coworker and I decided this was bogus and agreed that once I got my ID back we were going somewhere else.
The manager hung up the phone, walked back to the register and told me she guessed it was legit, so we were ok to buy the booze. And still, no eye contact from her or Mr. Poitier. I took the ID and as I put it back in my wallet I told her that their inability to make any eye contact whatsoever, plus the long delay, just lost our business and we were going elsewhere to get our booze.
We walked out and got into my Grand Am, my now deceased car. And, much like reality, the car wouldn't start. Perfect. Now, the season had been either early spring or early fall up to this point, but as soon as the car wouldn't start, it was the middle of winter; snow banks, covered street, icicles hung from the bumper.
I walked back up to the liquor store to call my dad to come and give us a jump. Uncharacteristically, he hesitated, so I hung up on him and we decided to walk to Kum 'n Go to get our booze. We walked in, stomping the snow from our shoes, brushing off our heads.
Kyle was working (I had previously worked with Kyle at property management). He and his coworkers were in Iowa State tee-shirts behind want felt more like an information table than a convenience store counter. We exchanged a few sarcastic remarks, as usual, and after hearing about Mr. Poitier, said he'd would be willing to give me a jump. So we bought our booze and made our way out in to the parking lot where my car now was - not really sure how it made the trip with us!
As payment, Kyle wanted a shot for him and his buddies, which for some reason was about eight guys. And of course, I had ten shot glasses in my car, so I set up a round on the roof of my car while they hooked up the jumper cables. Two of the guys were playing badminton it the snowy parking lot, and we had to wait for them to finish their volley before we could do the shot.
After taking the shot, it was time to fire up the cars. Kyle's car had been running, charging my battery for over five minutes at this point. I turned the key and my engine burst into flames! Everyone rushed around, laughing and giggling. All at once, all ten of us lifted up our fire extinguishers and worked feverishly to subdue the flames. Why we each had extinguishers in our hands is beyond me, but it seemed so natural in the dream!
With the fire extinguished, my coworker and I got in the car and drove off, heading back to my parents house with the long awaited booze as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
Other than Sidney Poitier, that is.
A little crazy, but a lot of fun.
Friday, April 16, 2010
04-16-2010
Start Fiction:
The room felt smaller, tighter around Paul. The tips of his ears, his forehead, his scalp began to burn. He took quick, short deep breaths. He looked out the window as dusk fell on the horizon, out at the open space, the air, the freedom.
He sat up, leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. Paul rubbed his head, trying to control his breathing, catch his breath. He looked to the window again; a fleeting sense of calm came over and through him. Paul tried to stand; his legs shook, a his fever intensified, a slight sweat covered his brow.
The door was only twenty feet. Paul shook as he stepped, almost dragging his feet. His chest pounded, hands clammy, sweaty, mouth cotton dry. A quick look to the window; another quick sense of calm. Two more steps. Hand in the knob, turn; the door weighed a ton, Paul struggled, gasping for air.
He began to wedge himself through the half open door. The outside air cooled his burning forehead, a slight chill. Paul took a deep breath; his lungs flooded with fresh air, rushing to his head. It got dark; Paul felt pain on the side of his face.
The sounds of the neighborhood dogs faded, giving way to a constant ringing. Paul didn't care, he wasn't concerned; he was outside, free.
End Fiction.
Too short...
The room felt smaller, tighter around Paul. The tips of his ears, his forehead, his scalp began to burn. He took quick, short deep breaths. He looked out the window as dusk fell on the horizon, out at the open space, the air, the freedom.
He sat up, leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. Paul rubbed his head, trying to control his breathing, catch his breath. He looked to the window again; a fleeting sense of calm came over and through him. Paul tried to stand; his legs shook, a his fever intensified, a slight sweat covered his brow.
The door was only twenty feet. Paul shook as he stepped, almost dragging his feet. His chest pounded, hands clammy, sweaty, mouth cotton dry. A quick look to the window; another quick sense of calm. Two more steps. Hand in the knob, turn; the door weighed a ton, Paul struggled, gasping for air.
He began to wedge himself through the half open door. The outside air cooled his burning forehead, a slight chill. Paul took a deep breath; his lungs flooded with fresh air, rushing to his head. It got dark; Paul felt pain on the side of his face.
The sounds of the neighborhood dogs faded, giving way to a constant ringing. Paul didn't care, he wasn't concerned; he was outside, free.
End Fiction.
Too short...
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
04-14-2010
Start Fiction:
"Perhaps," Henry said. "But, I'll let you think what you want." He stood up and moved to the doorway. Leaning up against the jamb, he lit a cigarette, blowing his first drag into the hallway.
Jenny remained still, sitting against the wall. She watched Henry in her peripheral vision; her imagination getting the best of, for the moment anyway. While she had only known Henry for a short time, she felt there wasn't too much mystery to the man; definitely no myth. Or was there? When did he start smoking?
"We'll need to move soon," he said. Stomping out his cigarette on the concrete floor. He walked across the kitchen and pulled the refrigerator from the wall, stepping behind it. Jenny heard some shuffling, a thud; then a series of clicks and snaps. She had heard those noises before, no doubt.
Henry stepped out from behind the refrigerator with a nine millimeter pistol in each hand, and at least one more tucked in his pants. He looked surprisingly normal, natural, holding the guns. Jenny slowly slid up the wall, her eyes set on Henry's. She wasn't scared, but strangely excited.
"Ready?" he said, handing her one of the guns.
"I..I don't understand," Jenny said. She stared at the gun she held with both hands. "I...I don't think I can so this."
Henry's head snapped with the faint sound of car doors. "Sloppy," he said as he took Jenny by the arm and led her out into the hallway, closing and locking the door. She didn't fight his lead, somewhat dazed, yet in awe; apparently there was untold mystery surrounding Henry.
They made their way down the hallway towards the rear of the complex. Stopping at the utility closet, Henry placed his hand on the center of the door; several beeps sounded and the door unlocked. Freaking awesome, Jenny thought, quickly following Henry into what she thought was merely a closet; far from it. He flicked a switch and a descending hallway illuminated in front of them. It was a passage way, a safe route out of the building.
"Who are you?" Jenny whispered. Henry gave her a quick glance, saying nothing. "If we live, you have to tell me." Gripping the gun tighter, Jenny followed him close, slightly tugging on his jacket.
"I can't make that promise," Henry said, then stopped and turned to Jenny. "To tell you," he started, "I mean I can't promise that, but you will live, no question." His eyes shone in the dimly light passage, a brief smile, then back to business. Turning his focus down the passage, Henry stuck in an earpiece.
"Support, cat up a tree in need of assistance," Henry said. His pace increased. Jenny heard her apartment door being kicked in behind her, beyond the 'utility' door, she whipped around pointing her gun at the door, readying her weapon with both hands. This was no game, and apparently, she was ready.
End Fiction.
"Perhaps," Henry said. "But, I'll let you think what you want." He stood up and moved to the doorway. Leaning up against the jamb, he lit a cigarette, blowing his first drag into the hallway.
Jenny remained still, sitting against the wall. She watched Henry in her peripheral vision; her imagination getting the best of, for the moment anyway. While she had only known Henry for a short time, she felt there wasn't too much mystery to the man; definitely no myth. Or was there? When did he start smoking?
"We'll need to move soon," he said. Stomping out his cigarette on the concrete floor. He walked across the kitchen and pulled the refrigerator from the wall, stepping behind it. Jenny heard some shuffling, a thud; then a series of clicks and snaps. She had heard those noises before, no doubt.
Henry stepped out from behind the refrigerator with a nine millimeter pistol in each hand, and at least one more tucked in his pants. He looked surprisingly normal, natural, holding the guns. Jenny slowly slid up the wall, her eyes set on Henry's. She wasn't scared, but strangely excited.
"Ready?" he said, handing her one of the guns.
"I..I don't understand," Jenny said. She stared at the gun she held with both hands. "I...I don't think I can so this."
Henry's head snapped with the faint sound of car doors. "Sloppy," he said as he took Jenny by the arm and led her out into the hallway, closing and locking the door. She didn't fight his lead, somewhat dazed, yet in awe; apparently there was untold mystery surrounding Henry.
They made their way down the hallway towards the rear of the complex. Stopping at the utility closet, Henry placed his hand on the center of the door; several beeps sounded and the door unlocked. Freaking awesome, Jenny thought, quickly following Henry into what she thought was merely a closet; far from it. He flicked a switch and a descending hallway illuminated in front of them. It was a passage way, a safe route out of the building.
"Who are you?" Jenny whispered. Henry gave her a quick glance, saying nothing. "If we live, you have to tell me." Gripping the gun tighter, Jenny followed him close, slightly tugging on his jacket.
"I can't make that promise," Henry said, then stopped and turned to Jenny. "To tell you," he started, "I mean I can't promise that, but you will live, no question." His eyes shone in the dimly light passage, a brief smile, then back to business. Turning his focus down the passage, Henry stuck in an earpiece.
"Support, cat up a tree in need of assistance," Henry said. His pace increased. Jenny heard her apartment door being kicked in behind her, beyond the 'utility' door, she whipped around pointing her gun at the door, readying her weapon with both hands. This was no game, and apparently, she was ready.
End Fiction.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
04-12-2010
Not sure what this is, but I have an idea...
Start Fiction:
It wasn't as though Martin had never felt stupid before, but this moment was exponentially more profound. Could it really be his uncertainty of self, self doubt, underachiever status, self loathing all stemmed from one incident some fifteen years prior?
Martin knew that moment had scarred him, hurt him deep; he felt emotional torment he never knew existed. Being so flippantly rejected by his fiancée, dumped in McDonald's, it was humiliating, embarrassing. He felt ashamed that he could gave behaved in any manner that would cause someone so genuine like Wendy to not be able to love him anymore.
Yet, even fifteen years later, it still hurt. Martin had been determined felt to use that experience to become a new man, a better man; the man Wendy wanted. But could he? He had to try, and did, with varying degrees of success. Did she really have that effect on him or was she just the messenger? Had he missed other messages since?
Perhaps he never felt he achieved his goal of becoming a better person as Wendy had long since married and had several kids. Yet, Martin still continued on his journey. His journey now was for him, as it should have been.
And a fascinating journey it had become.
End Fiction.
Start Fiction:
It wasn't as though Martin had never felt stupid before, but this moment was exponentially more profound. Could it really be his uncertainty of self, self doubt, underachiever status, self loathing all stemmed from one incident some fifteen years prior?
Martin knew that moment had scarred him, hurt him deep; he felt emotional torment he never knew existed. Being so flippantly rejected by his fiancée, dumped in McDonald's, it was humiliating, embarrassing. He felt ashamed that he could gave behaved in any manner that would cause someone so genuine like Wendy to not be able to love him anymore.
Yet, even fifteen years later, it still hurt. Martin had been determined felt to use that experience to become a new man, a better man; the man Wendy wanted. But could he? He had to try, and did, with varying degrees of success. Did she really have that effect on him or was she just the messenger? Had he missed other messages since?
Perhaps he never felt he achieved his goal of becoming a better person as Wendy had long since married and had several kids. Yet, Martin still continued on his journey. His journey now was for him, as it should have been.
And a fascinating journey it had become.
End Fiction.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
04-04-2010
Part I
Start Fiction:
Art walked down the gravel driveway surveying the yard and realized it was bigger than he expected; bigger than just half an acre. Or maybe the house seemed smaller. Regardless, it was a quaint, inviting and comfortable space. Art felt something more and though he couldn't place the sensation exactly, it felt somewhat familiar.
Continuing down the drive, Art was happy to hear so many neighbors out conversing even though he found it odd that he really didn't see anyone around. None the less, the conversations that carried to his ears fed into his fantasy of a family oriented, friendly neighborhood.
Art came upon the house, garage first. The white aluminum siding was not his favorite, the roof was in need of being done and the garage door was fiberglass, and severely tilted. Projects number one, two and three were on the to do list and Art had not even made it in the door yet.
As he walked on to the side patio, Art realized the flagstone would need to be pulled, the area filled with gravel and sand, then the stones relayed. Project number four. Art needed to get inside and see if things were worse, or if this property was still a viable option.
Not that the involvement of these projects deterred Art. He was looking for such a house; a project house that would require him to learn new things, something he could restore a bit, but most of all something that he could make all his.
The owner, Mike, rolled down the drive behind Art on his motorcycle. His hair was jelled, unwavering - even on a motorcycle. A silk shirt, slacks and polished shoes. Something just didn't add up between the disrepair of the house and the spiffy appearance of the owner. No wonder it was on the market.
"Morning," Art said extending his hand.
"Right on time," Mike said as he removed his Oakleys. "Welcome."
Art discovered as they chatted on the patio that Mike was selling the house on his own to avoid paying a realtor, he had payed to get a circuit breaker box installed and the quarter of the yard fenced was also funded by him.
Great, Art thought. Can I see the inside? Laughter echoed slightly through the yard. Art looked around; still nobody. So odd.
Mike gave Art the nickel tour, it seemed. For someone who was trying to sell his own house, he came across more annoyed than anything. But Art didn't care. Upon entering the kitchen, he saw wood floors everywhere. Nine foot ceilings, huge, wide open kitchen, and plaster. Lots of plaster. Surprisingly, it was in much better shape than he expected. Good things.
For a house over one hundred years old, it was in relatively good shape, however, Art knew there were days of tearing out plaster, wiring, insulation and drywall. But the garage, well, the garage was a shanty with a buckled floor and reeked of dog piss. It was definitely the big project he wanted to save for a year or two. Luckily, even though they needed repair, the roof had a few years on it and the siding would hold up until he figured out exactly what he wanted to do to the house.
Art and Mike stood in the kitchen and chatted about the price, the age of the appliances and Mike's time frame for moving. As he listened, Art looked around the kitchen and adjoining living room, trying to locate the AM radio he heard playing. Nothing.
A loud creak came from above them, almost as though there was some one walking around upstairs. Art looked up, then at Mike. Mike had already stepped towards the kitchen door, keys in hand.
Tour's over, I guess.
End Fiction.
Start Fiction:
Art walked down the gravel driveway surveying the yard and realized it was bigger than he expected; bigger than just half an acre. Or maybe the house seemed smaller. Regardless, it was a quaint, inviting and comfortable space. Art felt something more and though he couldn't place the sensation exactly, it felt somewhat familiar.
Continuing down the drive, Art was happy to hear so many neighbors out conversing even though he found it odd that he really didn't see anyone around. None the less, the conversations that carried to his ears fed into his fantasy of a family oriented, friendly neighborhood.
Art came upon the house, garage first. The white aluminum siding was not his favorite, the roof was in need of being done and the garage door was fiberglass, and severely tilted. Projects number one, two and three were on the to do list and Art had not even made it in the door yet.
As he walked on to the side patio, Art realized the flagstone would need to be pulled, the area filled with gravel and sand, then the stones relayed. Project number four. Art needed to get inside and see if things were worse, or if this property was still a viable option.
Not that the involvement of these projects deterred Art. He was looking for such a house; a project house that would require him to learn new things, something he could restore a bit, but most of all something that he could make all his.
The owner, Mike, rolled down the drive behind Art on his motorcycle. His hair was jelled, unwavering - even on a motorcycle. A silk shirt, slacks and polished shoes. Something just didn't add up between the disrepair of the house and the spiffy appearance of the owner. No wonder it was on the market.
"Morning," Art said extending his hand.
"Right on time," Mike said as he removed his Oakleys. "Welcome."
Art discovered as they chatted on the patio that Mike was selling the house on his own to avoid paying a realtor, he had payed to get a circuit breaker box installed and the quarter of the yard fenced was also funded by him.
Great, Art thought. Can I see the inside? Laughter echoed slightly through the yard. Art looked around; still nobody. So odd.
Mike gave Art the nickel tour, it seemed. For someone who was trying to sell his own house, he came across more annoyed than anything. But Art didn't care. Upon entering the kitchen, he saw wood floors everywhere. Nine foot ceilings, huge, wide open kitchen, and plaster. Lots of plaster. Surprisingly, it was in much better shape than he expected. Good things.
For a house over one hundred years old, it was in relatively good shape, however, Art knew there were days of tearing out plaster, wiring, insulation and drywall. But the garage, well, the garage was a shanty with a buckled floor and reeked of dog piss. It was definitely the big project he wanted to save for a year or two. Luckily, even though they needed repair, the roof had a few years on it and the siding would hold up until he figured out exactly what he wanted to do to the house.
Art and Mike stood in the kitchen and chatted about the price, the age of the appliances and Mike's time frame for moving. As he listened, Art looked around the kitchen and adjoining living room, trying to locate the AM radio he heard playing. Nothing.
A loud creak came from above them, almost as though there was some one walking around upstairs. Art looked up, then at Mike. Mike had already stepped towards the kitchen door, keys in hand.
Tour's over, I guess.
End Fiction.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
04-01-2010
Start Fiction:
Erik had an epiphany as he watched PBS. Humanity took itself and its place in the universe way too seriously, and not at all realistically.
Humans are dangerously intelligent, capable of great violence and atrocities. There were wars, trials, crusades, slavery, genocide, segregation, and random day to day homicide.
Pessimistic? Perhaps. However, Erik didn't feel that way. He felt it was a reasonable conclusion based in the recorded history of humanity.
As he watched the public television show with high schoolers trying to stop global warming, he felt empathetic towards their cause, their effort. Yet, Erik had grown feel that stopping global warming was as futile as trying to stop the universe from expanding. It was going to happen, deal.
Erik debated this often in the confines of his head. He wanted to be more optimistic, it just didn't happen. There was some good on this tiny speck of a planet, right?
He was often torn, trying to develop more compassion for humans than indifference. Just when something would happen to give him a glimmer of hope for humanity, that glimmer would be crushed under a cluster of shit, horrible and sorid human behavior.
There were great things about humanity, perhaps not to the same degree as the negative. A childish species, full of fear, anxiety, doubt, confusion. Most humans function in a defensive mode, feeling as though they are continually under some threat to their well being.
Was Erik any different? No. Was he better than his fellow humans? Definitely not. Did he feel he could help or change something, anything about humanity for the better? Not so much.
Motionless on the couch as his mind battled with itself, once again, Erik wished he didn't have to think about such things. Why can't he obsess over sports like his friends? Or American Idol like his co-workers? Or just simply sleep?
There were no answers; for himself or the universe as a whole. But, understand that wasn't going to keep his mind from searching, seeking, questioning. It was just the way it was. Son of a bitch.
End Fiction.
Erik had an epiphany as he watched PBS. Humanity took itself and its place in the universe way too seriously, and not at all realistically.
Humans are dangerously intelligent, capable of great violence and atrocities. There were wars, trials, crusades, slavery, genocide, segregation, and random day to day homicide.
Pessimistic? Perhaps. However, Erik didn't feel that way. He felt it was a reasonable conclusion based in the recorded history of humanity.
As he watched the public television show with high schoolers trying to stop global warming, he felt empathetic towards their cause, their effort. Yet, Erik had grown feel that stopping global warming was as futile as trying to stop the universe from expanding. It was going to happen, deal.
Erik debated this often in the confines of his head. He wanted to be more optimistic, it just didn't happen. There was some good on this tiny speck of a planet, right?
He was often torn, trying to develop more compassion for humans than indifference. Just when something would happen to give him a glimmer of hope for humanity, that glimmer would be crushed under a cluster of shit, horrible and sorid human behavior.
There were great things about humanity, perhaps not to the same degree as the negative. A childish species, full of fear, anxiety, doubt, confusion. Most humans function in a defensive mode, feeling as though they are continually under some threat to their well being.
Was Erik any different? No. Was he better than his fellow humans? Definitely not. Did he feel he could help or change something, anything about humanity for the better? Not so much.
Motionless on the couch as his mind battled with itself, once again, Erik wished he didn't have to think about such things. Why can't he obsess over sports like his friends? Or American Idol like his co-workers? Or just simply sleep?
There were no answers; for himself or the universe as a whole. But, understand that wasn't going to keep his mind from searching, seeking, questioning. It was just the way it was. Son of a bitch.
End Fiction.
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