Start Fiction:
Billy Schrude broke formation and walked across the courtyard, seemingly calm and collected. He headed straight for Captain Jones, failed to salute and punched him in the face. Captain Jones fell over, knocked out cold.That was the last time Frank saw Billy, thirty-five years ago; today wasn't exactly a reunion.
Frank was headed in for a debriefing and there was some sort of protest outside the building. It was a rather lively crowd, verging on riotous. And there, with a bullhorn was Billy shouting at the MP's a mere few feet away. The crowd chanting, cheering behind him. He was in charge, and he knew it.
All his fire drove him a little too far as he got a little too close to the MP's and the reacted. Frank stopped and watched the ensuing struggle which lasted for several minutes and ended with Billy being restrained by four officers, but only after he had beat down six others. For a vagrant in his early fifties, Billy looked as though he was in his early thirties.
As he shouted, still fighting, Billy's eyes met Franks and he stopped shouting immediately. For the first time in several decades, Frank felt fear; cold fear.
End Fiction.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Friday, May 28, 2010
05-28-2010
Start Fiction:
The man's shoes dragged across the cement as he walked across the pedestrian mall towards several college boys enjoying their lunch in the afternoon sun. He watched them as they conversed, as he moved closer and closer, inch by inch. As far as local vagrants go, he was rather fresh in his appearance: clean clothes, bathed, shaven and his hair had a nice bounce to it. About five feet away, he began to drag his feet more; I was beginning to think is was part of a performance.
I watched him, studied him as appraoched the three young men as they were finishing their lunch. He shuffled his feet in stead of stepping, bobbed his head forward and backward, raised his left arm as though he wanted to shake hands while his right arm hang limp at his side. He walked, shuffled up to the most clean cut, well dressed of the three young men. Although I couldn't make out his exact words, I learned his name was Jimmy as he addressed the young man in a calm and steady tone.
He didn't speak long, but spoke volumes with his body his hand fluttered around while he swayed and continued to bob at the same time. The young man looked at this friends as they all stood up, reached in his pocket and produced some cash and handed it to the man. As the young men walked away, I watched Jimmy stand up straight, raise his right arm to unfold the bill he had received and he began to walk completely normal.
The show was over for the moment, but I could tell as soon as he put the cash in his pocket, he was searching for his next target. This man was a definite professional.
End Fiction.
The man's shoes dragged across the cement as he walked across the pedestrian mall towards several college boys enjoying their lunch in the afternoon sun. He watched them as they conversed, as he moved closer and closer, inch by inch. As far as local vagrants go, he was rather fresh in his appearance: clean clothes, bathed, shaven and his hair had a nice bounce to it. About five feet away, he began to drag his feet more; I was beginning to think is was part of a performance.
I watched him, studied him as appraoched the three young men as they were finishing their lunch. He shuffled his feet in stead of stepping, bobbed his head forward and backward, raised his left arm as though he wanted to shake hands while his right arm hang limp at his side. He walked, shuffled up to the most clean cut, well dressed of the three young men. Although I couldn't make out his exact words, I learned his name was Jimmy as he addressed the young man in a calm and steady tone.
He didn't speak long, but spoke volumes with his body his hand fluttered around while he swayed and continued to bob at the same time. The young man looked at this friends as they all stood up, reached in his pocket and produced some cash and handed it to the man. As the young men walked away, I watched Jimmy stand up straight, raise his right arm to unfold the bill he had received and he began to walk completely normal.
The show was over for the moment, but I could tell as soon as he put the cash in his pocket, he was searching for his next target. This man was a definite professional.
End Fiction.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
05-27-2010
I lost this one... never really felt good, but it is nice to have random things to develop.
Start Fiction:
Wendy stepped off the train, cautiously moving towards the crowd. There were more people on the platform than there were in her hometown; more than she had ever seen at once. She knew she was in for an experience, but at present it was a tad bit overwhelming.
"Take your bag, Miss?" a man asked. Wendy had no idea what he wanted to do with her bag once he took it, but there were others dressed like him lugging around bags, heading for what she assumed was the front of the station. A porter! She had heard of such men, but she assumed they were only for rich people, another type of servant. She smiled. "Miss?" he said.
Wendy looked down at her bag, griping the handle tight. She then looked at the other passengers who were handing their bags to other porters on the platform. She raised her arm and handed her bag to the man, "Thank you."
End Fiction.
Start Fiction:
Wendy stepped off the train, cautiously moving towards the crowd. There were more people on the platform than there were in her hometown; more than she had ever seen at once. She knew she was in for an experience, but at present it was a tad bit overwhelming.
"Take your bag, Miss?" a man asked. Wendy had no idea what he wanted to do with her bag once he took it, but there were others dressed like him lugging around bags, heading for what she assumed was the front of the station. A porter! She had heard of such men, but she assumed they were only for rich people, another type of servant. She smiled. "Miss?" he said.
Wendy looked down at her bag, griping the handle tight. She then looked at the other passengers who were handing their bags to other porters on the platform. She raised her arm and handed her bag to the man, "Thank you."
End Fiction.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
05-26-2010
Start Fiction:
Walter Simon barked back at the neighbor's dog as he walked across the back yard. As he reached the fence the dog jumped and howled, almost out of control. Walter smiled as he pulled a large air horn out of his pocket, aimed it at the dog and squeezed the trigger.
The dog jumped back towards the house, then cowered, dropping his ears, his tail fell between his legs. Walter held the trigger; it was pay back time. He just watched as the dog began to belly crawl away from the horn. For the first time in a very long time Walter didn't have to listen to the incessant barking of the neighbor's dog.
Other dogs in the neighborhood began to howl along with the air horn, or at least Walter thought he heard other dogs. The horn was ridiculously loud, a bot painful to his ears, but it was worth it. Two years of listening to this dog bark for hours on end at air and howl with the volunteer for department alarm.
Walter wondered how his neighbors could stand all the barking; perhaps they would like the horn even less. After all, it was six o'clock on a Sunday morning, always a good time to talk to the neighbors.
"What the hell are you doing?" shouted Herb Stuartson as he came wobbling out the patio door in a rather short and reveling partially open robe. His black socks were pulled all the way up, a dingy wife beater tank and thankfully, boxers.
"Oh, did I wake you?" Walter said releasing the trigger. His ears rang.
"Do you know what time it is? People are trying to sleep!" he was serious. What a dick. The dog perked up his head, lifting himself to a seated position.
"Really? Because I figured since your damn dog woke me up yet again this morning, everyone else in the neighborhood was up, too," I told him as I raised up my horn, causing the dog to cower once again; my neighbor stepped towards me, as though he might come over the fence. I chuckled. "I figured since you don't know how to train your dog as a courtesy for your neighbors, I thought I would give it a shot."
End Fiction.
Walter Simon barked back at the neighbor's dog as he walked across the back yard. As he reached the fence the dog jumped and howled, almost out of control. Walter smiled as he pulled a large air horn out of his pocket, aimed it at the dog and squeezed the trigger.
The dog jumped back towards the house, then cowered, dropping his ears, his tail fell between his legs. Walter held the trigger; it was pay back time. He just watched as the dog began to belly crawl away from the horn. For the first time in a very long time Walter didn't have to listen to the incessant barking of the neighbor's dog.
Other dogs in the neighborhood began to howl along with the air horn, or at least Walter thought he heard other dogs. The horn was ridiculously loud, a bot painful to his ears, but it was worth it. Two years of listening to this dog bark for hours on end at air and howl with the volunteer for department alarm.
Walter wondered how his neighbors could stand all the barking; perhaps they would like the horn even less. After all, it was six o'clock on a Sunday morning, always a good time to talk to the neighbors.
"What the hell are you doing?" shouted Herb Stuartson as he came wobbling out the patio door in a rather short and reveling partially open robe. His black socks were pulled all the way up, a dingy wife beater tank and thankfully, boxers.
"Oh, did I wake you?" Walter said releasing the trigger. His ears rang.
"Do you know what time it is? People are trying to sleep!" he was serious. What a dick. The dog perked up his head, lifting himself to a seated position.
"Really? Because I figured since your damn dog woke me up yet again this morning, everyone else in the neighborhood was up, too," I told him as I raised up my horn, causing the dog to cower once again; my neighbor stepped towards me, as though he might come over the fence. I chuckled. "I figured since you don't know how to train your dog as a courtesy for your neighbors, I thought I would give it a shot."
End Fiction.
Monday, May 24, 2010
05-25-2010
This has some potential, perhaps a more active voice is needed...
Start Fiction:
I have never really felt free. I was stuck in this house, in my bed, often unable to enjoy a warm spring day or a cool fall morning, due to one health reason or another. Often, I couldn't even enjoy a relaxing meal or sit in the parlor and visit with family.
My bedroom was my world; my window a ever changing painting of a landscape that may as well be another planet. I often wondered much about the way things looked, if they were as such or if my mind was as defective as my body. I tried not to dwell on the latter, however, I felt the state of my mind was not far behind the state of my body. I was certainly headed for insanity, and sooner more so than later as my health seemed to be fading quicker the closer I approached twentieth birthday; not that I expect to see another birthday, mind you.
Tortured? Perhaps, but I have known no difference, thus I can not say with any degree of certainty that my poor health is worse than any others health. I have a nurse who treats me well, tends to my every need, siblings who are kind and gentle with me when they visit each day and parents who try to keep my mental abilities sharp with books and conversation.
I am loved, not because I am ill, rather because of me. And for that, I know I am quite fortunate and thankful as I sense the reaper approaching, bound to make his appearance within days.
End Fiction.
Start Fiction:
I have never really felt free. I was stuck in this house, in my bed, often unable to enjoy a warm spring day or a cool fall morning, due to one health reason or another. Often, I couldn't even enjoy a relaxing meal or sit in the parlor and visit with family.
My bedroom was my world; my window a ever changing painting of a landscape that may as well be another planet. I often wondered much about the way things looked, if they were as such or if my mind was as defective as my body. I tried not to dwell on the latter, however, I felt the state of my mind was not far behind the state of my body. I was certainly headed for insanity, and sooner more so than later as my health seemed to be fading quicker the closer I approached twentieth birthday; not that I expect to see another birthday, mind you.
Tortured? Perhaps, but I have known no difference, thus I can not say with any degree of certainty that my poor health is worse than any others health. I have a nurse who treats me well, tends to my every need, siblings who are kind and gentle with me when they visit each day and parents who try to keep my mental abilities sharp with books and conversation.
I am loved, not because I am ill, rather because of me. And for that, I know I am quite fortunate and thankful as I sense the reaper approaching, bound to make his appearance within days.
End Fiction.
05-24-2010
Not really sure what this is or where it came from.
Start Fiction:
There was a time I would have killed such a punk where he stood, never giving it a second thought. A thrust to his throat, crushing his windpipe would do the job. Yet, here I am contemplating my actions. What would that really accomplish? What purpose would eliminating such a pathetic, weak non-threat really do? I had no answer, bur I just couldn't do it.
I had the fleeting thought I was getting soft until I watched this punk drop to his knees grasping his throat. Then again, maybe not, but this new hesitation needed to be addressed. I looked up at his crew to asses the next 'threat', but could only watch as they all fled. Not tough even in numbers. This generation left a lot to be desired.
The punk gasped, coughed, dropped to all fours. He wasn't going to die, I didn't hit him hard enough. "Get up, Sally," I said.
He lifted his head, drool fell from his mouth. "What the hell?" he forced out. He was in pain, no doubt, but he was definitely playing up the drama.
"Two lessons," I said as I grabbed his arm, lifting him to his feet. "First, never underestimate anyone." The punk just looked at me, quickly nodding in agreement. "Second, always make sure you have a support team that doesn't run at the first sign of trouble." he looked around, realized his crew had split. He lowered his shaking head in disbelief.
"Fuckers," he said. He rubbed his throat, stretched his neck and began to stand a little taller. After several minutes he was able to look me in face. "I don't know if I owe you an apology, or a life debt," he said.
"A life debt?" I chuckled. "You may be into SciFi a little too much, my friend,"
"Look, whatever, dude," he began to say.
"A life debt it is," I said, cutting off his train of thought. His eyes grew wide, he stopped rubbing his throat. "Explain to me what you believe this to entail," I said as I sat on the bench. Of course I had no interest in collecting on this 'debt', but I knew this would be a great way to recruit new blood into the
End Fiction.
Start Fiction:
There was a time I would have killed such a punk where he stood, never giving it a second thought. A thrust to his throat, crushing his windpipe would do the job. Yet, here I am contemplating my actions. What would that really accomplish? What purpose would eliminating such a pathetic, weak non-threat really do? I had no answer, bur I just couldn't do it.
I had the fleeting thought I was getting soft until I watched this punk drop to his knees grasping his throat. Then again, maybe not, but this new hesitation needed to be addressed. I looked up at his crew to asses the next 'threat', but could only watch as they all fled. Not tough even in numbers. This generation left a lot to be desired.
The punk gasped, coughed, dropped to all fours. He wasn't going to die, I didn't hit him hard enough. "Get up, Sally," I said.
He lifted his head, drool fell from his mouth. "What the hell?" he forced out. He was in pain, no doubt, but he was definitely playing up the drama.
"Two lessons," I said as I grabbed his arm, lifting him to his feet. "First, never underestimate anyone." The punk just looked at me, quickly nodding in agreement. "Second, always make sure you have a support team that doesn't run at the first sign of trouble." he looked around, realized his crew had split. He lowered his shaking head in disbelief.
"Fuckers," he said. He rubbed his throat, stretched his neck and began to stand a little taller. After several minutes he was able to look me in face. "I don't know if I owe you an apology, or a life debt," he said.
"A life debt?" I chuckled. "You may be into SciFi a little too much, my friend,"
"Look, whatever, dude," he began to say.
"A life debt it is," I said, cutting off his train of thought. His eyes grew wide, he stopped rubbing his throat. "Explain to me what you believe this to entail," I said as I sat on the bench. Of course I had no interest in collecting on this 'debt', but I knew this would be a great way to recruit new blood into the
End Fiction.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
05-23-2010
Start Fiction:
I walked into the living room, raised my rifle, aimed and fired. The television exploded, sparks flew back across the room as shards of glass and plastic pelted my front side. I didn't care. Nothing could hurt more than what I saw on that screen; the betrayal, deceit, infidelity.
I stared at the television as it smoldered, burned much like my mind. Then it hit me: Why did I shoot the television and not the VCR player? I guess It didn't matter. One less thing I'd have to move when I left. And from the faint sound of the sirens, I wouldn't be moving for several days, at least. I looked down at my shotgun, pumped it sending a shell on to the floor. Standing in the living room, loaded weapon in my hands, I wondered if they would shoot me if I walked out the front door holding it to my shoulder.
No, that's not how it's going down. I was not going to be just be another statistic; a crazy, scorned, jealous husband gone of the deep end killed by police. Where would be the fairness in that? She'd get everything, the sympathy of being a widow and no one would ever know she was a cheap, skanky common unfaithful whore. No, I wasn't going to let that happen.
I threw the shotgun on the couch and opened the front door as screeching tires entered the neighborhood. As expected, nosy neighbors were standing in their doorways, peeking out windows, but I just calmly walked out to the front steps and sat down. I wasn't wasn't going to give the police a reason to use force. I just had to be patient, calm. Revenge had lodged in the front of my mind, everything else was secondary.
That bitch was going to pay.
End Fiction.
I walked into the living room, raised my rifle, aimed and fired. The television exploded, sparks flew back across the room as shards of glass and plastic pelted my front side. I didn't care. Nothing could hurt more than what I saw on that screen; the betrayal, deceit, infidelity.
I stared at the television as it smoldered, burned much like my mind. Then it hit me: Why did I shoot the television and not the VCR player? I guess It didn't matter. One less thing I'd have to move when I left. And from the faint sound of the sirens, I wouldn't be moving for several days, at least. I looked down at my shotgun, pumped it sending a shell on to the floor. Standing in the living room, loaded weapon in my hands, I wondered if they would shoot me if I walked out the front door holding it to my shoulder.
No, that's not how it's going down. I was not going to be just be another statistic; a crazy, scorned, jealous husband gone of the deep end killed by police. Where would be the fairness in that? She'd get everything, the sympathy of being a widow and no one would ever know she was a cheap, skanky common unfaithful whore. No, I wasn't going to let that happen.
I threw the shotgun on the couch and opened the front door as screeching tires entered the neighborhood. As expected, nosy neighbors were standing in their doorways, peeking out windows, but I just calmly walked out to the front steps and sat down. I wasn't wasn't going to give the police a reason to use force. I just had to be patient, calm. Revenge had lodged in the front of my mind, everything else was secondary.
That bitch was going to pay.
End Fiction.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
05-20 thru 05-22-2010
Start Fiction:
Steve looked his watch. Kim was late; she was never late. She had not even been a minute late in the three years he had known her. As he sat in Kim's favorite restaurant, fifteen minutes had passed, two glasses of water had been consumed and an ever loosening tie began to droop underneath his collar. Damn tie anyway. he thought as he lifted his glass, alerting his waiter.
Scenarios filled Steve's mind, nothing positive; not even the innocent thought of her being stuck in traffic. Life had not given him much opportunity to think positive; Steve was a hardcore realist. As he tapped the table, the waiter approached him with a fresh glass of water and a telephone on his serving tray. "Mr. Grayorn?" Steve nodded. "Telephone, sir," he said.
He relaxed for a little since only Kim knew he would be there. Finally. "Hello, Kim?"
"Hello Mr. Grayorn," a muffled, deep voice said. "We have your wife. There is a job we need you to complete and if completed to satisfaction, perhaps you will see your wife again." The Voice was calm, smooth and gave Steve the sense they were in control. The day had arrived. He knew this was bound to happen someday, but never thought it would involve Kim.
"Understood," he replied. "Contact information?" he said, pulling a pen from his jacket pocket, searching for paper.
"We will be in touch, Shooter," the Voice said, ending the call.
Steve became tense, snapping his pen. Only a select few individuals were aware of his military background, and possibly even less knew him as Shooter. A short list imprinted on mind, and Steve was already formulating a plan. There were very few individuals he felt he could ever turn to for help, however there was one person, but locating him could prove difficult.
Steve hung up the phone, gently placing it on the table. He could feel his civilian mind fade, his stanch soldier mind return, taking over. Every sound analyzed, every remotely reflective surface a mirror, six different exit strategies, possible weapon assessment of given tableware. Amidst his process of regression, the waiter tapped him on the shoulder - Steve grabbed his hand, twisted his wrist as he popped out of his chair resulting in the waiter's face slamming against the table. Regression complete.
Steve left the restaurant voluntarily and headed home maintaining a calm state of mind and focus. If the Voice wanted to get him rattled, it just wasn't going to happen. The drive home was beyond his consciousness. His thoughts were elsewhere as his sedan maneuvered itself through the suburbs towards home. Contingency plans and efforts to track down the Colonel developed in Steve's mind.
As he pulled in his driveway, he noticed a figure standing on his front porch, someone military; A Marine. It was Colonel Kevin Leter, the only person he wanted to talk to right now. What were the odds he'd be standing at my door step? Leter walked down the steps to meet Steve, documents under his arm. He could see in the Colonel's eyes this wasn't a social call, saluting accordingly.
"I presume you know why I am here," Leter said.
"Not exactly, but I have a working idea, Sir." Leter handed Steve the documents which were marked Eyes Only, above his security clearance. "Sir?" Steve hesitated.
"You've been cleared, considering," Leter said, servailing the neighborhood.
Steve began to debrief himself, noted that his code name was not used, although referenced indirectly. He quickly learned there were several Eyes Only files that had been compromised of a very select group, his at the top of the list and most violated. Still developing a plan, he added this new information in to the mix trying to piece together what the Voice had in mind with the diverse, highly trained and extremely dangerous half dozen set of elite soldiers.
"Thoughts, Sergeant?"
"Have we determined who accessed these files?"
"No."
Steve raised his head and looked at Leter. "What do you mean, 'No'?" he said. "This Unknown has my wife, Colonel."
"All we can seem to determine is they were accessed, but by who or how is a little fuzzy." His agitation seemed to elevate.
"Explain," Steve said as he returned the files. Leter's mouth opened and closed, several times, but nothing came out. For the first time Steve saw Leter lost, unsure and generally not himself. There was something on the horizon, more than the simple job the Voice had in store for him. "Who's in charge?" he finally asked.
"Templeton," Leter mumbled. Steve stepped away from him as his adrenalin elevated. He couldn't afford to loose his cool, not now, not until Kim was safe. But Templeton was by and far the mos inept soldier Steve ever had to serve with, let alone serve under. He was dangerous due to his stupidity. How he ever got promoted was always a mystery to Steve. This was yet another obstacle Steve had to work into his plan.
"Is there any way to change that? With the respect due his rank is due, Sir, he's detrimental to any mission," Steve said as he gathered himself, refocusing on the bigger picture.
"I wish there were, Steve," Leter said, "but he's the one who came to me and this is strictly a direct line situation. He wouldn't acknowledge you if you tired to contact him, and you shouldn't acknowledge him, either."
Steve understood. Containment at this point was critical, however, Steve also felt like he had so many times before on almost every mission: he was on his own.
End Fiction.
I think I will leave this as a teaser and develop this a bit more, possibly into a novella! I'll let you know when you can read the whole thing!
Steve looked his watch. Kim was late; she was never late. She had not even been a minute late in the three years he had known her. As he sat in Kim's favorite restaurant, fifteen minutes had passed, two glasses of water had been consumed and an ever loosening tie began to droop underneath his collar. Damn tie anyway. he thought as he lifted his glass, alerting his waiter.
Scenarios filled Steve's mind, nothing positive; not even the innocent thought of her being stuck in traffic. Life had not given him much opportunity to think positive; Steve was a hardcore realist. As he tapped the table, the waiter approached him with a fresh glass of water and a telephone on his serving tray. "Mr. Grayorn?" Steve nodded. "Telephone, sir," he said.
He relaxed for a little since only Kim knew he would be there. Finally. "Hello, Kim?"
"Hello Mr. Grayorn," a muffled, deep voice said. "We have your wife. There is a job we need you to complete and if completed to satisfaction, perhaps you will see your wife again." The Voice was calm, smooth and gave Steve the sense they were in control. The day had arrived. He knew this was bound to happen someday, but never thought it would involve Kim.
"Understood," he replied. "Contact information?" he said, pulling a pen from his jacket pocket, searching for paper.
"We will be in touch, Shooter," the Voice said, ending the call.
Steve became tense, snapping his pen. Only a select few individuals were aware of his military background, and possibly even less knew him as Shooter. A short list imprinted on mind, and Steve was already formulating a plan. There were very few individuals he felt he could ever turn to for help, however there was one person, but locating him could prove difficult.
Steve hung up the phone, gently placing it on the table. He could feel his civilian mind fade, his stanch soldier mind return, taking over. Every sound analyzed, every remotely reflective surface a mirror, six different exit strategies, possible weapon assessment of given tableware. Amidst his process of regression, the waiter tapped him on the shoulder - Steve grabbed his hand, twisted his wrist as he popped out of his chair resulting in the waiter's face slamming against the table. Regression complete.
Steve left the restaurant voluntarily and headed home maintaining a calm state of mind and focus. If the Voice wanted to get him rattled, it just wasn't going to happen. The drive home was beyond his consciousness. His thoughts were elsewhere as his sedan maneuvered itself through the suburbs towards home. Contingency plans and efforts to track down the Colonel developed in Steve's mind.
As he pulled in his driveway, he noticed a figure standing on his front porch, someone military; A Marine. It was Colonel Kevin Leter, the only person he wanted to talk to right now. What were the odds he'd be standing at my door step? Leter walked down the steps to meet Steve, documents under his arm. He could see in the Colonel's eyes this wasn't a social call, saluting accordingly.
"I presume you know why I am here," Leter said.
"Not exactly, but I have a working idea, Sir." Leter handed Steve the documents which were marked Eyes Only, above his security clearance. "Sir?" Steve hesitated.
"You've been cleared, considering," Leter said, servailing the neighborhood.
Steve began to debrief himself, noted that his code name was not used, although referenced indirectly. He quickly learned there were several Eyes Only files that had been compromised of a very select group, his at the top of the list and most violated. Still developing a plan, he added this new information in to the mix trying to piece together what the Voice had in mind with the diverse, highly trained and extremely dangerous half dozen set of elite soldiers.
"Thoughts, Sergeant?"
"Have we determined who accessed these files?"
"No."
Steve raised his head and looked at Leter. "What do you mean, 'No'?" he said. "This Unknown has my wife, Colonel."
"All we can seem to determine is they were accessed, but by who or how is a little fuzzy." His agitation seemed to elevate.
"Explain," Steve said as he returned the files. Leter's mouth opened and closed, several times, but nothing came out. For the first time Steve saw Leter lost, unsure and generally not himself. There was something on the horizon, more than the simple job the Voice had in store for him. "Who's in charge?" he finally asked.
"Templeton," Leter mumbled. Steve stepped away from him as his adrenalin elevated. He couldn't afford to loose his cool, not now, not until Kim was safe. But Templeton was by and far the mos inept soldier Steve ever had to serve with, let alone serve under. He was dangerous due to his stupidity. How he ever got promoted was always a mystery to Steve. This was yet another obstacle Steve had to work into his plan.
"Is there any way to change that? With the respect due his rank is due, Sir, he's detrimental to any mission," Steve said as he gathered himself, refocusing on the bigger picture.
"I wish there were, Steve," Leter said, "but he's the one who came to me and this is strictly a direct line situation. He wouldn't acknowledge you if you tired to contact him, and you shouldn't acknowledge him, either."
Steve understood. Containment at this point was critical, however, Steve also felt like he had so many times before on almost every mission: he was on his own.
End Fiction.
I think I will leave this as a teaser and develop this a bit more, possibly into a novella! I'll let you know when you can read the whole thing!
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
05-19-2010
Not really sure what this is, but I fumbled through anyway! Always looking to do a little something different every now and again.
Start Fiction:
I wondered into the bakery, not sure what I wanted, but knew I didn't need anything either. Putting on fifty pounds over the past six months was starting to get to me; yet, I didn't care at the same time. The vicious little cycle was in high gear and driving my mental well being into the ground. At this point, the not caring seemed to be winning.
"A dozen glazed," I said, involuntarily. I wasn't hungry but I knew I was going to eat all of them, and probably with at least a half gallon of milk. And it didn't matter that it was four o'clock, I'd be ready for dinner.
My wife hadn't made any comments about my weight yet, but plenty regarding my mood. I can't decide if she doesn't care or doesn't see the connection. It's not as though being fat and depressed have been the first catalysts for me to annoy her; I just annoyed her, now I was just annoying her in a different way. That's what makes me think she doesn't care. And I am beginning to think I am right.
Two donuts were gone before I even left the bakery. I thought they shorted me until I realized my fingers were sticky. That was happening more frequently; unconscious food binges. I don't know where I am when it happens. I don't have any black outs, any hallucinations or ever feel o am merely eating in a dream. I simply am doing something at one moment, then I loose some time and gain several hundred calories.
However, I don't care. But I hate myself for being such a fat ass. The struggle between these two states is so intense sometimes; perhaps I am not alone in my mind. That would make more sense, but I am sure if I had more than one personality, this one would eat more, too.
End Fiction.
Start Fiction:
I wondered into the bakery, not sure what I wanted, but knew I didn't need anything either. Putting on fifty pounds over the past six months was starting to get to me; yet, I didn't care at the same time. The vicious little cycle was in high gear and driving my mental well being into the ground. At this point, the not caring seemed to be winning.
"A dozen glazed," I said, involuntarily. I wasn't hungry but I knew I was going to eat all of them, and probably with at least a half gallon of milk. And it didn't matter that it was four o'clock, I'd be ready for dinner.
My wife hadn't made any comments about my weight yet, but plenty regarding my mood. I can't decide if she doesn't care or doesn't see the connection. It's not as though being fat and depressed have been the first catalysts for me to annoy her; I just annoyed her, now I was just annoying her in a different way. That's what makes me think she doesn't care. And I am beginning to think I am right.
Two donuts were gone before I even left the bakery. I thought they shorted me until I realized my fingers were sticky. That was happening more frequently; unconscious food binges. I don't know where I am when it happens. I don't have any black outs, any hallucinations or ever feel o am merely eating in a dream. I simply am doing something at one moment, then I loose some time and gain several hundred calories.
However, I don't care. But I hate myself for being such a fat ass. The struggle between these two states is so intense sometimes; perhaps I am not alone in my mind. That would make more sense, but I am sure if I had more than one personality, this one would eat more, too.
End Fiction.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
05-18-2010
Start Fiction:
I jumped back on to the curb; the cab narrowly missed me. It seemed as though he was aiming for me; then again, I thought everyone was aiming for me on one manner or another lately. I stood there on the curb, watching those around me, wondering if one of them walking on the sidewalk behind me was going to push me in front of the next cab. I wasn't going to let that happen, so I sprinted across the street. Luckily, there was a opening in the traffic.
I reached the other side, moving against the buildings, brushing against the brick. I looked back across the street, saw the others and wondered if any, which ones, were watching me. They were good, I couldn't tell which ones were following me, but the young lady with the stroller was very suspect in my mind. Never trust a skinny new mom; if she was even a mother and if there was even a actual baby in the stroller.
I stopped along the wall, several feet shy of the bakery door. She stopped as well, leaning over he crib; little arms reached towards her; fake robotic arms I am sure. Maybe I should confront her; no, not my style. I must move on, but I need to lose my tail. I looked at the bakery door as it opened and closed, and decided to go in, use the bathroom and then I would make my escape through the back door and down the alley!
But, would that be safe? Would the vagrants jump me or might I be mugged? I'd have to take my chances since my time was running short and I needed to get to my appointment. Perhaps I can't escape; maybe the fake mother with the fake baby will be waiting for me at my destination regardless my efforts to escape her surveillance.
End Fiction.
I jumped back on to the curb; the cab narrowly missed me. It seemed as though he was aiming for me; then again, I thought everyone was aiming for me on one manner or another lately. I stood there on the curb, watching those around me, wondering if one of them walking on the sidewalk behind me was going to push me in front of the next cab. I wasn't going to let that happen, so I sprinted across the street. Luckily, there was a opening in the traffic.
I reached the other side, moving against the buildings, brushing against the brick. I looked back across the street, saw the others and wondered if any, which ones, were watching me. They were good, I couldn't tell which ones were following me, but the young lady with the stroller was very suspect in my mind. Never trust a skinny new mom; if she was even a mother and if there was even a actual baby in the stroller.
I stopped along the wall, several feet shy of the bakery door. She stopped as well, leaning over he crib; little arms reached towards her; fake robotic arms I am sure. Maybe I should confront her; no, not my style. I must move on, but I need to lose my tail. I looked at the bakery door as it opened and closed, and decided to go in, use the bathroom and then I would make my escape through the back door and down the alley!
But, would that be safe? Would the vagrants jump me or might I be mugged? I'd have to take my chances since my time was running short and I needed to get to my appointment. Perhaps I can't escape; maybe the fake mother with the fake baby will be waiting for me at my destination regardless my efforts to escape her surveillance.
End Fiction.
Monday, May 17, 2010
05-17-2010
Start Fiction:
He entered the house, calling out, hesitantly, for Rebbecca. It was quite odd she should leave her front door open, home or not; Derek's heart thumped in his ears, his palms sweaty. He felt as though he was trespassing. He had arrived but a few minutes early for their afternoon date, he hoped she had not forgotten. But the open door...
Thump.
Derek heard the noise come from upstairs; he called, his voice strained, weak. He was not the manliest of men, but merely a petite version of a young man. The romance of his love for Rebbecca gave him some courage; for the moment.
Another thump.
A muffled scream. His courage was wavering.
Having never been in the upstairs of Rebbecca's home, Derek rushed, cautiously, up the stairs, calling out for Rebbecca as he reached the landing. Another muffled scream came from the rear bedroom.
Silence.
As his heart pounded in his ears, his brow growing moist, Derek moved down the hall towards the rear bedroom. All the other doors down the hall were closed, but the rear bedroom door was slightly ajar, allowing Derek to see a sliver of the room. With the first few steps, fists clinching, shadows moved across the bedroom wall, he called out again. No response; the shadows stopped.
As he crept closer, he saw a pair of feet, legs on the floor; he could tell by her shoes, it was Rebbecca. She was face down. He stepped faster, rushing to her aide, pushing open the bedroom door and greeted with the site of blood; a huge pool of blood. He called out to her, knelt at her side, seeing blood ooze from her neck; her eyes open. He felt for a pulse. Weak, erratic.
Behind him Derek heard the door squeak, footsteps racing down hall, the steps. He lept up in a rage, chasing after the intruder; however, the intruder was out the door before Derek reached the top of the stairs. No need to pursue, Rebbecca needed him. He raced back to Rebbecca's side, whispering sweet words, apologizing, assuring her her journey ahead was to heaven; he had heard that the last sense to fade was one's hearing. He wanted her to be at peace, comforted as she slipped away completely.
He held her hand, caressed her face for several minutes. Checking her pulse, he found none. She was gone. Derek sobbed. They were to head to the river for a late picnic lunch and discuss their upcoming wedding. Two years of courting occurred before Derek was able to ask for her hand, yet in many ways they were already married, just living at separate addresses.
Now, all was lost, his bride slaughtered like an animal by an unknown, cowardly figure. His rage boiled, his heart turned black.
Vengeance would be his; one day.
End Fiction.
He entered the house, calling out, hesitantly, for Rebbecca. It was quite odd she should leave her front door open, home or not; Derek's heart thumped in his ears, his palms sweaty. He felt as though he was trespassing. He had arrived but a few minutes early for their afternoon date, he hoped she had not forgotten. But the open door...
Thump.
Derek heard the noise come from upstairs; he called, his voice strained, weak. He was not the manliest of men, but merely a petite version of a young man. The romance of his love for Rebbecca gave him some courage; for the moment.
Another thump.
A muffled scream. His courage was wavering.
Having never been in the upstairs of Rebbecca's home, Derek rushed, cautiously, up the stairs, calling out for Rebbecca as he reached the landing. Another muffled scream came from the rear bedroom.
Silence.
As his heart pounded in his ears, his brow growing moist, Derek moved down the hall towards the rear bedroom. All the other doors down the hall were closed, but the rear bedroom door was slightly ajar, allowing Derek to see a sliver of the room. With the first few steps, fists clinching, shadows moved across the bedroom wall, he called out again. No response; the shadows stopped.
As he crept closer, he saw a pair of feet, legs on the floor; he could tell by her shoes, it was Rebbecca. She was face down. He stepped faster, rushing to her aide, pushing open the bedroom door and greeted with the site of blood; a huge pool of blood. He called out to her, knelt at her side, seeing blood ooze from her neck; her eyes open. He felt for a pulse. Weak, erratic.
Behind him Derek heard the door squeak, footsteps racing down hall, the steps. He lept up in a rage, chasing after the intruder; however, the intruder was out the door before Derek reached the top of the stairs. No need to pursue, Rebbecca needed him. He raced back to Rebbecca's side, whispering sweet words, apologizing, assuring her her journey ahead was to heaven; he had heard that the last sense to fade was one's hearing. He wanted her to be at peace, comforted as she slipped away completely.
He held her hand, caressed her face for several minutes. Checking her pulse, he found none. She was gone. Derek sobbed. They were to head to the river for a late picnic lunch and discuss their upcoming wedding. Two years of courting occurred before Derek was able to ask for her hand, yet in many ways they were already married, just living at separate addresses.
Now, all was lost, his bride slaughtered like an animal by an unknown, cowardly figure. His rage boiled, his heart turned black.
Vengeance would be his; one day.
End Fiction.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
05-16-2010
Start Fiction:
It was an elegant notice; formal, clear and concise. It was, however, shocking. Meredith read the notice a dozen times, each tome wondering of it was some sort of practical joke. How could Susan and Evan be call off their wedding? It was in two weeks, or at least it was suppose to have been.
Meredith inched towards the table to sit down, reading the notice yet again when the phone rang. It was Janice. Her voice echoed through the kitchen as she screamed into the phone over the news. It was huge, no doubt. Janice ranted wondering why Meredith, Susan's best friend, the Maid of Honor, didn't tell her what was going on with the bride.
"Janice, I didn't know," she said, "I just found out myself." Janice didn't believe her, began to cry and hung up. Meredith held the phone to her head as she sat down, reading the notice yet again. It still didn't make any sense. Looking over the envelope, she stared at the postmark. She had just spoken to Susan two days ago, but the postmark was three days ago. Why hadn't Susan just told her?
The phone began beep in Meredith's ear, startling her. She hung it up, looked at the postmark one more time then began to dial Susan's number. Be supportive, she told herself. The phone rang seven times.
"Oh Meredith!" a sobbing Susan answered. "Who would do this to me? My wedding is in two weeks!"
"Susan," Meredith said, "what happened? Why is the wedding being called off?"
"Its not!" Susan said. Something wasn't right. "We don't know who or why those notices were set out!"
"Wait," Meredith said, waving the notice in the air as she shot out of her chair. "Are you saying you and Evan know nothing about this?"
"No."
Meredith was so pissed she couldn't speak, threw the notice on the counter and took a drink of her coffee. It was a practical joke. A sick, petty and juvenile practical joke. And Meredith was fairly sure she knew who the culprit was who would do such a thing. But first things first. "Get your wedding list together and I'll be over in an hour to help you call people to set things straight," she said.
"Oh thank you," Susan said.
"Stay calm, we will fix this together," Meredith said. Unraveling the saboteur would just have to wait until after the emergency was revolved. Then, together, they would kick some ass.
End Fiction.
It was an elegant notice; formal, clear and concise. It was, however, shocking. Meredith read the notice a dozen times, each tome wondering of it was some sort of practical joke. How could Susan and Evan be call off their wedding? It was in two weeks, or at least it was suppose to have been.
Meredith inched towards the table to sit down, reading the notice yet again when the phone rang. It was Janice. Her voice echoed through the kitchen as she screamed into the phone over the news. It was huge, no doubt. Janice ranted wondering why Meredith, Susan's best friend, the Maid of Honor, didn't tell her what was going on with the bride.
"Janice, I didn't know," she said, "I just found out myself." Janice didn't believe her, began to cry and hung up. Meredith held the phone to her head as she sat down, reading the notice yet again. It still didn't make any sense. Looking over the envelope, she stared at the postmark. She had just spoken to Susan two days ago, but the postmark was three days ago. Why hadn't Susan just told her?
The phone began beep in Meredith's ear, startling her. She hung it up, looked at the postmark one more time then began to dial Susan's number. Be supportive, she told herself. The phone rang seven times.
"Oh Meredith!" a sobbing Susan answered. "Who would do this to me? My wedding is in two weeks!"
"Susan," Meredith said, "what happened? Why is the wedding being called off?"
"Its not!" Susan said. Something wasn't right. "We don't know who or why those notices were set out!"
"Wait," Meredith said, waving the notice in the air as she shot out of her chair. "Are you saying you and Evan know nothing about this?"
"No."
Meredith was so pissed she couldn't speak, threw the notice on the counter and took a drink of her coffee. It was a practical joke. A sick, petty and juvenile practical joke. And Meredith was fairly sure she knew who the culprit was who would do such a thing. But first things first. "Get your wedding list together and I'll be over in an hour to help you call people to set things straight," she said.
"Oh thank you," Susan said.
"Stay calm, we will fix this together," Meredith said. Unraveling the saboteur would just have to wait until after the emergency was revolved. Then, together, they would kick some ass.
End Fiction.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
05-15-2010
Start Fiction:
"Keep turning it," Sue whispered, "but very carefully." Her eyes were wide, her words pronounced with crisp clarity. There was a lot at stake, not to mention their lives. Paul gave her a quick glance, beads of sweat formed on his forehead. He kept a steady grip as something in the threads of the jar began to grind; probably dried explosives. New beads of sweat popped up accompanied by rapid heart rate and shallow breaths.
"This could get interesting," Paul said. Sue noticed his arms shake a little. The just had to get the lid off to get the detonation wires out of the solution. At least that is what she felt was the correct action.
"Almost there, she said, "you're doing great." and Paul was. Most people would have tried to find a way to escape their captivity, wasting valuable time, but not Paul. He was one who took on the best solution, regardless his personal fear.
As Paul turned the jar lid, he thought about how they even got into this predicament in the first place. After all, all they did was try to ask a suspect a few questions about a murder; never mind he was a Don for the Bernardi family. Perhaps they should have done their homework and they would have discovered that the Bernardi family liked private investigators even less than the feds.
The lid came loose; Paul gasped. He looked to Sue since this was her plan to diffuse the bomb. "What now?" he asked.
"Gently, slowly, lift the lid straight up," she said as she leaned forward. He great plan involved grabbing the leads as Paul lifted to make sure no wires crossed and there wasn't any accidental sparks. He didn't feel that was an issue, but he was willing to save his battle for another day.
End Fiction.
"Keep turning it," Sue whispered, "but very carefully." Her eyes were wide, her words pronounced with crisp clarity. There was a lot at stake, not to mention their lives. Paul gave her a quick glance, beads of sweat formed on his forehead. He kept a steady grip as something in the threads of the jar began to grind; probably dried explosives. New beads of sweat popped up accompanied by rapid heart rate and shallow breaths.
"This could get interesting," Paul said. Sue noticed his arms shake a little. The just had to get the lid off to get the detonation wires out of the solution. At least that is what she felt was the correct action.
"Almost there, she said, "you're doing great." and Paul was. Most people would have tried to find a way to escape their captivity, wasting valuable time, but not Paul. He was one who took on the best solution, regardless his personal fear.
As Paul turned the jar lid, he thought about how they even got into this predicament in the first place. After all, all they did was try to ask a suspect a few questions about a murder; never mind he was a Don for the Bernardi family. Perhaps they should have done their homework and they would have discovered that the Bernardi family liked private investigators even less than the feds.
The lid came loose; Paul gasped. He looked to Sue since this was her plan to diffuse the bomb. "What now?" he asked.
"Gently, slowly, lift the lid straight up," she said as she leaned forward. He great plan involved grabbing the leads as Paul lifted to make sure no wires crossed and there wasn't any accidental sparks. He didn't feel that was an issue, but he was willing to save his battle for another day.
End Fiction.
Friday, May 14, 2010
05-14-2010
This kinda stinks...
Start Fiction:
"But, I pay," screamed the woman from the back of the cab. The cabby just looked at her in the rear view mirror. He had heard it all before, more than once.
"Twenty-three fifty," he said. The woman began to flail her arms, her mouth moved with no words. The roaring drama had begun.
"I say I pay!" she finally managed to vocalize. Several passersby slowed their step and looked to the cab. A scene was developing and the cabby knew he had video on his side, so he just let it ride. "Why you wanna rip me off? I ain't got no money," she ranted. The cabby opened his mic so dispatch could here his situation and alert the police. Help was on it's way and the doors were locked.
"Twenty-three fifty," he said again, calmly.
"Bitch, I told you I already," the woman screamed, "I already pay!" she began to yank on the door handle, beating against the window. "Let me out! I pay! I pay!" The cab rocked back and forth; the cabby just smiled. In his side mirror, he saw a patrol car pull up next to the cab. He rolled down his window, handed a small monitor to the officer.
"Got a live one, do ya?" the officer said.
"Arrest him! Arrest him!" the woman screamed as she pounded on the partition.
"Just don't feel like getting stiffed again," the cabby said as the officer watched the video. The cabby felt his patience begin to fade, but hopefully it was just about over.
"Fair enough," the officer said, handing back the monitor. "Go ahead and unlock the door and we'll take it from here."
One quick click and the cops yanked the passenger out of the cab; the pounding stopped, but the screaming seemed to be getting louder. Frank needed a new job, this shit was getting old. It just wasn't worth the crappy loving he was scrapping together each month.
He stepped out of the cab, called back to the officers to let them know he was leaving, waiting for the fare wasn't worth missing out on actual paying customers.
End Fiction.
Start Fiction:
"But, I pay," screamed the woman from the back of the cab. The cabby just looked at her in the rear view mirror. He had heard it all before, more than once.
"Twenty-three fifty," he said. The woman began to flail her arms, her mouth moved with no words. The roaring drama had begun.
"I say I pay!" she finally managed to vocalize. Several passersby slowed their step and looked to the cab. A scene was developing and the cabby knew he had video on his side, so he just let it ride. "Why you wanna rip me off? I ain't got no money," she ranted. The cabby opened his mic so dispatch could here his situation and alert the police. Help was on it's way and the doors were locked.
"Twenty-three fifty," he said again, calmly.
"Bitch, I told you I already," the woman screamed, "I already pay!" she began to yank on the door handle, beating against the window. "Let me out! I pay! I pay!" The cab rocked back and forth; the cabby just smiled. In his side mirror, he saw a patrol car pull up next to the cab. He rolled down his window, handed a small monitor to the officer.
"Got a live one, do ya?" the officer said.
"Arrest him! Arrest him!" the woman screamed as she pounded on the partition.
"Just don't feel like getting stiffed again," the cabby said as the officer watched the video. The cabby felt his patience begin to fade, but hopefully it was just about over.
"Fair enough," the officer said, handing back the monitor. "Go ahead and unlock the door and we'll take it from here."
One quick click and the cops yanked the passenger out of the cab; the pounding stopped, but the screaming seemed to be getting louder. Frank needed a new job, this shit was getting old. It just wasn't worth the crappy loving he was scrapping together each month.
He stepped out of the cab, called back to the officers to let them know he was leaving, waiting for the fare wasn't worth missing out on actual paying customers.
End Fiction.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
05-13-2010
Start Fiction:
"I don't care a army of cows is flyin' over the moon," Andy's mom yelled out the kitchen window, "get yer little behind in here, now!" if only she'd listen for once instead of barking orders, she just might see something really special; even if it wasn't a real cow flying over the moon, but something definitely was in the sky that night.
Andy walked to the house, dragging his feet through the gravel drive. His head hung low, hands in his pockets. Andy had another summer night was cut short by his mom, drinking her bottle a bit faster than the past few nights. Not as fast as dad though; he had been passed out since dinner.
Andy didn't even bother to say good night, he just headed up stairs and washed up for bed. As he lay looking out the window at the full moon, he saw the same object cross on front of the moon several more times. Andy wasn't sure if he was just sleepy or not, but the object seemed bigger, with each zig and zag across the night sky. He wasn't alarmed, men had all kinds of flying objects these days and since the Air Force had a base near by, it wasn't uncommon to see something different every now and again.
Andy struggled to keep his eyes open, wanting to watch the moon set in a few hours. His battle was futile and awoke to what he thought was the sun. However, when he sat up and looked out his window, there in the field was a ship; a glowing ship. It was bright, but didn't hurt Andy's eyes. Having no idea what time it was, he dressed and made his way down the stairs where his parents were passed out. He crept out the door, careful not to let the screen door slam shut.
As he moved down the steps, he heard a humming noise coming from the ship. Still glowing, it drew Andy in almost a daze. He had never seen anything like it, yet he had no fear of the ship. He expected men, Air Force pilots, to step out at anytime and apologize for disturbing Andy and his family like they had done on several other occasions. However, none of those ships were quite like this one; so quiet, glowing, spherical.
Andy knew enough about flying machines to wonder how something without wings could fly, but he knew it could since he had seen it crisscross the sky. As he got a bit closer, he noticed the sphere was floating just above the ground. That finally made him stop, feeling the first wave an uncertainty tingle down his spine. The object in front of Andy was beyond his understanding in more ways than one, and by stepping outside, he was in over his head.
End Fiction.
"I don't care a army of cows is flyin' over the moon," Andy's mom yelled out the kitchen window, "get yer little behind in here, now!" if only she'd listen for once instead of barking orders, she just might see something really special; even if it wasn't a real cow flying over the moon, but something definitely was in the sky that night.
Andy walked to the house, dragging his feet through the gravel drive. His head hung low, hands in his pockets. Andy had another summer night was cut short by his mom, drinking her bottle a bit faster than the past few nights. Not as fast as dad though; he had been passed out since dinner.
Andy didn't even bother to say good night, he just headed up stairs and washed up for bed. As he lay looking out the window at the full moon, he saw the same object cross on front of the moon several more times. Andy wasn't sure if he was just sleepy or not, but the object seemed bigger, with each zig and zag across the night sky. He wasn't alarmed, men had all kinds of flying objects these days and since the Air Force had a base near by, it wasn't uncommon to see something different every now and again.
Andy struggled to keep his eyes open, wanting to watch the moon set in a few hours. His battle was futile and awoke to what he thought was the sun. However, when he sat up and looked out his window, there in the field was a ship; a glowing ship. It was bright, but didn't hurt Andy's eyes. Having no idea what time it was, he dressed and made his way down the stairs where his parents were passed out. He crept out the door, careful not to let the screen door slam shut.
As he moved down the steps, he heard a humming noise coming from the ship. Still glowing, it drew Andy in almost a daze. He had never seen anything like it, yet he had no fear of the ship. He expected men, Air Force pilots, to step out at anytime and apologize for disturbing Andy and his family like they had done on several other occasions. However, none of those ships were quite like this one; so quiet, glowing, spherical.
Andy knew enough about flying machines to wonder how something without wings could fly, but he knew it could since he had seen it crisscross the sky. As he got a bit closer, he noticed the sphere was floating just above the ground. That finally made him stop, feeling the first wave an uncertainty tingle down his spine. The object in front of Andy was beyond his understanding in more ways than one, and by stepping outside, he was in over his head.
End Fiction.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
05-12-2010
Start Fiction:
"But, the baby drank your whiskey," Tommy cried as dad beat his head against the table. I backed myself in to the corner of the dining room, moved by pure fear. Momma screamed for dad to stop, grabbing him by the shoulders only to be thrown off, sending her reeling backwards. Momma tried to regain her balance, but she couldn't and went through the window. She landed with a thud, releasing a death curdle of a scream. And for good reason. I ran to the window opening and saw that as momma had landed on the porch, a large piece of glass had pierced her from the back, gone through her heart and was poking out of her chest.
The baby cried, scared. I could feel the rage rise, my blood began to burn my veins. Fifteen years old or not, I was ready to fight my father. He had finally done it; he had finally killed one of us. My breath accelerated, I clinched my fists, and as I turned to face my father, I had the wind knocked out of me. There in front of me, my father was holding Tommy's motionless head as he looked through me, out the window. Tommy's eyes were slightly closed, his mouth hanging open, drooling on the table. My father dropped my brother's head, it bounced off the table and his body shifted and he fell on the floor. He was dead. My father had killed two of us.
My instinct was to fight, to kill my father for the crimes he had committed, but the baby's screams led me to grab her and flee. I snatched LuAnn out of the high chair, sending it across the floor, kicked open the screen door and ran straight for the truck, the fastest thing on the farm, jumped in with the baby still in my arms and drove like hell to get help. Baby LuAnn was still screaming, shaking; then again, that could have been me. I pushed the pedal to the floor and the engine revved, drowning out the baby's screams for a second. I had to get help; I had to save my baby sister. Even though I knew there wasn't any help that could undo what had been done, I knew that bastard wasn't going to finish off me and LuAnn, too.
End Fiction.
"But, the baby drank your whiskey," Tommy cried as dad beat his head against the table. I backed myself in to the corner of the dining room, moved by pure fear. Momma screamed for dad to stop, grabbing him by the shoulders only to be thrown off, sending her reeling backwards. Momma tried to regain her balance, but she couldn't and went through the window. She landed with a thud, releasing a death curdle of a scream. And for good reason. I ran to the window opening and saw that as momma had landed on the porch, a large piece of glass had pierced her from the back, gone through her heart and was poking out of her chest.
The baby cried, scared. I could feel the rage rise, my blood began to burn my veins. Fifteen years old or not, I was ready to fight my father. He had finally done it; he had finally killed one of us. My breath accelerated, I clinched my fists, and as I turned to face my father, I had the wind knocked out of me. There in front of me, my father was holding Tommy's motionless head as he looked through me, out the window. Tommy's eyes were slightly closed, his mouth hanging open, drooling on the table. My father dropped my brother's head, it bounced off the table and his body shifted and he fell on the floor. He was dead. My father had killed two of us.
My instinct was to fight, to kill my father for the crimes he had committed, but the baby's screams led me to grab her and flee. I snatched LuAnn out of the high chair, sending it across the floor, kicked open the screen door and ran straight for the truck, the fastest thing on the farm, jumped in with the baby still in my arms and drove like hell to get help. Baby LuAnn was still screaming, shaking; then again, that could have been me. I pushed the pedal to the floor and the engine revved, drowning out the baby's screams for a second. I had to get help; I had to save my baby sister. Even though I knew there wasn't any help that could undo what had been done, I knew that bastard wasn't going to finish off me and LuAnn, too.
End Fiction.
05-11-2010
Start Fiction:
As I watched the brick crash through the window, I realized this was going to end very bad. Where was I? What was I doing in front of a bakery? I had definitely gone over the edge, and what was the most terrifying part was something felt very wrong, especially since I wasn't too sure what had incensed me to violence.
A bakery? Really?
"What the..." Jane called out behind me.
When did she get here? For that matter, when did I get here? I turned around and found a dozen people standing completely still, staring at me. Some were shocked, others in awe and a few were waiting to see what happened next. I wasn't too sure if they were going to get more of a show, but as I turned back to the bakery, I was open to the possibility.
"Derek," Jane said, "what the hell are you doing?" She grabbed my shoulder, spun me around and slapped me on the face. "Why did you do that to my store?" She fluttered about, screeching inaudible words, arms flapping in all directions, apparently to emphasize her point.
Her store? Jane owns a bakery? Did I really only black out? Then it hit me, How did I get here again?
"Jane?" I muttered. I must have looked as confused as I felt as she tilted her head and stopped from smacking me a second time. "When... Why I am here?" I couldn't help but keep looking at the shattered window, but had to stay on guard from more stiles from Jane as well.
"Are you all right, Derek?" Jane said. "You look.. Like shit."
"Thanks?" I said, sure it was a good thing considering I had just blown out a store front window. As I stepped towards the window in awe I would such a thing, a rather rotund bald man came out of the back of the store with a baseball bat cocked and ready to swing as he headed right for me in the window opening.
Luckily, Jane saw the man and cried for him to stop. And he did, but not before I was cowering on the sidewalk among the shards of glass. I peeked over my arm that was shielding me, the man stood there with the bat still cocked, yet limp; his head tilted as well. "He don't look right," he said to Jane.
We all remained motionless for several minutes; even the bystanders. Nothing seemed right, to me, to Jane. She looked terrified to see me, yet she also looked at me as though I wasn't the same person.
Little did I know at the time I wasn't the same person she had known up to this point, and I wasn't in Kansas anymore; literally.
End Fiction.
As I watched the brick crash through the window, I realized this was going to end very bad. Where was I? What was I doing in front of a bakery? I had definitely gone over the edge, and what was the most terrifying part was something felt very wrong, especially since I wasn't too sure what had incensed me to violence.
A bakery? Really?
"What the..." Jane called out behind me.
When did she get here? For that matter, when did I get here? I turned around and found a dozen people standing completely still, staring at me. Some were shocked, others in awe and a few were waiting to see what happened next. I wasn't too sure if they were going to get more of a show, but as I turned back to the bakery, I was open to the possibility.
"Derek," Jane said, "what the hell are you doing?" She grabbed my shoulder, spun me around and slapped me on the face. "Why did you do that to my store?" She fluttered about, screeching inaudible words, arms flapping in all directions, apparently to emphasize her point.
Her store? Jane owns a bakery? Did I really only black out? Then it hit me, How did I get here again?
"Jane?" I muttered. I must have looked as confused as I felt as she tilted her head and stopped from smacking me a second time. "When... Why I am here?" I couldn't help but keep looking at the shattered window, but had to stay on guard from more stiles from Jane as well.
"Are you all right, Derek?" Jane said. "You look.. Like shit."
"Thanks?" I said, sure it was a good thing considering I had just blown out a store front window. As I stepped towards the window in awe I would such a thing, a rather rotund bald man came out of the back of the store with a baseball bat cocked and ready to swing as he headed right for me in the window opening.
Luckily, Jane saw the man and cried for him to stop. And he did, but not before I was cowering on the sidewalk among the shards of glass. I peeked over my arm that was shielding me, the man stood there with the bat still cocked, yet limp; his head tilted as well. "He don't look right," he said to Jane.
We all remained motionless for several minutes; even the bystanders. Nothing seemed right, to me, to Jane. She looked terrified to see me, yet she also looked at me as though I wasn't the same person.
Little did I know at the time I wasn't the same person she had known up to this point, and I wasn't in Kansas anymore; literally.
End Fiction.
Monday, May 10, 2010
05-10-2010
Start Fiction:
Roger Roberts laughed as he fired his gun at the teenagers walking through his field. The group scattered, some headed for the timber while others fell in to a dead sprint for the highway. "Stupid kids," he said as he loaded two more shells into the shotgun. "Let's see if they can run any faster!" Two more shots, aimed relatively safely from the kids; Roger's laughing echoed through the valley.
"Roger Monroe Roberts!" Ellie Roberts shouted out the kitchen window. Roger froze up a bit, hesitating to turn around. "What in the hell are you doin'?" she continued to scream as she walked out on to the front porch, screen door slamming behind her.
"Oh, come now, Ellie," Roger said, lowering his shotgun to the ground. "I'm just messin' with the locals."
"Well, stop it," she said as she wagged her finger at him walking off the porch. "You keep it up and we won't be able to sell any live stock in the tri-county area with all your shenanigans." She had a point as Roger was not the most social of bees in the hive, especially when is came to business. If their stock wasn't so good, they probably would have been out of business years ago. But he had a knack for raising high quality stock, year after year, and luckily that reputation preceded him throughout the area.
"Well, what the hell am I suppose to do in the middle of the afternoon?" he said. Having nothing to do bothered him, and usually ended up getting him in some kind of trouble.
"Ever thought of taking a nap under a tree?" Ellie snapped back as she turned beck to the house.
"Dim witted genius; pain in my ass," she mumbled to herself, or so she thought. Roger pulled two more shells out of his pocket and loaded his rifle once again, taking aim at Ellie square in the back.
"Too easy," he said as he turned towards the highway, but there were no kids in sight anywhere. He had scared them off real good. "Stupid kids; stupid wife."
End Fiction.
Roger Roberts laughed as he fired his gun at the teenagers walking through his field. The group scattered, some headed for the timber while others fell in to a dead sprint for the highway. "Stupid kids," he said as he loaded two more shells into the shotgun. "Let's see if they can run any faster!" Two more shots, aimed relatively safely from the kids; Roger's laughing echoed through the valley.
"Roger Monroe Roberts!" Ellie Roberts shouted out the kitchen window. Roger froze up a bit, hesitating to turn around. "What in the hell are you doin'?" she continued to scream as she walked out on to the front porch, screen door slamming behind her.
"Oh, come now, Ellie," Roger said, lowering his shotgun to the ground. "I'm just messin' with the locals."
"Well, stop it," she said as she wagged her finger at him walking off the porch. "You keep it up and we won't be able to sell any live stock in the tri-county area with all your shenanigans." She had a point as Roger was not the most social of bees in the hive, especially when is came to business. If their stock wasn't so good, they probably would have been out of business years ago. But he had a knack for raising high quality stock, year after year, and luckily that reputation preceded him throughout the area.
"Well, what the hell am I suppose to do in the middle of the afternoon?" he said. Having nothing to do bothered him, and usually ended up getting him in some kind of trouble.
"Ever thought of taking a nap under a tree?" Ellie snapped back as she turned beck to the house.
"Dim witted genius; pain in my ass," she mumbled to herself, or so she thought. Roger pulled two more shells out of his pocket and loaded his rifle once again, taking aim at Ellie square in the back.
"Too easy," he said as he turned towards the highway, but there were no kids in sight anywhere. He had scared them off real good. "Stupid kids; stupid wife."
End Fiction.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
05-09-2010
Start Fiction:
My first drink came when I was seven, sipping my Dad's beer. It was an instant hit with my taste buds. I looked forward to helping my Dad do things around the house as each project culminated with a beer or two, and the delightful reward of getting a few sips for my hard work. As the years passed, my sips grew into drinks, then chugs and eventually I was given my own beer. Dad always thought it was cute, then funny and eventually treated it as though I was becoming a man. Little did he know those days as a budding man I was becoming anything other than a man.
Bu the time I was a senior in high school, I was already drinking at least a six pack a day, yet able to keep up with course work and maintain fairly well. I imagined college would be an easy transition, but my habit increased just by the fact it was easier to drink more with people than it was alone. Plus, at college I was able to keep beer in the fridge, not tucked behind my dirty laundry in the closet. Cold beer was a whole new world to me, but soon I was downing over a dozen beers a day. Needless to say it wasn't long before I escalated to hard liquor; whiskey to be exact.
Some how I was able to get solid C's through college, allowing me to graduate and move on to bigger and better things like working as a bar tender, for example. That was a great gig, at least until I was drinking more than the regulars, more than I made, which in the bar owner's eyes was paramount to theft. It was a sad day to lose that job; at times I wished I could have stayed on a few more months, maybe it would have killed me quicker than this slow and painful death I am experiencing from a failed liver.
But here I lay, in the hospital, lectured by every doctor and nurse that comes in to perform their latest checkup. "Still dying from a dead liver," I tell them each time they ask me how I am doing. It is beginning to drive me crazy, but then again that could also be the toxins building up in my system due to my "condition". And the odds of being a recipient from a organ donor were slim considering my addiction. However, that was not a great concern for me, I was ready.
End Fiction.
My first drink came when I was seven, sipping my Dad's beer. It was an instant hit with my taste buds. I looked forward to helping my Dad do things around the house as each project culminated with a beer or two, and the delightful reward of getting a few sips for my hard work. As the years passed, my sips grew into drinks, then chugs and eventually I was given my own beer. Dad always thought it was cute, then funny and eventually treated it as though I was becoming a man. Little did he know those days as a budding man I was becoming anything other than a man.
Bu the time I was a senior in high school, I was already drinking at least a six pack a day, yet able to keep up with course work and maintain fairly well. I imagined college would be an easy transition, but my habit increased just by the fact it was easier to drink more with people than it was alone. Plus, at college I was able to keep beer in the fridge, not tucked behind my dirty laundry in the closet. Cold beer was a whole new world to me, but soon I was downing over a dozen beers a day. Needless to say it wasn't long before I escalated to hard liquor; whiskey to be exact.
Some how I was able to get solid C's through college, allowing me to graduate and move on to bigger and better things like working as a bar tender, for example. That was a great gig, at least until I was drinking more than the regulars, more than I made, which in the bar owner's eyes was paramount to theft. It was a sad day to lose that job; at times I wished I could have stayed on a few more months, maybe it would have killed me quicker than this slow and painful death I am experiencing from a failed liver.
But here I lay, in the hospital, lectured by every doctor and nurse that comes in to perform their latest checkup. "Still dying from a dead liver," I tell them each time they ask me how I am doing. It is beginning to drive me crazy, but then again that could also be the toxins building up in my system due to my "condition". And the odds of being a recipient from a organ donor were slim considering my addiction. However, that was not a great concern for me, I was ready.
End Fiction.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
05-08-2010
Start Fiction:
Frank Alberts stood over his dead dog and wept. Brutus had been the best do he ever had, was ever going to have. How someone could shoot such a calm and friendly dog was a mystery. And though Frank was as calm and friendly as his dead dog, something festered inside, causing a slow but steady building rage. It terrified Frank, mostly because he felt almost no control over it.
Sucking the running snot back up his nose, wiping the excess on his sleeve, Frank turned away from his dead dog and headed for the workshop. He needed supplies, tools, equipment; he needed answers. A wheelbarrow would act as his gurney, his fishing knives and tools would serve well his surgical equipment. A crude and probably mutilating autopsy was in store, but the answers Frank needed started with the slugs inside his dead dog.
As Frank reached the workshop, Mary Alberts stepped out of the house and called to him to no avail. Maybe he didn't hear her, or maybe he was ignoring her, as he entered the open doorway. Mary would have none of that nonsense and headed to the workshop, hands still on her hips. She didn't know Brutus was dead, and she probably wouldn't care once she fond out, either. When Mary Alberts called her husband, she expected that her husband, Frank Alberts currently, should come to her; that's the way it was, and she wasn't about to let that change. Not even once.
Mary reached the workshop and stood in the open doorway, hands still on her hips. Frank was throwing tools and other things in to his wheelbarrow. She didn't say anything, but just watched. His selection of tools was odd, even for Frank; his behavior was even more erratic. There was a look on his face that Mary Alberts had never seen on him before, a look of determination. She didn't like it, that and Frank didn't notice her.
"What in the hell are you doing?" Mary said. Frank didn't respond; not a break in his stride. Mary stepped into the workshop, hands still on her hips. "I'm talking to you," she screamed. Frank turned and grabbed the wheelbarrow, and headed towards Mary with his head down. She raised her foot, placed it on the front of the wheelbarrow and stopping Frank. He looked up, stepped around the wheelbarrow and shoved Mary to the ground. Frank returned to the wheelbarrow, went outside and headed back to his dead dog.
End Fiction.
Frank Alberts stood over his dead dog and wept. Brutus had been the best do he ever had, was ever going to have. How someone could shoot such a calm and friendly dog was a mystery. And though Frank was as calm and friendly as his dead dog, something festered inside, causing a slow but steady building rage. It terrified Frank, mostly because he felt almost no control over it.
Sucking the running snot back up his nose, wiping the excess on his sleeve, Frank turned away from his dead dog and headed for the workshop. He needed supplies, tools, equipment; he needed answers. A wheelbarrow would act as his gurney, his fishing knives and tools would serve well his surgical equipment. A crude and probably mutilating autopsy was in store, but the answers Frank needed started with the slugs inside his dead dog.
As Frank reached the workshop, Mary Alberts stepped out of the house and called to him to no avail. Maybe he didn't hear her, or maybe he was ignoring her, as he entered the open doorway. Mary would have none of that nonsense and headed to the workshop, hands still on her hips. She didn't know Brutus was dead, and she probably wouldn't care once she fond out, either. When Mary Alberts called her husband, she expected that her husband, Frank Alberts currently, should come to her; that's the way it was, and she wasn't about to let that change. Not even once.
Mary reached the workshop and stood in the open doorway, hands still on her hips. Frank was throwing tools and other things in to his wheelbarrow. She didn't say anything, but just watched. His selection of tools was odd, even for Frank; his behavior was even more erratic. There was a look on his face that Mary Alberts had never seen on him before, a look of determination. She didn't like it, that and Frank didn't notice her.
"What in the hell are you doing?" Mary said. Frank didn't respond; not a break in his stride. Mary stepped into the workshop, hands still on her hips. "I'm talking to you," she screamed. Frank turned and grabbed the wheelbarrow, and headed towards Mary with his head down. She raised her foot, placed it on the front of the wheelbarrow and stopping Frank. He looked up, stepped around the wheelbarrow and shoved Mary to the ground. Frank returned to the wheelbarrow, went outside and headed back to his dead dog.
End Fiction.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
05-06-2010
I realized it has been a week since my last fiction piece, so I think I need to change that today! I have been focused on a non-fiction project idea, so I have been writing, just not fiction!
Start Fiction:
Ronny Anderson came flying out of the doorway of Tubby's Pub, backwards, stumbled, fell, rolled down the steps and stopped faced down on the sidewalk. Ronny wasn't a drinker, so to Jim Franklin, who was walking past and witnessed the incident, it was all the more peculiar.
"Ronny?" Jim said pushing back his hat. "What you doing down there?"
Ronny rolled over a bit. "Jim," he said. "How are you this afternoon?" Jim could see that he had a swollen eye and a busted lip.
"Well," Jim said as he leaned over, offering his hand to Ronny. "I'm guessing I doing a tad bit better than you, old man." he grabbed both of Ronny's hands and lifted him to his feet; his wobbly feet, that is.
"I would have to agree," he said as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and patted his lip. He looked at Jim and chuckled, "Nothing like the first of the month." Ronny was a landlord who was owed lots of money for past due rent from a lot of people. Typically an easy going fella, Ronny was known to only go after the long time delinquents, six months or more. And Toby Wallace had just reached month ten.
"I see Toby found better use for his paycheck," Jim said.
"Yes," Ronny said, "yes he has, but I think I have been patient enough." Ronny was still staring at the pub's door, brow furrowed a smidge. He was right, no other landlord would have let Toby go more than two months. However, Toby was the dangerous kind of tenant most landlords never wanted to get on their bad side for fear of retribution. Toby was a little off, in more ways than one; plus he was six foot seven and three hundred pounds. A giant among the locals, and he used that to his advantage.
But Ronny didn't care. It was time someone stood up to Toby Wallace, at least legally. He might be out of patience, but he wasn't out of wits. At least that is what he told himself.
"Get out of here!" Toby shouted through and open window. Jim didn't flinch; it wasn't his battle and he wanted to keep it that way. Ronny didn't flinch either. He kept his eyes focused on the door, at least with the one eye that wasn't swollen shut.
Jim tipped his hat, "Good luck, Ronny," he said and walled away.
End Fiction.
Total crap. Maybe I'll try something a little later.
Maybe...
Start Fiction:
Ronny Anderson came flying out of the doorway of Tubby's Pub, backwards, stumbled, fell, rolled down the steps and stopped faced down on the sidewalk. Ronny wasn't a drinker, so to Jim Franklin, who was walking past and witnessed the incident, it was all the more peculiar.
"Ronny?" Jim said pushing back his hat. "What you doing down there?"
Ronny rolled over a bit. "Jim," he said. "How are you this afternoon?" Jim could see that he had a swollen eye and a busted lip.
"Well," Jim said as he leaned over, offering his hand to Ronny. "I'm guessing I doing a tad bit better than you, old man." he grabbed both of Ronny's hands and lifted him to his feet; his wobbly feet, that is.
"I would have to agree," he said as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and patted his lip. He looked at Jim and chuckled, "Nothing like the first of the month." Ronny was a landlord who was owed lots of money for past due rent from a lot of people. Typically an easy going fella, Ronny was known to only go after the long time delinquents, six months or more. And Toby Wallace had just reached month ten.
"I see Toby found better use for his paycheck," Jim said.
"Yes," Ronny said, "yes he has, but I think I have been patient enough." Ronny was still staring at the pub's door, brow furrowed a smidge. He was right, no other landlord would have let Toby go more than two months. However, Toby was the dangerous kind of tenant most landlords never wanted to get on their bad side for fear of retribution. Toby was a little off, in more ways than one; plus he was six foot seven and three hundred pounds. A giant among the locals, and he used that to his advantage.
But Ronny didn't care. It was time someone stood up to Toby Wallace, at least legally. He might be out of patience, but he wasn't out of wits. At least that is what he told himself.
"Get out of here!" Toby shouted through and open window. Jim didn't flinch; it wasn't his battle and he wanted to keep it that way. Ronny didn't flinch either. He kept his eyes focused on the door, at least with the one eye that wasn't swollen shut.
Jim tipped his hat, "Good luck, Ronny," he said and walled away.
End Fiction.
Total crap. Maybe I'll try something a little later.
Maybe...
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