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Kevin Yarbrough

04-04-2005, 08:17 PM

Here is mine, but be warned. Story is graphic so if you don't like that then skip this post.

Jadon sat there in bed as his sisters cries carried through the thin walls of their home. He couldn’t help but feel her pain as she begged her father to stop the beating, for he had been in the same boat numerous times. Pulling the covers up to his chin he placed his arms back around his legs that were pulled to his chest, holding them tight like a child would hold his blanket for safety. Closing his eyes he tried to see life the way other people see it, a loving father that takes their kids to games, helps them with their homework, and warns them about the birds and the bees when they are old enough. To him, his world was far from that. His father didn’t take them to games, the only games they saw were the ones he did to them. They didn’t have any homework, they didn’t go to school, they weren’t even allowed to leave the house. And his father didn’t tell them about the birds and the bees, he showed them.
Hearing that the blows finally stopped he sat there and listened for what he knew was going to come. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he heard the bed in his sisters room begin to squeak, her small cries of pain buried beneath their fathers grunts. After twenty minutes he heard the bed stop squeaking and he quickly laid on his side and pretended to sleep, he jumped a little when he heard his sisters door slam as their father left the room. He closed his eyes and stared out into the dark place hidden behind his eyelids, a place he knew that was just as dangerous as the one he was living in. It didn’t take long before the things began to show up, the demons that ran rampant in this dark world that came when he closed his eyes. He watched in fear as one, sensing that there was someone around, came towards him. A demon with four eyes, razor sharp teeth, and talons longer than kitchen knives. He had seen this creature before, it was the one that he had called Golette. There were more than one kind of demon, but there never seemed to be two of the same one though. He could always tell because each one had a distinguishing mark, a scar of some kind, or a mole. Missing fingers, limbs, or teeth. This one had one of its eyes missing, a scar also circled the lower part of its eye as if someone had placed a knife there and cut him before sliding it into its eye and popping it out. Catching sight of him the Golette came closer, his hands flexing as his talons clanked together. The sound reverberated in Jadon’s ears like a chef hitting his knives together. To this thing, Freddy Krueger was a circus clown. He knew if he didn’t open his eyes soon the thing would get him and drag him into that dark world. Just as he was about to open his eyes he heard his door open and smelled the alcohol that reeked from his fathers body fill the room. He could hear the deep breathing that came from him after the beating and rape he had just giving his sister drift to his ears. Jadon began to worry, the Golette was getting closer and his father was just standing there. If he opened his eyes his father would see it and his beating would commence, if he kept them closed the Golette would get him and drag him down to do God knows what to him. He heard his fathers footsteps come into his room and stop by his bed, the stench of alcohol, sweat, sex, and blood filled his nostrils. The Golette stopped and sniffed the air as if his body was some kind of conduit between the real world and the one behind his eyes lids. Enraged, it began to run towards him, the smell of blood sending it into a feeding frenzy. Jadon pleaded in his mind for his father to leave, to get out of here before it was to late and as if he had heard him his fathers footsteps began to head for the door. Not wanting to risk opening his eyes yet he waited for the sound of the door shutting. As he waited the Golette drew closer, its breath now filling Jadon’s nostrils. Just as the door shut the Golette reached out and took a hold of his arm, its talons slicing into his flesh. Screaming in his mind Jadon tried to open his eyes but found out he couldn’t, the demon had a hold on him and it was keeping him in this world. Swinging his arm he hit the demon in his missing eye, squealing the thing let go as Jadon’s eyes opened up, its hold on him broken allowing him to come back to the real world. Bolting straight up, he knocked the covers off of him and jumped out of bed as the squeals of pain died out. He could hear the thing screaming in rage in his head as it began to drift away, the dark place once more going back to wherever it was it came from. Looking down at his arm he saw the blood running to his fingers, saw it as it dripped to the floor pooling there by his feet. Backing up to the wall he slid down and pulled his feet back to his chest, his bloody arm with the five slices from the Golette resting on the floor beside him. Weeping, he just sat there as the blood began to pool around his hand. Maybe he should just let it bleed, to let his life giving blood run out and send him onto whatever there was out there.
“No, I can’t do that.” He said as he got back to his feet. If he did that then he would leave his sister here with their father by herself. Her abuse would be daily, instead of the rotating ones they were now receiving. But that wasn’t the only thing that had helped him make up his mind. The fear that if he died there wouldn’t be a heaven, only the dark place that he goes to every night would be waiting and then this time he wouldn’t be able to wake up. He would be dragged down into whatever Hell there was in that place, his body left at the whim of demons like the Golette.
Quietly he made his way down the hall, tip toeing to his fathers room. Placing his ear to the door he could hear the faint snores that let him know that his father, drunk and satiated, had passed out on the bed. Creeping towards the bathroom he opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out the peroxide and bandages. Cleaning and bandaging up his arm he grabbed up the supplies and headed to his sisters room. Opening the door he could hear his sister whimper as she moved farther up the bed, fearing it was her father coming back for more.
“It’s me,” he whispered as he came into the room. Shutting the door he walked over to the window and pulled the curtains, the moonlight filtered into the room giving him enough light to see her. Stepping over her clothes on the floor he pulled the covers up over her chest to cover up the naked body that lay on the bed.
“I’m tired Jadon, but I don’t want to go to sleep.” She said as the tears began to fall.
“I know Raine,” he said as he pushed her hair back from her face and examined it. A few bruises and a cut along her eyebrow, all in all it wasn’t that bad. They had both seen worse, a lot worse. Cleaning it with some peroxide he opened up some steri-strips and placed them over the cut. “You hurt anywhere else?” He asked as he placed the last strip on.
“Some place I will have to take care of,” she answered as she stared at him.
She could see the bruises on his cheek were finally going away, his busted and swollen lip was finally back to normal. It wasn’t until then that she saw the bandage on his arm, the thing soaked in blood. She had thought his color looked funny but she had chalked it up to the moonlight coming through the window, it wasn’t until now that she realized it was from a loss of blood. Reaching out she touched his arm as he pulled it away and stood up, walking over to the window he gazed out at the surrounding trees. They were stuck in this house in the middle of a damn forest, no idea where the nearest town was, and no clue as to what kind of animals lived out in these woods, or if there was any kind of traps their father had set to keep people away or to keep them here. They were prisoners in a house with no bars, and no warden to watch over their every move.
“Was it dad?” She asked.
“No, the Golette.” He answered.
“The four eyed thing?”
“Yeah,” he whispered. Taking one last look at the trees he walked back over to the bed and sat down, taking her hand he told her what had happened.
“What do you think will happen if they get a hold of us?” She asked after he finished his story.
“I think they will make dad look like a schoolgirl, and that’s just the Golette.”
“Shilrithe,” she said, knowing what he meant.
“I don’t want to think about what will happen if it gets a hold of us. They will make dad’s rape seem like foreplay,” Jadon thought of the Shilrithe, its slimy, black body with both sex organs flashed in his mind as the memory of it reaching out and grabbing him, its male part hard as a rock and at least two feet long moving towards him like a snake played in his head. Shaking it away he kissed his sister on the forehead and whispered goodnight.
“Goodnight,” she said as he moved towards the door.
“Sleep, but not to deep. Wake up before they to close,”
“Hopefully it will take them some time to find me,”
“Just be careful Raine,” he said as he opened the door.
“What I wouldn’t do for a way out of this,”
“Me too Raine, me too.” Closing the door behind him he headed to his room. Neither one of them knew about the creature that hovered invisible around them, just waiting for them to say just that. Neither one of them knew about the choices it would offer them in this demonic crossroads of their lives.

skylarburris

04-04-2005, 09:06 PM

"Cynthia," said Hobart Myron Calvin, "I have concluded to take a very important step in my future - our future. If we intend to go on living this comfortable and rather extravagant lifestyle, we can no longer rely on your income. You are not the star you once were. I'm sorry to have to say this, but you're getting on in age and you don't quite possess the grace you once did. Now, don't be offended, Cynthia. This is the time for brutal honesty. I just don't see you as having that appeal you once did. I haven't heard any directors phoning in lately begging me to read their scripts and asking me to allow you to perform in their productions. I used to get five, six calls a day. It has been seven months, and I have heard nothing.

"As your manager, I find you unprofitable. However, what is profitable is the fame I have earned in association with you. Since you can't speak for yourself and I must take your part in interviews, the public has come to know me better than it knows you. They are hungry to hear gossip about me, to read every juicy tidbit of my life. Don't look at me as if I'm flattering myself. I'm not. I really am very much admired. Now, Cynthia, I have devoted much thought to this course which I shall soon endeavor to take. I realize that it may in some respects alarm you. We have spent many years together and I have, I am sure, appeared to you as the epitome of restraint and fortitude.

"However, there are some things in my past, some things which I buried deep behind me . . . some things of which I am, indeed often ashamed, but which nonetheless have occurred. Things which I intend to capitalize upon. I intend, Cynthia, to publish an autobiography entitled The Life and Loves of Hobart Myron Calvin. The financial situation in which I have of late found myself is entirely unacceptable. I see no alternative but to allow the greedy public to gluttonously digest the every detail of my most intimate activities in exchange for some monetary compensation.

"Cynthia, you're looking at me as though I were guilty of some atrocity. Alright, fine. Then I shall leave the decision up to you. What do you want? Shall I publish the book or not? Shall I earn money to purchase the things you desire, or should I allow you to fade into utter obscurity, a washed-up has been?"

Cynthia looked up at him. She blinked. "Meow." she said.

"That's what I thought," said Hobart Myron Calvin. "You can't expect to do cat food commercials forever, you know. That Incredible Journey movie they put you in was a break through, but you know they selected you only for your grace, and you can't say you haven't lost that. Besides, I hear there's a beautiful young Siamese who's moving up in the business, and you aren't at that age when a cat has the vigor for competition. I will tell my publisher to go ahead with the book."

Samm

04-05-2005, 01:57 AM

I just read the Crossroads theme post for the finalists. This question came to me probably because I am so blocked, but can an entry be from an existing work, or must it be a new, original piece? :Shrug:

Sorry in advance if this question has been answered elsewhere.

SueB

04-06-2005, 01:20 AM

OK. I started on this little venture and just couldn't stop. The little venture become a long journey. So, here are 2500 words smack dab out of the middle.
Not reading for children, OK?

Dela had traveled between the US and his country, that first year. Linda and the children were becoming accustomed to life without him, during a prolonged stay in the US during his second year as Ambassador. The old lady who performed the female circumsism was in the village during Dela’s last trip home. Dela, had brought her to his house. “Esiankiki has come to do the operation of closure for you,” he told his young wife, unable to meet her eyes.

Silently, Linda retreated and privately washed her privates. She then returned and lay down on an old, but clean, mat and waited. Esiankiki, she thought, I never knew her name. Esiankiki, her name means young maiden. Should it not be ’pain of young maiden’? Have not we always simply called her ’the old lady of circumcision’? Linda removed her spirit to another plane. Only once was she brought back to her body, hearing her own screams as the old lady pushed her needle through both lips of Linda’s vulva, with one stitch. Linda was lost in thought of the American Lady missionary. She tried to imagine her life in the US. She gathered the puzzle pieces from the American Lady, along with pieces from Dela. She tried to fit them all together to form a clear picture of this lady’s life. She found she could not do it. She did, however, find that she had pieced together small portions of the picture. She next tried to fit herself and her two precious little girls into the puzzle. The girls were two years old now. Thoughts of them undergoing the ceremony of circumcision thrust Linda back into the consciousness of her body. She cried silent tears. She did not know if these tears were for her pain, or, for the pain to come, for her children.

This operation had been a surprise to Linda. It was an accepted custom, among her people, for a husband to have this procedure performed, on his wife, if he was planning to go away for an extended period of time. Linda had to admit, it was looking more and more like Dela would be spending most of his time in the US. But he knows, she cried to herself late that night, he knows I would never disgrace him or our family, by laying with another….He knows! The injustice of it overwhelmed her. She wept. Dela awoke, feeling her convulsing body next to his.

“What is wrong wife?”

Linda could not answer, so she rolled onto her side and embraced Dela with her full body length. Dela thought, My poor wife. She is tormented that I will leave tomorrow. “This is not the life I wanted to give you and the girls,” he stated simply, then slept.

Linda had thrust herself into motherhood with a vehemence. She loved her children more than anything. They were bright, happy children. Dela had attended to Linda’s education personally. She had been capable of speaking not only the language of her people; she was fluent in French, also. Her skills at reading and writing, however, had been minimal. Dela, finding her a dedicated student, and able to learn at an accelerated pace, delighted in teaching her. She could now also speak English and was learning to write it. She spoke to her two-year-old daughters in all three languages. Each day had its own language. Sundays were the day of her native language. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays were days of French. Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays were dedicated to English. While Bella and Kimbiri were naturally more conversant in their own native tongue, they were beginning to show a real apprehension in French and even English, after the months of training their mother had practiced. And the resulting fluency that Linda was gaining herself, was most rewarding.

One night, as Linda knelt with the girls in prayer, a man arrived at their domain. “Your husband has asked for you to join him in the US. The President has arranged it. I will be back tomorrow at noon. I will escort you and your children to the airport.”

The young mother went to her parents and told them her news. She tried to hide from them, her excitement. They would never understand if she were anything but sad to leave her parents, her village, her home.

Late at night, with their bags packed, Linda lay awake staring at her daughters. Dare she hope? Dare she dream of a life in the United States for her children? No. They would have to return, all too soon. And circumcision would await them…..Linda rose in the early morning hours, awakening her children. “We must go see all our relatives and friends. We must tell them all our news and say our good-byes.” The children were sad and cried during some of the good-byes.

Sadness forgotten, adrenalin pumping, the girls were barely containable on their trip to the airport. Linda exhausted from her sleepless night, chastised the girls--in English. They understood and settled down. “Will we see Daddy tomorrow, Mommy?”

“Probably the day after tomorrow, darling.”

Linda and the children settled into their new American home, probably feeling much like Cindarella when she moved into the castle. They adjusted quickly, as Linda sculpted a new life for her family. She took the girls to story time at the library. They watched puppet shows and checked out books by the armload--daily. They had a TV in their apartment. The girls shouted with glee watching cartoons. Bella was in love with Luke on The Dukes of Hazard. Linda sought ways to divert the girls attention away from the TV. While it was a novelty for her too, she thought there were better ways to stimulate their minds and perhaps better influences, to be found, on their moral character. Back in their homeland, very few people owned TVs-- nation wide, fewer than one out of every 1000 people. No one in their village. But Linda had long ago adjusted to being the exception to the rule. She was educated and could read and write, in a world where less than one quarter of the people were literate. Her parents had a telephone, the only one in her village. Her parents received the newspaper. She had never seen anyone else receive a newspaper--that is until she married Dela. Dela kept up on the news. He subscribed to several newspapers; and, he had a radio which he tuned in every morning and every night. Dela was a voracious reader and had a veritable library of his own.

Linda was grateful when it became obvious that Dela was not going to approach her for sexual relations. She had been stitched closed, but she presumed he could have a procedure done, even in this foreign country, to open her. Still, he made no mention of it. He appeared over joyed at having the girls and Linda with him. He played and sang and walked with them. Sometimes they spent all of a Sunday afternoon in a children’s park. None of them had ever know such a happy life. They were a close knit family now. After six months had passed, Linda and her daughters appeared very much like an American family, as they shopped, checked out their books at the library, and attended Sunday morning Mass. Linda had feared, in the beginning, that her husband would not approve of the Americanizing.

One night, she rolled over to him as he laid down the book he had been reading. “Husband, we are changing. We are becoming more and more Americanized. Does this disturb you?”

“No wife………..Sometimes I am sad to think that our children will loose many of the good things from our culture, but I have to believe that what they are gaining is worth the price.”

“Dela, you sound as if this is all permanent. It is not. Eventually, we will return to Burkina Faso.”

“My wife, you must listen to me carefully. I have so much that I have to tell you. So much that I want you to know, and sadly, much I wish you would never have to learn. You are my wife and I can do no less than tell you the truth. Be strong my wife. This is to be a difficult, tumultuous time in our lives.”

“My husband, you are frightening me…..No, no. I will not be frightened. God has been good to me in my life, especially in my marriage to you. I will be strong for you, for the girls, and for myself. If I am not strong, I am not myself. You and the children deserve the real me. Please, my husband, unburden yourself to me. Let me be your true other half. I am here for you.” With that Linda was to remain silent for the better part of the next hour. Dela told his story in a monotone, stopping only once for a brief period of weeping. Linda experienced many varying emotions during his telling, but held it all in.

The most shocking part for Linda was hearing her husband admit to adultery. “I went out for a night of dining, with a friend of mine from the embassy. We drank much wine throughout the meal. After we left the restaurant, he drove us to a bar.” (Dela had stopped here in his story, to give Linda a brief description ‘bar’) “We did more drinking in this bar and were eventually approached by two American women. My friend was enjoying their sexual advances. I remained cordial but unresponsive, in the beginning. The woman, who had partnered herself with me, deceased her sexual flirtation and conversed intellectually with me. Curious about our culture, she asked a lot of questions. She had heard of circumcision in Africa. She asked me if this was part of the culture in my village. My wife, I was ashamed to tell her ‘yes’. The shame surprised me. We discussed the reasons for this procedure and she gave me valid reasons why a woman should never undergo such. Eventually, she offered to show me what our women give up, in their lives, when they have this done. She said, ‘You men think you come out the winners. Ha! Let me show you what you are missing!’ Oh Godddd….” It was at this point that Dela had wept. As his convulsing body quieted, he continued his story. He told his wife of the woman’s erect clitoris and her subsequent orgasm. Linda knew her husband well and knew that, in the telling, he had become aroused.

“I have not mentioned sexual relations with you my wife, nor the possibility of having you opened. I do not wish to come to you as an adulterer. I do not wish to even come to you otherwise, if it is unpleasant for you. Can you ever forgive our people for what they have done to you? Can you ever forgive me?”

“Yes. Our people do this in ignorance. But you my husband, I am curious. Why did you do this? I could better understand if I thought you were simply lonely and needed release.” She went silent again, giving him the time and space to answer.

“I have always had nagging feelings about this procedure. Since our daughters were born, I have given much thought to the day of their circumcision. This encounter with the American woman was really a test. I had to find out if we were doing the right thing……..or not…..We are not wife. I will not have my daughters mutilated. I beg your forgiveness for the adultery, but above all for your multilation! You never have to be opened again, if that is your desire. I give you my word, I will understand, and I will accept your will. Do not answer now. Contemplate.”

Next, Dela confided in Linda, “I am working on a plan. I am arranging things so that you and the girls can stay in America.”

“Husband! Not without you?”

“I am not sure yet. But, I give you my word, I will try to arrange it so that we can stay here as a family. Now I must tell you more news. I received a call today from Burkina Faso. They have requested that I return for a 2 day briefing, before my meeting with the American President next week.”

“I did not know you were meeting with the American President.”

“Yes, it is a meeting where I am approaching him for more monies for our country. Our President wants me to be briefed on what exactly to ask for. He wants me to have materials to show our plans. One of our largest requests is for our Electric future. Since I am an electrical engineer, he feels I am best suited to propose our plans and requests, in this massive endeavor. We have big plans, wife, and they have monumental possibilities for our country. It is imperative that I sell the importance of this plan, to the American benefactors.”

“When will we go husband?”

“I go alone, wife. Tomorrow or the next day. I am not sure yet. Lindiwe,” her ears pinned back; he so seldom called her by name, she knew this must be important. Her body began to tremble. He did not notice.

“It is very important that you listen to my words. You must remain here in the US with the children. Never return to Burkina Faso. Never. No matter what happens. No matter what they tell you. Find a way, if I am not here to arrange it. Find a way. Do you understand?”

She had promised him she would not be fearful….“I understand, but may I ask of you why you talk like this? Is there more that you tell me not?”

“No wife. Just a feeling. You promised not to be frightened. Now I must take a lesson from you. I must put aside my fears and do what is best for my country……..above all, what is best for my family………..We must sleep. I have a busy day tomorrow. I must arrange my flight back to our….our country….of origin.” He sighed, shut out the light, and slept. Linda listened until she heard his breathing slow and deep. She rose up from their bed and tiptoed into her daughters’ bedroom. She looked down upon their angelic, sleeping faces. Tears streamed as she fell to her knees and thanked God. Her prayer had been answered. She knew it. It had begun when she married Dela. His name meant ‘savior’. He had been her savior. The savior of her girl children. “Forgive me heavenly Father. I lost my faith in you. I mistrusted you when you gave me girl children. Still you loved me. You granted my petition. Forgive me Father,” she wept.

Early in the morning hours, Linda crept back to the side of her slumbering husband. As she nestled close to him, she uttered another prayer of thanksgiving.

For those interested, you may view this short story, in its entirety, at: http://www.writeinmaine.com (http://www.writeinmaine.com/)
click on 'snippets'
Thanks!

Duncan J Macdonald

04-06-2005, 06:35 AM

Okay, y'all snookered me into it again. Not content with ravaging me over my audition, you want more. More, more. more. Is nothing sacred?
<presses back of hand to forehead in a theatrical manner>
Very well, try this one ...

Blood and Honor

by

Duncan J Macdonald

The sun rose slowly, as if still weary from the night before, and heavy with the knowledge of what her light would reveal during the coming hours. She had risen enough times in recent days to reveal the blood spilled for honor's sake, and honor spilled for blood's. Civil war strode the land, and where he stepped both honor and blood flowed free.

In a valley between two minor ridges, hidden from the nearest road, yet easily accessible if need called, there was a military camp. Its denizens were professional: they had chosen the land the evening before with an eye toward defenses, and had set about setting up the camp with an economy of motion that bespoke long familiarity with the task and full confidence in their fellows. The long lines of tents were arranged in orderly groups, situated by the roles their occupants would take in defense and offense.

High above the camp, nearly to the top of the northern ridge, the camp's commander leaned back against a fencepost. He shifted his weight on his heels as the light from the rising sun touched his face. The stalk of grass he was chewing had been worked on for the past hour. His gaze took in the valley below, still partially misted with early morning fog, but didn't register the bustle starting in the camp as men began the morning ritual of soldiers long used to bivouacking in the field. His mind was far away.

He'd been wrestling with his thoughts since the night before when the messenger had ridden up on a nearly-blown horse, trembling himself with fatigue. He'd carried one message in the form of a parchment, sealed with the King's own Arms, but the more important message was the state in which he'd arrived. A King's Messenger could ride from one end of the realm to the other without harm, and with the series of stables that were maintained for that express purpose he had no need to ride a horse nearly to death. He could, at least, when times were normal; they were hardly normal now.

The commander discarded the shredded stalk and chose another. He had hoped that the civil war would be over by now, that he could return to the Border and be done with strife at home. The last King's messenger to reach him had carried the orders that brought him here, traveling through the war-torn lands that had once been the fertile fields that fed a kingdom. Past ancient forests now broken and blackened by fire, past empty villages and filled gibbets, past fallen strongholds and past all the atrocities that a war-mad soul could devise. The strength of his force had attracted notice, both good and ill, and his movements had perforce been slowed to accommodate the influx of refugees that he garnered. A grim smile crossed his face as he remembered the empty villages that he'd filled, and the garrisons that he'd established to ensure that those villages stayed filled this time.

He'd been perfectly happy the past ten years holding the Border Lands for the Crown. He and his men had been forged by adversity and the constant raids of the Outlanders into a weapon of strength and power. A weapon that had produced the most peace the Borderlands had known over the last three of those years. Honors had been earned by both sides in that conflict, and honors had been given to both groups as well. He and his men had been well on the way to forging a lasting ... not peace ... but an accommodation with the Outlander chiefs. There were too many memories of cross-border raids, from both sides, for peace to be a reachable goal, yet his treatment of his own land's hotheads -- preventing them from crossing the border in anger as assiduously as he prevented incursions into the Kingdom -- had allowed older and wiser heads to prevail. The resulting uneasy truce had lasted for three years now. And because of that 'peace', the King had called upon his honor, and ordered him to bring his forces home to create the same kind of peace here.

The war had begun when the King, declaring his Queen of eight years to be barren, had set her aside for a much younger, more 'fruitful', woman. Rumor held that she'd proved that already, several times with several men, and was already great with the King's child - so rumor held. Her kin had arrived at court in a great unruly mob, snatching every post in sight, and brawling like children in the mud over imagined slights. The King was so overwhelmed by his new bride, said the rumors, that he had eyes and ears for naught else. The old Queen had been shut into a convent, sworn to religion, made dead to the outside world. Rumor also held that she would soon be dead in earnest, that the new Queen's envy outstripped even her lust, and that she demanded her head. The old Queen's father had denounced the King before the court as a lecher and a fool, and the new Queen as a slut and whore. He had gathered his retinue and stormed from the capital in disgust. He had retreated to his lands, called his liegemen to him, and mounted a raid to rescue his daughter. The Duke had succeeded, but at the cost of splitting the Kingdom squarely in two, a cost that he had gladly paid. Enough blood had been shed on both sides that, just as in the Borderlands, no peace could be reached without the fall of the other side. Or imposed from the outside, as he had done before. The war had risen over the past months, a war that pitted the King against his Lords, Baron against Burgher, husband against wife, and father against son until all the kingdom was topsy-turvey. A man couldn't tell to which side his neighbor leaned, and being unsure, assumed the worst. Assumed the worst, and acted on those assumptions. Not all the gibbets that he'd left behind him had existed before his arrival, and he was sure that there would be more to come.

The commander moved again to stretch muscles too long in one position. The latest King's messenger was not the only one that had arrived in the camp that night. Another rider, in non-descript clothing, and on a sturdier, fresher horse, had arrived shortly after the King's man. His message was not committed to parchment, and had been given in private after he proved his bona fides. The signet ring he had produced was unassailable as proof, yet the fact that he was known to the commander was better proof, for they had played together as children and grown up together as young men. That message was a plea from the Duke and his forces: help him rid the Kingdom of Queen Slut and her besodden Royal Paramour, and return The Kingdom to the rule of reason.

The crux of his quandary was that while his honor flowed from the King, his blood flowed from the old Queen's family. The King's parchment had only confirmed the worst of his fears. It contained orders for him to take his men, ride east, and retake the lands raised in rebellion, and carry out the King's High Justice on the traitorous Duke Longsward, for the Good of the Realm, and the honor of the King. Blood and Honor, Honor and Blood. If he chose honor, it would cost him blood; choosing blood would cost him honor and more blood in return.

A blur of motion in the sky finally caught his attention where naught else had -- a falcon circling there stooped, dove, and struck. Moments later, the raptor rose back into view, clutching a small struggling body in its claws, and flew off into the sunrise. The commander sighed and straightened, his mind made up. He moved purposefully down the path toward the camp, calling for his breakfast, his lieutenants, his armor and his horse. Sir Jason Longsward, third son of the rebel Duke, Baron of the Border Marches, and granted the title of War Chief by the Outlanders in his own right, would ride east, following the falcon, and strike his blow for honor.

Mr Underhill

04-09-2005, 01:43 AM

This was a great idea. This themekind of clicked for me, so I got quite a lot out of it. If nothing else, it had me cranking out words, and that's all to the good. By the time I hit 2500 words, I realized the protagonist had actually made her decision, even though I'd need another installment for her to actually act on it.

So here it is - I'm showing the decision, but not telling it yet. I suppose I could get the whole arc down to 2500 words, but that would require extensive editing, and since I'm not actually a finalist, why should I spend my weekend doing that? ;)

Also, 2500 words is quite a lot to put in the post, so I'm going to try posting a teaser, and attaching the whole thing as an RTF file. Hope that works.

Oh, and the protagonist's name is Sarah - that was one of the requirements, yes? :rolleyes:
_______________
Another Monday, how would she face it? Doesn’t hurt you’re rolling in with a quarter of the day already over, she told herself, making that sinking feeling worse. From the clock on her dashboard she realized it would be about 10:30 by the time she made it to her desk – more than two hours late. While most of the firm was more likely to arrive at 8:30 than right at eight, coming in just before lunchtime felt, well, out of control. This would be the third time in two weeks.

Sarah watched as the light in front of her turned green, along with every other traffic light on Fannin as far as the eye could see. Houston’s idea of synchronized stoplights never ceased to amaze her. They were supposed to have the lights change in succession so that you could cruise along at about the speed limit without stopping. But this way the best you could hope for was to make it four or five blocks before the lights all changed red again, in unison. That was with the streets practically empty the way they were at this hour. And if you stood on the accelerator. Almost as if the city fathers planned it so commuters would burn more fuel. Yeah well who owns this city, she thought, maybe there’s more truth to that than you think.

A couple more lights, a couple more minutes passed before she turned the corner onto Capitol. At this hour there was no way she would get one of the Urich spots under the building today, she’d have to park in the garage. Which meant she couldn’t look for Don’s Audi either. Not that there was a chance of accidentally bumping into him now – That’s one of the perks of showing up exactly at 8:30, she reminded herself as she waved her pass at the machine, opening the garage gate.

Plenty of spaces on this side of the street, so she picked one close to the stairs and shut off her vehicle. She grabbed her bag from the passenger seat and paused. You can’t be serious girl, you’re two hours late, her practical self complained.

Mr Underhill

04-09-2005, 01:47 AM

I'm going to try posting a teaser, and attaching the whole thing as an RTF file. Hope that works.Confound it. RTF doesn't work. What a bother. I posted it as a PDF, since I don't have time to mess around with MS Word. Hope that works for people. I could post it as a text file I suppose, since I normally use minimal formatting.

Enjoy.

zeprosnepsid

04-09-2005, 06:45 AM

I didn't think I could do anything with 'crossroads'. It's not really what I do. But today, when I wasn't thinking about it at all, it came to me. And I banged out these quick 500 words. It's first draft and unedited, but it fits the theme and this is for fun, right?

Big Girl -- 506 words

This very day Susie Ann Golden faced the hardest question of her life. She never had to make a decision as grave as this. She has been preparing for this for weeks now. But she didn’t foresee the extenuating circumstances. She doesn’t know what to do -- go potty in the bathroom, or in her pants.

Susie has been training with Mom. She’s watched the videos, she’s sang the ‘potty song’. She knows she can do it on her own. And in this case, she would have to -- Mom is upstairs and Susie does not know when she will come down. The bathroom is very close and Mom will be so very proud. And Susie already told Brad Jones that she could do it on her own. He claimed to have learned weeks ago. Susie’s been waiting for an opportunity to become a ‘big girl’. But there is just one problem...

Billy. Susie sees him across the room, his beady eyes, the drool on his chin. She looks back at the toy in front of her -- the Babybalooza. Seven different activities in one. Susie had it and Billy wanted it. But if she went to the bathroom, she knew it would not be hers again when she came back.
The Babybalooza had been bolted into the wall to keep it from falling over. She could not take it with her. She looked around the play room at the other toys -- A couple dolls, that game with the shapes, an old rattle -- slim pickins. Mom didn’t leave them with much. And who knows how long it’ll be till she returns?

But just then, Mom came down the stairs. Susie stood up, she was ready to show Mom what she could do. But Mom was still on the telephone, and she walked quickly through the room.

“Susie, Billy, everything ok?” she said passing through, giving each child a glance to make sure they were still alive, then returning to her phone, “Yes, Joe, I know he wants it on Tuesday!”

Susie tried to walk toward her, “Mama! Look!”

But Mama did not look. She carried on into the kitchen. Susie ran back to the Babybalooza with her imperfect wobble. Billy had tried to make a move but he was simply too far away. Susie could hear Mom in the kitchen, on the phone and banging pans around. Susie looked out the window, the sun was going down. It was dinner time. Mom might not come back out for another hour. Another hour.

Susie looked around again -- the dolls, the game with the shapes, the old rattle. She looked at Billy, she remembered the times he pulled her hair and threw food at her. She looked back at the Babybalooza and then again at Billy. She starred into his beady eyes, there was even more drool now, it went down his shirt -- she looked at him and then, she peed. She peed as hard as she could. She would have to become a big girl another day.

SeanDSchaffer

04-09-2005, 01:04 PM

First, I think this 'join in on the theme' idea is great!

Second, here is my Crossroads piece, from a WIP I'm working on.

210 words.

------------------------------

So we came to a fork in the road. Which way to go? What to do? One way leads toward a neighboring realm -- and freedom.

The other route would take us deeper into the slave realm I have been servant to for so long.

One route offers freedom, but at what price? My people would be without a champion and my King without a righteous judge.

Add to that, the neighboring kingdom wants to slaughter all the people I hold dear. Their arrogant pride refuses to allow for a neighbor to exist with such freedoms as my people presently possess. For as much as I despise my King, he remains far more just and righteous than the ruler of the other realm.

Following a judgment I know will someday lead to my violent death, I know I must turn away from my immediate release from my present bondage. My only real option is to my service and loyalty to my people and my King. I shall not, for the sake of a personal whim, forsake those who mean so much to me.

I am a Knight: I shall be also an example of what men are born in my land.

-----------------------------

I hope you all like it!

TashaGoddard

04-09-2005, 02:13 PM

[Word count = 2283] [ETA: I can't get the indenting of the first lines to work. Sorry. If anyone knows how to, I'll edit it.]

Odd words broke through my thoughts – ‘kinetic energy’, ‘force’, ‘push’. Almost time. The doodles in my exercise book were making a break for freedom. I looked at my watch. It was time. I put my hand up.
‘Yes, Lucy?’
‘Sorry, Sir. I have to go the dentist.’ I got up and handed him my note. He nodded and off I went.

I saw Mama before she saw me. She was facing the other way and smoking a cigarette. Maybe I should have a cigarette. It was kind of odd that I hadn’t. As I drew closer, she turned round and smiled when she saw me. But it didn’t reach her eyes.
‘Cigarette?’ she asked, pulling out her tobacco and rizlas.
I shook my head, ‘No. Just tell me what the doctor said.’
She rolled another cigarette for herself, anyway. Lighting it, she took a deep drag, ‘Yes. You’re pregnant.’
‘OK.’ I sat down on the low wall next to shopping. She sat next to me and put her arm round my shoulder.
‘OK?’
‘OK.’ I looked longingly at her roll-up, but I didn’t succumb, ‘What now?’
‘Now? You have to decide what you want to do. You have about a month to decide whether or not you want an abortion.’
‘I don’t.’ I said, quietly but with some conviction, ‘You know how I feel about them. Don’t you?’
‘I do. But it’s real now and it’s happening to you, not some theoretical girl in an RE class. The option will only be there for another month. You have to think very carefully about everything. You need to talk to James about it. You need to know about all the different possibilities and their consequences before coming to a decision. And Papa and I will be there to help you with that.’
‘OK. I have to go catch the bus now.’
‘Are you sure? You wouldn’t prefer to come home with me?’
‘No, it’s his birthday. I have to be there. And I have to tell him in person.’
‘OK. I’ll see you tomorrow then?’
‘Yes,’ I hugged her, ‘Thanks, Mama.’

As I rounded the corner, I caught sight of James standing by the gate. He never waited at the gate for me. Of course, he was waiting to find out too. It looked like he knew what the news was too. He glanced at me, raising his eyebrows, questioning without words. I nodded. He held out his arms and I walked into the embrace. That’s when the tears started. He tightened his hold on me.
‘It’ll be fine,’ he said.
‘Uh huh,’ I looked up at him, ‘Happy Birthday.’
He laughed at that, ‘I guess I’m never going to forget my seventeenth birthday.’
‘Sorry.’
‘It’s not your fault, Lucy. It’s no-one’s fault. Except maybe the people who make condoms. Come on. Let’s go inside and get a cup of tea. We have to let my parents know.’
‘Do we have to?’
‘They don’t bite, Lucy.’
‘No? I think they might now. I was just your girlfriend before. Now I’m responsible for ruining your life.’
‘Don’t be silly. Come on. There’s cake.’

Sipping tea in James’ kitchen the next morning, I wondered whether to go to school or not. Maybe I’d just go straight home.
‘Lucy.’ I looked up to see Jane standing there in her dressing gown.
‘Morning,’ I said. She poured herself a cup of tea and then sat down opposite me.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘OK. I have to talk to you about this problem. We’re fond of you, of course, but James is our foremost concern here. You know that Samuel is twenty years older than me. In a few years, he’s probably going to need my full-time care. You need to know that if you decide to keep the baby you will receive no support whatsoever from us, financially or otherwise. I will do my utmost to persuade James to break all ties with you. He has a bright future ahead of him. He’ll be going to university next year and having a child would seriously impair his chances of success. And I won’t allow that. I hope you’ll have the courtesy to think about James as well as yourself in making your decision.’
I heard someone coming down the stairs. I couldn’t face anyone. I was trying so hard not to cry. Without a word I got up, picked up my bag and coat and walked out the door.

‘Looby!’ my sister’s excited voice greeted me as I walked through the door. I picked her up and gave her a big cuddle and kiss. I ended up covered with avocado and cottage cheese, but I didn’t mind. I put her back in her highchair, so she could finish her breakfast.
Papa was sat at the kitchen table, drinking tea, doing a crossword and smoking a roll-up. Mama was combing her long wet hair by the open oven, trying to get it dry before taking Emma to playgroup. Papa stood up and came and gave me a hug.
‘How are you doing, sweetheart?’ he asked, stroking my hair.
‘Pretty s h i t, really.’
‘Yeah. Of course you are.’
‘Did you get any sleep?’ Mama asked.
‘Not a great deal, no.’
‘Why don’t you go and have a lie down, then. We’ll wake you up at lunchtime and, if you feel up to it, we’ll all have a little talk,’ Mama said.
‘OK. Thanks.’ I went up to the attic and got into bed. The next thing I knew Papa was bringing me a cup of tea. ‘Wake up, sleepy head. Time to get up and about.’

******

Jane joined her husband at the dining room table, handing him a gin and tonic and taking a sip from her own.
‘So,’ she said
‘Yes.’
‘What are we going to do?’
‘Did you talk to her?’
‘I did. I can’t imagine it will make any difference, though. I can’t see her parents putting any kind of pressure on her. They’re far too laissez-faire.’
‘Could we persuade them?’
‘How?’
‘What about money? Jim’s unemployed and they have little Emma to think of. I’m sure they could do with a thousand pounds or so.’
‘We’re not exactly rolling in it ourselves, dear. I don’t think it work either. They don’t seem like the sort of people to be bought off. I don’t think they really care about money.’
‘Maybe not.’
‘I do have an idea, actually. It’s rather unethical, though.’
‘Well, offering them money isn’t exactly high on principles, is it? We have to think about James and his future. What’s your idea?’
‘Alright. Well, it would be quite normal to suggest counselling in this situation, don’t you think?’
‘Yes. I don’t think they’d agree to our counselling them, though. We’re hardly unbiased.’
‘No, of course not. But what if we found someone else to counsel them?’
‘Yes?’
‘And persuade them to counsel them towards making the decision we want.’
‘It could work. Who would we ask, though? I don’t think James and Lucy would want just anybody.’
‘I was thinking of Bill and Amy. Amy just did a counselling course and, although Bill doesn’t practise anymore, he’s got the experience. James and Lucy love him. They spend almost every spare hour in his coffee shop. Amy’s an important role model for Lucy, I think, being the head of sixth. She also might come across as an authority figure to be respected and even obeyed. He and Amy aren’t really connected to us, so they would seem unbiased.’
‘But would they ever agree to it?’
‘What about offering them money? Bill’s business is having some problems, I think.’
‘I think it’s worth a try. I certainly can’t think of any other ideas. We should work on James as well, though. He needs to understand just how much this would ruin his life.’
‘Agreed.’

******

‘You agreed to what?’
‘I agreed to counsel Lucy and James. I didn’t agree to take any money. And, while I said that we would do what we could to make them decide to have an abortion, I had absolutely no intention of doing so. Lucy and James clearly need help to get through this. If I didn’t agree those ignominious bastards would have just got someone else. Someone who would agree to something so reprehensible.’
‘That makes sense, you’re right. Of course we have to do it.’

******

‘OK,’ Amy said, ‘That’s it for this week. We’ve now gone over all the different options. We have pros and cons for each. We have lists of your goals and desires in life. We’ve talked about what each of your parents’ feel about it. We’ve covered the levels of support available to you for each option. Lucy, you know that you’ll be welcome in my sixth form, whatever your decision and that I’ll make sure the school agrees to it. Next Wednesday is the big day.’
‘We want you to go away and try not to think about it at all,’ said Bill, ‘We want you to come back next week, free of any preconceptions.’
‘As far as you can, of course,’ said Amy.
‘Yes. It’s going to be hard not to think about it, but the important thing is for you to make your final decision here, with us. We’ll be able to sum up everything we have covered over the last few weeks. We’ll go over those feelings that we’ve identified and that aren’t necessarily on the lists. At the end of that, you should be in the best position possible to make the decision.’
‘We’re not saying there’s no chance of your regretting the decision after the fact, whatever it might be,’ Amy said, ‘But you will, in the future, have the knowledge that you did not take the decision lightly. That you did your utmost to decide what was right for you, for both of you, but mostly, sorry James, for Lucy. And what was right for the baby. At this moment in time.’
‘Thanks, Amy. Thanks, Bill.’ I gave them both a hug and we left.

******

When I got home from school on Tuesday, I found Jane sitting in our kitchen. She’d never been inside our house before, I was sure. My first thought was that something had happened to James.
‘What’s happened? What’s wrong?’ I asked.
‘Nothing’s happened. I’m here to take you all over to our place. We’re going to have a big family meeting. Your parents are just getting Emma’s stuff together. Then we’ll be off.’
‘OK.’ It all seemed a bit odd to me. Why have a meeting now? What difference would it make? James and I were supposed to make our decision tomorrow. What was the point of this?

******

James and I sat in his room, while our parents sat downstairs discussing us. I still couldn’t understand what was going on. It all seemed so odd.
‘What do you think they’re talking about?’ I asked.
James glanced up from the cigarette he is rolling. He didn’t quite meet my eyes. I felt butterflies start to flutter inside my stomach. He knew what this was all about.
‘You have to make the decision tonight, Lucy.’
‘What? Why?’
‘Because my parents think we should get it over with now. They think we’ve had enough talking it over and it’s time to stop and just get on with it.’
‘But… that doesn’t make sense. We’re supposed to do it tomorrow. With Bill and Amy.’
‘My parents don’t think that’s necessary. Come on, Lucy, we know all the different options, now. Just pick one.’
‘Just pick one?’
‘Yes.’
‘But what about everything Amy said last week? We’re supposed to go in with no preconceptions. They’re going to lay everything out in front of us, so that we’re ready. So that I’m ready.’
‘That’s pointless, really. We know what we’ve talked about. What’s the point in drawing the whole thing out one more day? Besides, my parents think Bill and Amy’s counselling skills are poor. I’ve told them what we’ve been doing there and they think it’s a waste of time. You just have to make a decision now. Go with your instincts at this moment in time.’
I should have said no. I should have stood up and walked out the door. I should have gone down to my parents and asked them to stand up for me. Maybe I could have called Bill and Amy? Instead I went with flow.
‘OK. Can I have a drink?’ James poured me a glass from the bottle of Malibu he had in his room. I downed it in one and held out my glass. He filled it and again I downed it one.
‘OK. I’ll have an abortion, then. That’s what everyone wants after all.’ I took the bottle from his hands.
‘Are you sure?’
‘No.’ I took a gulp straight from the bottle, this time.
‘Yes. I’m sure. Let’s get it over with. One last drink, though.’

I lay on the bed in the hospital, instead of sitting in the Psychology exam as I should have been. Papa held my hand as I was injected with general anaesthetic.
‘OK, Lucy,’ the doctor said, ‘Start counting backwards from ten.’
‘Ten.’
‘Nine.’
‘Eight.’
‘Seven.’
‘Papa. I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want this. I never wanted it. Make them stop, Papa. Make sure they don’t do it, please.’
I saw the tears appear at the corners of his eyes. I didn’t often see my father cry. ‘It’s too late, darling. It’s already happened. You’ve already had the operation.’

To this day, I have never touched a drop of Malibu and coconuts make feel sick.

DJP

04-09-2005, 06:33 PM

She starred into his beady eyes, there was even more drool now, it went down his shirt -- she looked at him and then, she peed. She peed as hard as she could. She would have to become a big girl another day.

Wonderful! I finally have insight into my 2 year olds mind. Thank you, thank you!:hooray:

zeprosnepsid

04-09-2005, 11:18 PM

lol, no problem =)

Penelope

04-11-2005, 02:51 AM

My Friend Temptation

In my fantasies I remember your face,
clear as a cameo. Your presence
once stirred my pulse to quick cadence.

When my marriage stood on a fault line,
you held me firm in doorways.
Your lips were so close to mine,
but something, perhaps a thin gloss
of commitment to another, kept me
from such a selfish indulgence.

We missed the perfect moment,
came close as this to love and let it pass--
wrapped arms around a dream and lost hold.

For two who loved, but loved not quite enough,
I am grateful we can endure old reminders
like playthings we have long since outgrown.
It may even be that someday I shall see
brown-eyed daisies, and not your eyes,
hear faint violins and never turn my head.

Poppy Hullings

mommie4a

04-11-2005, 06:40 AM

Please be wretched and nasty but MOSTLY HELPFUL if possible. This section (which is only the setup for the crossroad and decision made) is one of several I've worked on over the last two years and that I've toyed with combining with other pieces in any one of a few different ways. I'm mostly interested to know how good or bad the writing is and whether you'd want to read more. THANK YOU!!! I'm not sure where crits of these "entries" should be posted, but feel free to private message or email me.

The Means to No End (885 words)

A portrait of Moummar Qaddafi hung in my bathroom when I was 19. Its owner was one of my college roommates and someone with whom I spoke only when she annoyed me. “Could you turn down the trilling?” “Did you know your best friend kicks pigeons for fun?” “No, we can’t host a keg party on Yom Kippur.” When I became suicidal, however, our relationship changed forever.

Sally was indomitable to me, a Jewish girl with a wild side that should have been unpalatable to classmates who, in overwhelming numbers, were Catholic. She vacationed in Malta, graduated from Kent - the exclusive Connecticut prep school, and worked in Tripoli, Libya during the summers (including one job at Halliburton). She stopped wearing Bennetton clothing as soon as its first U.S. shop opened because that fact diluted the cache of wearing Italian clothing previously available only in Europe. Her parents lived as ex-patriots in Libya, supported by her dad’s work as an outfitter for oil rigs. They failed to attend her high school and college graduations because they couldn't get out of the country.

If Georgetown University’s housing shortage hadn’t required students to pick potential roommates and enter a lottery for on-campus spots, we probably would never have met.

I’d slummed in a winner’s apartment for two weeks at the beginning of my sophomore year because the housing office didn’t reach my pick until then. And when they did, they gave me one choice: an all-girls, all freshman floor. I would’ve been better off in the Motel 6 across the Potomac River.

With that experience under my belt, I needed a failsafe strategy for the junior year housing crapshoot. I allied with my friend Gail who had three friends willing to go in with us for a five-person apartment. All three had two-name names. Mary Alma. Sally Ann. Mary Liz.

This combination proved fortuitous: we garnered the number 12 pole position and chose a top floor apartment in a townhouse arrangement called Henle Village. Down below our space was a garden-like patio, built for beauty and gathering, aka parties and making out. Without bloodshed, we divvied up the one single and two double bedrooms. We exchanged a few letters during the summer and slept well, knowing that we’d have a place to sleep in the next school year.

When move in day arrived, it was hot. It was sticky. It was a typical August day in Washington, D.C.

An open doorway faced me when I landed at the top of three flights of stairs with my first armful of milk box crates. I jaunted over the threshold and up to the bedroom I’d be sharing with Gail. I dropped the plastic cubes onto the floor and left to repeat the cycle. The sounds of other students who were unpacking their parents’ cars in the esplanade below lilted up through the thickening heat and the living room’s gaping windows.

Near the bathroom between the bedrooms, I broke from my path. I hadn’t gone since a rest stop in New Jersey. No one responded to my quick raps and I shouldered the narrow door ajar.

Nailed into the drywall above the toilet tank was a full color, two foot tall face of Moummar Qaddifi, the Libyan dictator, on a slab of forest green lucite-like plastic.

“HELLO?” I hadn’t seen any roommates yet, though bedding, books and other baggage littered most of the apartment’s surface area. Who the f**k had put this goddamn idiot up in the bathroom? I thought.

I gripped the doorknob and slammed the door inward against the paper thin wall. I charged out like a cop busting into a drug house to find the insensitive jerk who needed to take that ridiculous, insulting insane piece of crap down. Now.

Zigzagging down the stairwell, my hands slapped the railings for balance. I broke my freefall when Sally and Mary Alma faced me on their way up. I didn’t bother with hellos or hugs, even though we hadn’t seen each other in over three months.

“Who’s f**gging picture is in the bathroom?”

Mary Alma, a year ahead of us and the least known to me, didn’t say a word. She looked down over the belongings she carried, squeezed past me and continued upwards. Sally and I exchanged glares, though a smirk accompanied hers.

“Sally - why the hell did you put that calendar up? Come on!”

“I wanted to hang it in the living room, but Mary Alma talked me out of it.” She paused for my reaction. But I had none.

“You don’t even see him when you’re sitting, you know.” She flashed a shitty, hard-*** smile and I had no retort.

For as long as that ugly, murderer’s mug stayed in the bathroom that year, Sally and I didn’t speak to one another. And in an apartment with rooms as small as jail cells, in which five 19 and 20 year old females shared one bathroom, that’s a lot of willful ignoring.

I could’ve been the one to speak first, but Sally’s brazen flippancy stunned me into silence. If someone had told me that seven months after this start, that same brazen flippancy of Sally’s would help me choose life over death, I would’ve told them, And I’m marrying Moummar Qaddafi.

Ddama

04-11-2005, 08:41 AM

Just tossed this off for the follow along. Would have polished it some if it were for the real thing. Would appreciate any feedback anyway. Thanks!

The freight train rumbles through the intersection at a stately pace. A quarter-hour of the dark night passes, maybe more. I watch it roll by, taking oil and chemicals and cotton up to the Carolinas and beyond. The train passes and the crossing bells silence themselves.

The radio plays Clapton again. It might have been playing the entire time. I stare down the barrel of my gun, wondering what I mean to do. If old John could see me, I know what he would say. Why the long face, Doctor Bob? Tell ya what. We’ll grab some sushi and some beers and head down to the shooting range. Whatever’s eatin’ ya, just imagine you’re blowing it away.

What would I imagine? My face? The world? My family?

Thinking of John reminds me of when that goofy European sales manager came Stateside for a meeting. We’re lucky. We have our rights here. There's no harm in a gun carried for protection. Odds are, you'll never need it. But, if you do, well, the law and morality are on the side of self-defense. Aside from that unlikely event, shooting is a hobby, like knitting, a sport, like basketball, and it's not just for guys or for psychos and lowlifes.

When Finn visited Atlanta for the first time, he was shocked by the guns. Most of us carried, even the liberals. Finn came from Ireland. Apparently the only people there who walked around casually armed were paramilitaries. John, our VP Sales, decided it would be fun to organize an outing to the shooting range. When John gave him a Desert Eagle, Finn held it like it was roadkill he had picked up by the tail. We all laughed. After a few seconds, he started laughing too. Finn was a salesman; he knew how to get along with people. John showed him how to hold the grip and the trigger and to flip to safety, how to stand, how to breathe, how to line up a shot.

The first time Finn fired the gun, the kickback near stunned him. He’s not a big guy and the Eagle packs a punch. We laughed again and again he joined us, almost giddy this time. Then he went wild, emptying the magazine and reloading and emptying and reloading, shredding his target, rarely hitting center, but having a ball, a crazy grin on his face.

That's when he turned around, eyes aglitter, gun pointed outwards, held tight in both hands, just like John had showed him, safety unlocked, and yelled, "This is f***ing amazing!"

Every customer and employee at the range hit the deck. We did too, trying not to laugh so hard our eyes teared. He was mystified until John squeezed enough air past his lips to explain how to flip the safety on. "Finn. Son. Don't you ever point a loaded, unlocked gun at anyone, unless you mean business."

In my car -- not the convertible, I had to sell that months ago -- I stare down the barrel of my gun and wonder what business I mean.

Twenty years at General Avionics and all I got was a lousy dhoti, a gift from the Indian programmer who has my old job. John got a gold watch when they forced him to retire. What’s twenty years? A piece of cloth, a bauble. A dhoti, an underfunded and incompletely vested pension, and the life insurance.

We all thought we were safe in our niche, safe from the collapse of the tech bubble. I thought I was safe, anyway. General Avionics hired me right out of grad school. Twenty years and another doctorate later, I was still there. Health insurance and life insurance, pension plan and profit-sharing, mandatory vacations, General Avionics made us feel like a family.

When the profits disappeared though, management hired a consulting firm to enhance productivity. The lead consultants were two clueless drones who had never done an honest day’s work in their lives. I was spared the indignity of being interviewed by their even more clueless associates, barely out of their teens, with their freshly minted Ivy League college degrees. They came in with red, yellow, and green stickers, tossing around terms like “Six Sigma” and “core values,” fancy ways of saying “do the job well” and “give a damn.”

“Robert Johnson?,” the tall, skinny one asked.

“At your service.”

“Like the great bluesman?”

I laughed at that. “Yeah, I sold my soul for a Ph.D.”

“You must really love his music,” the short, fat one added.

Things went downhill after that.

On the day they pinkslipped me, I took off early. I printed out a six-foot tall, high color, ultraglossy Jar Jar Binks using the best printer in the building, the one used to print circuit layouts and aerodynamic models. I took Jar Jar to the shooting range and shot at him until there were only shreds left. I must have looked like Finn shooting a gun for the first time, giddy with the power of life and death in my hands. The regulars gave me some very odd looks.

Then I had to come home and tell Amanda Rae.

When I was a grad student at Georgia Tech, out of shape, out of style, and bearded in a decade that no longer wore beards, women ignored me. Atlanta is a city without a heart, tied to the rest of the country for its lifeblood. For kicks, I would bike over to Foster Street and watch the trains move through the Howell Wye. A bunch of us at Tech tuned CB radios in to the yard frequencies, looking for some hot freight action. Chessie and Seaboard, Southern and Penn Central, equipment of every make and era moved through town.

One week, a friend of mine brought the most beautiful girl ever to watch trains with us. She went home with me that night and I lost a friend. I don’t regret it.

Amanda Rae was an Emory co-ed. She was tall and blue eyed. Her hair was very long, all the way down her back, and very blond. She dreamed of being a model, but some Viking ancestor had bequeathed her big shoulders and a strong back that didn’t quite fit the prevailing fashions. I asked her to marry me the first night we met, but it took another year to get her to say yes.

Dreams change. I graduated and went to work for General Avionics. We started eating at nice restaurants, we bought a house in Springlake, we had pets, then kids. We replaced our station wagon with a minivan and replaced that with an SUV. We grew old together… or middle-aged, anyway, and I got myself a convertible. With a big engine. Red, of course.

Amanda Rae complained it was too small to be practical, but there was nothing practical about it. She liked it well enough when I took her driving out in the country on the weekends.

So I told her. Amanda Rae took the news in stride. “It’s no big deal, right?”

Not for the first few months. We had savings enough to live, to make mortgage payments, but, there were only so many positions available and suddenly the market was inundated with lean, hungry men seeking to fill them. Not so lean myself, I started to hear a new word: obsolete.

One prospective employer startled when I introduced myself, “I was expecting someone younger.” Another offered this, “We’re looking for someone trainable.”

“Oh, I’m a quick study.”

“No, we’re looking for someone trainable.”

“I have two Ph.D.s, one of which I earned just ten years ago.”

“You don’t understand. We’re looking for someone trainable.”

“I see.” If I were an immoral man, with no fear of God, I would have shot him right then and there. I was not brought up to treat people like trash.

Long-term work was a mirage, only leading to stopgap consulting gigs, teaching younger men the skills I had spent a lifetime learning. Skills that were “no longer relevant” when they were inside my graying head were highly valuable when imparted to children who could work twenty hour days for peanuts, not realizing that a courteous Indian fellow named Jeet lay in their future.

Amanda Rae found my frustration perplexing. “Honey, you still get work, we’ve just had to cut back a little, that’s all.” She couldn’t understand how demeaning it was to be a box on someone’s checklist.

Her voice was soft. “I could teach photography classes.”

The way I was brought up, a man supported his wife and provided enough to get his children started in the world and to look after his parents in their old age. Faced with putting her to work, I sold the convertible, buying a few more months time.

“We can’t pay you the salary you’re asking for,” the young man in the sharp sports jacket glanced back down at my resume, “Mister Johnson. Not for a consulting job. Also, we don’t offer benefits to consultants.”

“I understand.”

“Now, I see here that this will be your fifth job in four years. Are you a stable man, Mr. Johnson?”

I smiled at the kid, wanting to wring his neck. “I have a wife and two boys. I worked for General Avionics for twenty years. I’m as stable as they come… it’s just the temper of the times.”

“Um, yeah. You’ll need a security clearance for this work.”

“I already have one…” For longer than you’ve been alive, punk. “It’s on my resume.”

When the gig was up, I was, as usual, not asked to stay on. There were younger, fresher faces out there, able and willing to work for less. Again, the words swirled around me. Obsolete. Redundant. Useless. Irrelevant.

The consulting gigs, when I could motivate myself to leave the house at all, became fewer and farther between. I took to sitting in my office at home, with the lights out and the shades drawn, listening to my old records. As I sit now in my car, in the dark, with the radio playing Clapton. The gates lift at the crossing. I could drive away, drive home to Amanda Rae, ask forgiveness for being a lousy provider, for not being good enough for her.

I ran into Finn a couple years back, at the Paris Air Show, after my life had started to unravel, and we drank too many beers and reminisced about that day at the shooting range. Not long after Finn visited, our European customers sunk into a morass of government scandals and embezzlements. The push for off-the-shelf components shrunk our margins. We shut down our European plant, then European operations, then European sales. Finn was a salesman. He had no wife, no kids. He just moved on.

Behind me I have two boys to get through college, ten more years of mortgage payments, and an underfunded pension to last me and Amanda Rae through our golden years. My mother rots in a nursing home and I can’t afford any better for her. In my left hand, an insurance policy says I’m worth a half-million dead. In my right hand, I hold a semi-automatic that I have never before pointed at a living creature. In front of me, the road is no longer blocked by crossing gates.

I stare down the barrel of my gun. I know what old John would say. Son, don’t ever point a gun at anyone if ya don’t mean business.

Clapton plays on the radio, but my heartbeat drowns him out, loud as a freight train. Sweat chills over my body. At the crossing gate, the lights start flashing again, the bells resume ringing. At the crossroads, I believe I'm sinking down.

Kim Gogo

04-14-2005, 06:45 PM

I didn't have time to submit a story for Crossroads. I'm lucky if I can squeeze in a page of writing here and there with my two younguns, but this week was exceptionally busy with other obligations, a writing contest that I entered, and a serious health situation with a family member. I won't know until later today if I can even enter a just-for-fun entry for the Misunderstandings theme.

Nonetheless, I do steal a moment or two to keep in the loop and enjoy the talents of my fellow writers.

Ciao for now....k

JennaGlatzer

04-14-2005, 09:12 PM

Your theme this week is:

MISUNDERSTANDINGS.

Show us a conflict that stemmed from a misunderstanding.

Again, any genre, any format.

Length: 1000-1500 words.

(Or, if a poem, 25-40 lines.)

Celeste

04-14-2005, 10:45 PM

Your theme this week is:

MISUNDERSTANDINGS.

Show us a conflict that stemmed from a misunderstanding.

Again, any genre, any format.

Length: 1000-1500 words.

(Or, if a poem, 25-40 lines.)

Can anyone (member) participate in this? Or is this just for the people who didn't make the finals?

celeste

Sarita

04-15-2005, 12:15 AM

Celeste! Yes, this is for anyone who wants to play along. Fun, huh? :)

skylarburris

04-15-2005, 07:08 PM

WEEK TWO FOR FUN

Here's my just for fun "misunderstandings" entry--a poem this time. This was inspired by a newspaper correction.

I Believe You are Mistaken

I believe you are mistaken--
You've made a grand faux pas.
You reported that I took a pipe
And broke my husband's jaw.

Then you wrote I bashed his head,
And beat out his small brain,
Mopped up all the slippery blood,
And washed it down the drain.

Yes, in your May 4th issue,
You reported this false news.
You said I killed him just that way,
And filled his mouth with booze,

Then put the bottle in his hand,
And dragged him out the door,
Threw him down an empty well
Fifty feet or more.

Then you say I called the cops,
And had some medics sent,
And named this horrid happening
A drunken accident.

But I believe you are mistaken.
I believe you are misled.
For the last ten years, sir,
I have been quite dead.

DeadlyAccurate

04-16-2005, 01:14 AM

That was terrific, skylar!

JennaGlatzer

04-16-2005, 03:51 AM

LOL sky! Okay, now you must tell us about the newspaper correction. Did they really make that big a mistake?

Ken Schneider

04-16-2005, 05:05 AM

I'm sure there will be a misunderstanding when you finish the story.
Chang.

The Penny Pincher

Eli Whitaker pulled the tattered collar of his top coat around his neck. The fall winds blowing in from the west, increased in velocity by the tall buildings crowding the New York skyline. The thought of winter coming on, sliced through the old man like blood curdling screams from an over zealous actress in a Broadway play. Eli had more than enough memories of Broadway to last a lifetime. The years he spent sweeping up after the show and mopping floors, seemed like eons ago. 2003, had been for him like any other year, aimlessly wondering the streets, hopeless, looking for pennies. The death of his wife and daughter had drained the life from him all those years ago, must be fifty years now, he thought, reflecting back to happier days. Their deaths had shaken his very foundation, sending him into torment, the scene replayed over and over in his mind of the young female driver who hit them as they crossed the street. Eli had never worked after their deaths, he saw no reason to, his search for pennies wouldn’t allow it. Eli now in his early seventies, walked through the park, pennies were harder to find this time of the year, with fewer people out and about, all beginning their winter hibernation. Oh, he could still find pennies, he had always found pennies, some not to his liking or to new, but on the oft occasion he found a penny that was the kind he liked. The old pennies were his favorites, the older the better, he liked to find pennies from the year his wife and daughter were killed, that was very special and rewarding. Eli had to find at least one penny a day, and that was not really hard in New York. Eli’s one room apartment was littered with anything and everything that had to do with pennies. He studied books about pennies and watched t.v. shows about pennies, kept all the articles in the newspaper he found about pennies, he was both tormented, and enamored with pennies.

Eli crossed the street and sat at the bus stop. He wouldn’t get on the bus every time he sat at the stops, some days he would, and other days sat on the bench, talking to people, looking for pennies. Eli fumbled through his coat pocket to see if his precious was still there, and it was, as it always was, carried with him wherever he went. He left the bus stop and went to the coffee shop. The people there knew him well and upon his entry, would pour him a cup of coffee setting it by his stool at the counter. Eli’s favorite waitress wasn’t there anymore, she was a sweet old lady, but she was murdered and another took her place. He had found pennies at the coffee shop before, the subway and out on the street. Eli was so good at finding pennies that he could find them anywhere, day or night, it didn’t matter to him as long as he found pennies. He listened intently to the conversations all around him, a daily ritual of gathering information, about topic’s in every genre. Eli was quite a talker, but he was a better listener, people everywhere found it easy to talk to him, and spilled their stories to him unabashedly. He was proud to be a friend to all and they always were helpful to him, in finding pennies. He had found one penny today and pinched it as he liked to say. He felt satisfied, his most important task of the day complete. The rest of this day he would make his rounds talking to whomever would acknowledge him. Eli made his way home, traversing the street with confident ease. The dank doorway of his apartment house, gloomily welcomed him, the single bulb lighting the stoop flickered and fluttered, buzzing above his head, protesting its life’s end. Eli took notice of the bulb, his own life was fading, as sadness over took him, selfish it may seem, he would miss his penny pinching. The hinges on the old door creaked as it swung away to let him pass. The staircase before him seemed to get longer by the day, the wooden risers scuffed and marked by many a foot through the years, lead him to his room. Eli keyed the lock and opened the door scanning the hall before entering. He tossed his coat aside and flipped on the t.v., setting himself in the worn out chair his wife bought for him. The ragged tattered arms of the chair wrapped him in a comfort only he could find. The news was chronically familiar, murder, murder, murder, everywhere you looked. The park not far from him had seen a young lady murdered today, and as it was everyday no one had seen anything and the police had no clues. Eli shook his head in disgust at the rising cost of bus fair. He slurped a bowl of soup heated in the microwave peering over the glasses hanging precariously on his nose. He wondered what would become of all of his penny research, and penny stuff when he passed on, someone surly would be interested in the material. The fact that someone would have to clean out his room when he died, gave him comfort that they would find his work. Eli’s old frame complained as he raised himself from the chair, the power he possessed for so many years was fading quickly, and he knew his days were numbered, all the more reason to find the right penny. He would continue his search until he drew his last breath. Eli laid down to sleep, in preparation for tomorrow, only tomorrow. Eli would not see the next day, his heart was worn out from years of use, failing him as he slept.

The stench from his room, quite pungent after a few days, alerted the landlord, who then called the police. The landlord unlocked the door for the police and they entered. The site of the room precipitated a call for detectives and soon there after they arrived at the scene. The walls were littered with news articles, paper and phone books were stacked around the room in large piles. Eli lay on the bed, dressed in his clothes from days before, his eyes wide open, as was his mouth. The detectives began to investigate searching over the room.

"Hey Charlie, look at these, every article has to do with pennies, everything."

"Yeah this guy was weird, look at this framed article," The detective read the report, stating that Eli’s wife and daughter where killed, run over by a car, the case was never solved. The only thing the police in 1954 discovered was that a young girl had hit the mother and daughter and fled the scene, and her name was Penny.

"Charlie wasn’t the name of the girl that was murdered in the park yesterday Penny?, and the old waitress at the diner down the street, wasn’t her name Penny?"

"Yeah, well, it seems that we can close the book of murders in the last fifty years on anyone named Penny. I wonder if he ever killed the right one?"

Susie

04-16-2005, 05:34 AM

This is a super idea.

warm regards, susie:)

Susie

04-16-2005, 05:38 AM

Great write, Zepro.

Warm regards, Susie:)

skylarburris

04-16-2005, 08:47 PM

LOL sky! Okay, now you must tell us about the newspaper correction. Did they really make that big a mistake?

Yes, it said something like (can't remember exactly): "Last week we reported that the Rev. so-and-so murdered his wife after tossing her down a staircase. We have recently learned that Rev. so-and-so died peacefully in his sleep ten years ago, and we regret the error." It was an old paper, about 30 years ago, and I read the correction quoted recently.

mommie4a

04-17-2005, 04:58 PM

Hi all - I can't wait to post something in a couple of days. We need to round up some more and get folks prompted!

Jill

SueB

04-17-2005, 09:38 PM

OK, here goes. This was a more difficult one for me. Hope you all enjoy....

My Kentucky born husband and I were riding down the Main Road in our home town of Boondocks, Maine. I was a native of Maine and loved listening to my husband’s Kentuckian brogue. We had been married for six months and had never had an argument. My husband had lived in Boondocks for several years, while I was a newbie in this quaint village.
My husband, Mike, regaled me with stories of his life here, before my entrance on the scene. We did a lot of exploring on our three-wheelers. (Mine had been a wedding gift from my husband) We lived near hundreds of miles of dirt roads owned by the paper companies.
We traversed these roads on most every day off, weather permitting. We picnicked, camped out, fished, and made love, in abandon. I learned where my husband had fell through the ice, while running a trapping line, and saved himself with his axe. I stood on the spot where he had taken his first deer, after moving to Maine. We canoed out to the island, where he had gone alone, for years, and asked his maker for someone to share this beauty with. I walked down through the apple grove where he had run in the moonlight, on a wild chase. He had been laying in bed, late at night, with his bedroom window open. A bobcat screamed. He had jumped out of bed, naked, and had run out of the house, in the direction from which he had heard the scream. He followed a trail. The bobcat, he discovered from the evidence left behind, had been in a tree. He had leapt from the tree to the back of a deer passing under it. He had left his claw scratches in the tree limp from which he had leapt. He had sunk his claws into the back of his prey. The deer’s fur was scattered, in little clumps, along the path of attempted escape. This retired Special Forces man, I had married, was a fascinating creature!
We rounded the curve that passed under the Interstate overpass, one sunny day. “Did you notice where the two ‘yella’ (I had long ago deciphered ‘yella’--that was an easy one--he meant ‘yellow’)..”Did you notice where the two yella lions started in the road back there?”
“Yellow LIONS?” I asked incredulously. I had been watching the road. I certainly had seen no LIONS. Lions in Maine? Was the circus in nearby Bangor? No, this was January; the circus didn’t come until spring. No circus escapees. How in the world could there possibly be lions in Maine? Impossible!
My husband gave me a sharp look. He’s angry with me, I thought. This was even more incredible than lions in Maine. “Mike,” I urged with a friendly tone, “I did not see any lions, I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s going on here, but please tell me.”
Mike, an incessant talker, fell silent. “Mike?” Silence. This was very unsettling to me, He’s really mad at me……..Yellow lions?……..This has to be just a bad dream….
“Mike, please,” I laughed nervously, “tell me whatever you were going to tell me.”
“No,” he finally spoke, evenly, “You are laughing at me and I have lost all desire to tell you the story.”
“Mike, I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing at this insane scenario. I can not believe you’re really mad at me, and I am reeling trying to imagine lions in Maine. Please, talk with me….”
He stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray, glanced my way, and looked back to the road he was driving down. We drove the last six miles home in silence. Soon after arriving home, he acted like nothing had happened. Our young adult children were there and I didn’t want to broach the subject again, with them around. Later that afternoon, Mike and I were heading down the Main Road again, on our way to work. We both worked nights in a Mail Processing Center. We approached the curve. Crossed under the Interstate overpass. The same spot……….“Mike……..Tell me the yellow lions story.”
I must have misunderstood him. He must have meant something about yellow lions in the road sometime in the past. He must not have been saying that they had been there at that moment……My mind was groping for an explanation of what had not simply been a bad dream.
Mike gave me another one of those sharp looks. We continued on to work in silence. Once we arrived at work, he again acted as if nothing had happened. I did feel though, He is making a real effort to forgive me and let it go. Forgive me for what? For what?
We finished our shift and headed home, with Mike again behind the wheel. We talked freely and happily, then both fell silent as we approached that curve.
Months passed. We were deliriously happy. We never argued. We were of like mind, always. This is just too good to be true, I thought time and time again. Sometimes I actually worried, What if this is just a lovely dream and I awaken?
One day I said, “Mike, do you want to take the car or truck to work, tonight?”
“Oh,” he smiled mischievously, “why don’t we take the ‘ka’?”
“Hey,” I threw back in good humor, “I don’t make fun of your accent!”
“Well, not often anyway,” he grinned at me.
“Name one time,” I challenged.
“Yella lions.” He was looking at me with an arched eyebrow. I saw the challenge in his eyes. I was at a complete loss.
“Are we finally going to talk about that day?”
“Yes, dear. I know you meant no offense. It was just your mischievous nature. I should not have taken offense.”
“Mike.. Please believe me, I was not being mischievous or making fun of you. I have never understood what took place that day. Did you truly see yellow lions in the road?”
He looked back at me like he was trying to see down inside my soul. After a few moments of silence, “My wife, I said ‘yellow lines--you know the two yellow lines that start there before the curve, so cars will not pass?”
“NO!” I burst out laughing. “Mike,” I rushed on, trying to get my hilarity under control, “I had no idea! Honestly, I was not making fun of your accent. Honestly. All this time, I have believed you said ‘yellow lions’.
Now, we were both laughing, full bellied laughing, with the tears streaming down our faces.
We no longer live in Boondocks and rarely have occasion to go there. But every time we do go there, we can not round that curve without bursting out laughing and often will recite, “yella lions” in unison.
It has been 10 years since the ‘yella lions’ incident. In all of this time, my husband has never been able to remember what story he was about to tell me. I just read him this story and he suddenly remembered! It’s a great story, better than this one. Wonder if I will be able to fit it in under next weeks category?

Cassie88

04-18-2005, 12:02 AM

Cassie88

04-18-2005, 12:19 AM

(Adult language)

You Tricked Me

You tricked me. Standing there
In your khaki suite working for Amex.
Calling me from Australia, I could smell
Your leather briefcase through the phone.
Dependably dapper, your silver hair
Shines in the sun, like a lion.
You are all I want.
You take care of the bills - poof.
I touch your shoulder as the televison burns
Incinerating conversation.
The patio furniture freezes. Fired,
You wear sweatpants and circle the classifieds.
You get drunk on Fridays and Sundays
And the football games give you
The orgasms I am denied. You snore
And move into another room - poof.
We have a problem, I say as you watch
The other team score. You eat an entire
Cheese tray before the guests arrive - poof.
You disappear at the trotters - poof - it all goes.
Metamorphic magic is contagious,
I buy the next size up.
You're distracted - a score, a basket, a goal,
A foul.
You have a problem, I say between bites of pizza.
You confess. The credit cards are maxed out.
I haul you to meetings and wait in the car.
Nothing left to distract you.
Nothing left.
I pay the bills, order you around.
I have a problem, I say.
You tricked me.
I want a divorce.
Poof.

Celeste

04-18-2005, 10:38 AM

Celeste! Yes, this is for anyone who wants to play along. Fun, huh? :)

Yes! Cool! This does sound fun! I think I'll start on it t'morrow. Thanks! :)

Jalpha,

I liked the story you wrote! :Thumbs:

celeste

skylarburris

04-19-2005, 03:46 AM

Skylar, I love it!!!! ...and your meter is wonderful.....I would like the last stanza better if you remove "But" in first line and add, "dear" or "good" before "Sir" in the 3rd. It was the only stanza where my ears picked up a wrong note.
Cassie

Thanks! I knew the meter needed tweaking. I just didn't work hard enough on it...not in the real competition, and all... Thanks for the help!

skylarburris

04-19-2005, 03:50 AM

(Adult language)

You take care of the bills - poof.
And move into another room - poof.
Cheese tray before the guests arrive - poof.
You disappear at the trotters - poof - it all goes.
I want a divorce.
Poof.

Love the contrast here!

Cassie88

04-19-2005, 05:38 AM

Skylar, thanks!
Cassie

TashaGoddard

04-19-2005, 01:27 PM

False Friends

[1039 words]

As the main cook in the family, my father quickly picked up the necessary vocabulary to buy the food from the local market, the baker and, of course, the bodega (where you could get a whole bottle of wine, poured straight from the barrel, for only 10 pesetas – 5 pence!). He managed to come to terms with ordering vegetables in kilos instead of pounds and could ask for una bolsa de leche at the grocery store across the street. We found it quite odd that milk was sold in bags, but that was the only milk you could get that wasn’t UHT. We really didn’t like UHT milk, so we bought the bags of milk and decanted them into rinsed-out wine bottles.

When I went with him to the market, I was always amazed that he knew the words for the vast array of fruit and vegetables set out in swathes of colour on the stalls. Actually, he probably didn’t know them all, just the ones he used regularly, but it impressed me. As a ten-year-old, I was still young enough to be able to pick up a new language very easily – particularly when immersed in it, as I was. However, while I could babble on and sound like a Spanish girl (I even picked up the expansive gesturing), my vocabulary was limited to that used in the school playground. We didn’t tend to discuss the ingredients for a salad, but were more interested in goma (a game played with large lengths of elastic, a bit like skipping) and boys. The few times I went to the market on my own, I had to make do with pointing. The only thing I can remember is lechuga (lettuce) and I don’t recall why I particularly remember that – no doubt there’s some amusing story behind it, which my parents would be able to recount.

One Saturday, we were having guests for dinner, so my father wanted to push the boat a little and make a dessert, as well as buy a bottle of wine that cost a little more than 10 pesetas. He decided to make bread and butter pudding as we had quite a bit of stale bread that could be used up (the bread only ever seemed to last a day – not like the sliced stuff you get in England, but much tastier). He also thought Guy might appreciate a traditional English pudding, and hopefully his wife Paz would like it as well.

We couldn’t find any sultanas in the market. They had plenty of nuts and even some candied fruit, but no sultanas. We tried the grocery store, but they didn’t have any. Then I remembered a little Indian store on my route to school, perhaps they would have some (my father would always put sultanas in the rice when making curries, so I associated sultanas with Indian food).

On our way there, a passer-by stopped us to ask directions. While my father’s vocabulary was increasing on a daily basis, his grammar was still a little dodgy.

He shook his head at the stranger and said, ‘No habla español.’

The man frowned and responded, ‘Si, si. ¡Hablo español!’

My father repeated himself, shaking his head more vehemently this time, ‘¡No! No habla español.’

To which the stranger’s response to walk off, muttering ‘Loco, loco,’ and swirling his finger around next to his forehead. I, of course, found this hilarious – it’s always fun to see your parents make mistakes at that age!

‘It’s No hablo español, Papa.’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘No, you said No habla español. You were telling him that he doesn’t speak Spanish.’

Luckily my dad found this as amusing as I did and we stood there for a while laughing, before getting back to the mission at hand. (Not that this stopped him making the same mistake over and over again in the months to come!)

The smells in the shop were wonderful. The shelves behind the counter went all the way from floor to ceiling and were filled with jars of spices and herbs. We glanced at the jars but couldn’t spot any sultanas. We would have to ask if they had any. My father had checked the dictionary before entering the shop, so he was prepared.

‘Quiero sultana,’ he said to the shop keeper. I want sultana (as I already said, his grammar wasn’t the best).

‘¿Que?’

‘¿Tiene sultana? Por favor.’ Do you have sultana? Please.

For some reason this seemed to anger the shopkeeper a great deal. He started ranting and waving his arms about. At one point he even banged his fist down on the counter.

‘What’s he saying?’ my father asked me.

‘I don’t know. It’s too fast. Something about his wife, I think.’

‘His wife? Why? What have sultanas got to do with his wife?’

‘I don’t know, Papa. He’s speaking too fast for me to understand. Maybe he’s not talking about his wife, but I thought I heard mujer. Maybe I misheard.’

My father got out his pocket dictionary and found the entry for sultana. He put it on the counter in front of the shopkeeper and pointed at the words. The shopkeeper read it, but this seemed to make things worse, rather than clarifying them. He became more agitated and jabbed his finger towards the door.

‘I think we’d better leave,’ my father said.

The bread pudding was delicious, despite the absence of sultanas. However, my father felt the need to apologise to Guy. He gave them a run down of the problems we had encountered in the shop. This caused Guy to start laughing. He was laughing so much that tears streamed down his face. We all stared at him, wondering what he was laughing about.

‘What? What’s so funny?’ my father asked.

‘What else does sultana mean in English?’

‘What? I don’t know.’

‘A sultan’s wife. He thought you wanted to buy his wife!’

‘What? He was a sultan?’

‘Well, I don’t know. Probably not. But that’s what he thought you were asking. The dried fruit is pasa de Esprima. A sultana is sultan’s a wife,’ Guy wiped the tears from his eyes and slapped my dad’s back, ‘I think you need a better dictionary.’

SeanDSchaffer

04-20-2005, 03:09 AM

I thought I'd do a poem this time. I'm a bit rusty at poetry, so please bear with me.

---------------------------

Fleeting Friendship: A Misunderstanding

33 lines

Sean D. Schaffer

----------------------------

She worries me, my friend
I had to report her as spam today.
I thought she was my friend;
I hope the spamming goes away.

She thought the world of me,
'Til I said I would consider
Becoming a part of her group,
And not I'd immediately go with her.

We once were good friends,
But that has all changed now.
Her taunting, complaining and bickering
An enemy she has become... ow.

I wish I did not have to report her
She had so much promise, I know.
But now she wants only to hurt me.
To her offer I'm forced to say 'NO.'

When I went to bed last night,
For Death I did plead
To take me on home to yon Heaven
For evil I feel that I did.

Had I known that she would have reacted
In a horrible way such as this,
I never would have told her my address
Our friendship would not be amiss.

I fear for my friend: she keeps taunting,
She tells me authorities laugh.
My complaints go unheard, so she tells me.
She knows not that I do not bluff.

I've already reported her spamming.
She continues to taunt and to spew
Her wrathful indignation she gives
Our fleeting friendship I'd renew...

...If I could.

Duncan J Macdonald

04-21-2005, 08:05 AM

Since I can't leave well enough alone, here is my entry for the Misunderstandings Lusers Idol Competition 1499 words according to Word.

Misunderstanding

by

Duncan J Macdonald

I'd like to make one thing clear -- it's really not my fault. Oh, I know everybody says that, but in my case, it's true. I am the victim of a misunderstanding.

It started to go down hill when I was leaving Proxima Centaui IV. I'd left orbit, and was shaping my course towards hyper when Ground Control called me up:

"Celestial Angel, this is Centauri Control. Return to orbit Alpha 7 immediately and prepare for Inspection, over."

I snorted. "Control, this is Celestial Angel. Negative. I've started my run up, and I've already cleared customs -- got the package right here. Over."

"Celestial Angel, I say again. Return to orbit Alpha 7 immediately and prepare for Inspection. Failure to comply will result in Patrol involvement, over."

Yeah right. Whatever had gotten their dander up back dirtside was no longer my concern. It wasn't like I ever needed to stop at Centauri IV again, although there was this girl at the Blue Parrot who I'd miss -- not that she'd miss me, just my money. "Negative Ground Control. Switching to Out Systems Control. Celestial Angel, out." I switched, "Securité, Securité, Securité. This is Celestial Angel, outbound from Proxima Centauri IV enroute injection point Papa Charlie Niner, standing by Channel Sixteen. Celestial Angel, out." Out Systems Control is notorious for ignoring any surface based communications: the robots that man the Out Stations really couldn't care -- they aren't designed that way.

I'd have to keep the Celestial Angel identity until I transitioned, but after that, the Angel would be gone. I'd have to choose a new ID and do some minor tweaks to various anti-tamper sealed systems onboard. It'd only take me an hour or two.

The radio broke into my thoughts with the soft contralto of the translation routine, "Celestial Angel, this is Denebian Patrol Cutter Serene Hunter. You were warned. Now upon your own head lie the consequences of your actions. Until the end, the pleasure of the hunt is ours."

Damn. The Denebians, like the majority of sentient members of the Coalition, evolved from dominant predators. Unfortunately, they represented the extreme case -- they never give up, and their announcement carried the formal phrasing of Kataar. From this point on they would dedicate their lives to catching me -- and if that wasn't sufficient, the lives of every Denebian everywhere in the universe. Kataar was invoked in two cases, firstly, during their coming-of-age ceremonies, when their youth pledged their lives to the furtherance of their culture, and secondly, when a particularly heinous criminal needed to be brought to heel -- generally fatally. In the aft viewscreens, a dot detached itself from planetary orbit, and accelerated along my trail. The makeover of the Celestial Angel would have to wait. It was going to take all the power I had available to stay ahead of the Patrol. Cutters had an obscene power to mass ratio, and they'd use every erg to make this particular stern chase a short one.

The transition at CP9 went smoothly, but the Patrol had cut my lead from hours to minutes. The laws of normal space physics are skewed in hyper: the time between entry and exit was always exactly two hours, regardless of how far they were from each other out in the real universe. As soon as I popped out of S3 I flipped, braked as hard as I could, and dove into orbit in the outer asteroid belt of Sol. I had barely finished the maneuver before the Denebian Patrol Cutter appeared out of hyper hot on my trail. I'd launched a drone to simulate the Angel still driving toward the inner system worlds, which fooled 'em long enough to let me shut down all non-essential systems and try to hide.

Why would the Patrol be after me? I suspected that it was because the cargo I'd taken on three systems back -- that rat Kkeelukk must'a squealed on me to save his own lousy hide -- might not have had quite the proper Customs Stamps on its export paperwork. Lord knows I'd paid him enough for those stamps, and you'd think that an honest businessman like myself wouldn't be cheated at that price. I mean, the Stamps had looked fine to me, and Kkeelukk had sworn on his Mother's Nest that they would pass muster. His nose and whiskers hadn't twitched too much, so I'd taken him at his word.

I got the ship stabilized in the shadow of one of the larger asteroids, and shut down the controls. The station keeping systems would keep me in the same relative position, so I headed down to the main hold. If that cargo was the reason behind my current problems, then the sooner that I ditched it and got back on track to Sol III and let the Patrol find me, the better. Kataar didn't specify the condition of the criminal when apprehended; kind'a like the 'Wanted: Dead or Alive' of the holo-Westerns, and the Denebians tended toward the 'Dead' option. If I wanted to keep my skin whole and my bodily fluids on the inside, I needed to surrender quickly. By dodging them for this long I had already gained as much honor as I could in their eyes -- I'd made the hunt difficult for them, and they appreciated that in a quarry -- but I was rapidly reaching the point where their honor would only be satisfied by more pain on my part.

The cargo I needed to ditch was in a corner of the main hold; a row of gold bars three meters high, seven meters long and two meters deep. Gold was on the 'controlled substances' list for well over 95 percent of the galaxy's races, acting as a kind of mammodisiac, and where Mammon rules, wars follow. On the other hand, gold was a necessary component in the molecular level circuitry that made hyperspace travel possible, and as such, commanded a high price in the right quarters. If I could ditch the gold on the asteroid that I had parked near, I could always come back and get it if the Denebians let me go. If they didn't, then where the gold was wouldn't matter. I punched instructions into the cargo hold robot control system -- move the gold from the Main Hold onto the nearest asteroid -- and headed back up to the pilothouse. I needed to keep an eye on where the Patrol was.

When I got there, I found out. Serene Hunter had trapped me between it and the asteroid, and my incoming message light was blinking. I punched the button, "Celestial Angel, you are caught. Open your ports and prepare to be boarded. Do not resist. Serene Hunter, out." Why I ever thought that the translator's contralto voice was sexy was beyond me. I sighed and opened the ports. Hopefully, the robots would be done soon.

I waited for the boarding party as calmly as I could, and it wasn't long until three Denebians arrived in environment suits bedecked with weapons sharp, blunt, and projectile. Various of these were aimed at me, and their translator's voice -- a clear tenor at least-- said, "Accompany us to the hold, and bring your documents of ownership."

Glumly I did as I was told. It seemed as if the robots had been caught, and I was bound for a long tenure on Deneb as a ward of the government -- in prison. When we reached the main hold there were more Denebians, ten in all, lining either side of the hatchway, with a single object lying on the deck between them. It was a single gold bar. A quick glance showed me that the robots were back in their ready stations, which meant that they had completed their tasking. But why was this one bar left?

One of the Denebians from the pilothouse took my papers and leafed through them quickly until the Customs Stamp was on top. "Does this paper relate to that?" He pointed at the gold bar.

I nodded sickly; nobody lies to Denebians, at least not more than once. The Denebian picked up the bar and twisted it in his hands. It popped open, and from the interior a holograph was projected into the air inches above the opening. At the sight of it, the rest of the boarding party dropped to their knees and bowed their heads toward me, chanting in unison: "Blesséd be he, who hath the Orb. Blesséd be he above all others!"

You've all seen artists interpretations of it -- the Lost Orb of Deneb. Well, I've seen the original, and I've got the papers, damn that rat Kkeelukk, to prove that I own it.

So here I am, in transit onboard Serene Hunter trussed up like a turkey in my environment suit, waiting to play the part that the Denebian's want me to play. Damn it to Hell! I don't want to be their Emperor!

Mr Underhill

04-22-2005, 07:06 AM

Week Two theme: Misunderstandings

Withdrawn.

mommie4a

04-22-2005, 07:21 AM

The blue and red striped tie wrapped up the doorknob like a drunken man’s neck after happy hour. Loosened knot, uneven ends, a few spill spots. I hadn’t seen him slip it off and over his head, but I saw it as we left his dorm room and headed for mine.

***

Jean-luc and I met in a political philosophy class two years earlier. At six feet two inches, he towered over me, and nearly had a thinner waist. His easy laugh, soft-spoken assertions and breadth of knowledge reflected his family’s French and Swiss ancestry as much as his Catholic school education.

I’d always found Jean-luc attractive, but not because he resembled a better looking Leonardo Di Caprio. He projected nobility. His actions embodied a kind, gentle nature, even though he never displayed his European heritage like a badge of superiority the way other classmates with experience abroad did, even if they were only born overseas. He would drive us to the beach, to a distant city’s museum, or to the grocery store in his classic Caddy, big as a whale, yellow as a canary.

Yet even with these attributes, I’d never known Jean-luc to have a girlfriend. He never talked about a special someone. He didn’t flirt overtly, he didn’t discuss the dating scene among our friends and only rarely did he use bawdy language. The idea that he might be gay arose only as a joke, given the number of brainy and not brawny men at our school. Besides, with hundreds of students from overseas, a guy lacking a stereotypical interest in girls and sex was more often perceived as having an intercontinental flare than being effeminate.

One Saturday night, identical to most others during college, our group dissolved and evaporated across campus paths after partying late into the morning. Jean-luc and I talked and walked without direction, but in reality, we moved toward his dorm with the precision of an unmanned mission following its course settings.

His room was dark except for a plastic mushroom shaped desk lamp. The blue and gray and striped décor announced the guy-ness of the room. Jean-luc flipped an Echo and the Bunnymen tape into his player as I sat on the bottom of a loft-bed setup. Piles of clothes, books, papers, and uneven stacks of varying heights rose from every inch of surface space.

At some point, Jean-luc sat down next to me, ostensibly to show me an album cover and song lyrics. But after a few moments, he let the cover drop from his fingers and he leaned toward me. He approached my lips with his, eyes closed, head tilted to the side. Nothing original, but between friends, something new. I mimicked him and felt his mouth, full and soft, suck my lower lip inside. Neither of us pulled back to check with the other - to see if it was okay. We’d been doing that dance for three years and permission now seemed obvious.

But I misunderstood myself that night and, before I let that misunderstanding lead to something irrevocable, I said no. Twenty-two years later, I learned that I wasn’t the only one who had misunderstood their desires. Jean-luc was a virgin too. And now I knew that when he’d repeatedly said - twenty-two years earlier - that he was sorry for almost compromising our friendship, I realized that he’d meant it.

Ddama

04-23-2005, 10:56 AM

Talk about misunderstanding. I didn't pay attention to the deadline and thought we had until Sunday. oops. You guys all did a great job. Luckily, this is the just for fun thread, so I'm not disqualified. :) Fiction, about 1000 words. More scattershot than I would like, since I determined to finish this before I went to bed.

"You're lucky Friedman is a softie for screwups," Sarah nuzzled Adam's ear, "like me."

"If you're a screwup, what am I?"

"I barely had a B average. My MCAT was terrible."

"At Dartmouth. And your MCAT wasn't bad. And your GREs were great. Me..." He brushed a lock of chestnut hair from her face. "I'm a screwup. Without you, I'd still be washing test tubes."

“No, you were doing incredible, original research. You belong here.” She kissed him. “Here.”

Dean Friedman’s office was walled with immaculate hardwoods, befitting the academic head of a prestigious research institution. The dean waited for Sarah to respond. She didn't, staring at her Manolos. She could get away with wearing them. Her office was one floor up and near the elevators. Maybe they attracted the wrong kind of guy.

The dean cleared her throat, realizing no response was coming. "I allowed Adam to enter the M.D. program here on your recommendation. You both knew the rules."

Sarah tried to straighten out her train of thought. "The lawyers left the loophole in his contract. You can’t blame him. I might have baled if one that big had been left in mine."

"The intent of the contract was clear. We expect to hire top researchers into our medical program, not layabouts and dilettantes. You, of all people, should know that… after last year's unfortunate incident."

I was cleared of all wrongdoing. She couldn't say that. Not to Friedman. Friedman had pulled her ass out of the fire.

"He knew," Sarah said, "he had to have known. He knew about the paper I did with you. He knew I had your ear. He got close to me and used me to get into the program here."

"Sarah, I trusted you. I trusted your judgment. I may have been… mistaken. I need to think about this. Go.” The dean looked away. “Send Adam in.”

Adam struggled to escape the old armchair’s soft cushion. Sarah was wearing heels. He smiled. She looked good in them. He crossed the room in long strides. Her olive skin was paler than usual and goosebumped. “Is everything okay?” He touched her arm.

She flinched from him. “The dean wants to see you.”

“Why did-“

“Go in.”

“Why did she call you in?”

She blinked, and looked past him, over his shoulder. “Because of you.”

He pushed open the heavy wooden doors, meeting Dean Friedman’s ice blue eyes. He glanced back over his shoulder. Sarah was reading a journal. She would wait for him. He was prepared to face the music.

The dean’s voice was soft. “I’m over here, Adam. Shut the door and take a seat.”

The door closed with a solid thud. Friedman walked to the front of her desk and sat on it.

“Take a seat, Adam. She could lose her fellowship. How does that make you feel?”

“How? Why? My lawyer-”

“First, let me be clear. There was a small misunderstanding in our legal department when they drafted your contract. Forget your lawyers. You can drop out of your Ph.D. program and still obtain an M.D. here without endangering your fellowship. Heads will roll. Oh yes, they will. But not yours. But we will keep an eye on you. I will keep an eye on you. One misstep. One misbehavior. One bad report. Anything we can call you out on, we will. Your reputation is mud – with me and with a lot of other people here. Someone will have to pay. The young man who drafted your contract has been disciplined. Sarah will probably lose her fellowship.”

“But she’s only a grad student… she had nothing to do with it.”

“Don’t play dumb, young man. She recommended you to me… and everyone knows it and knows why. She’s made a lot of enemies here. I can’t save her again.”

“Because now your, um, reputation is on the line.”

“Now we understand each other. Have a nice day.”

“I didn’t want it to be like this.” He stood up. “The loophole was there. I used it.” He swallowed. “Is there anything I can do?”

The dean slid off her desk and looked up at him. “If you agree to finish your research and sign a new contract, I might be able to salvage something.”

Adam drew a sharp breath. That stunning moment working at the clinic came back to him again, when he realized that his true calling lay in practicing medicine, not research. Since that day, he had struggled to find meaning, any meaning at all in his lab work. He tasted bile at the back of his throat. Another four years in the lab. Four years where he wouldn’t be healing the sick.

“For Sarah?” he asked.

The dean nodded, cracking a tight smile. “It will take some of the pressure off. We can call the whole thing a misunderstanding.”

“Great.” He sighed. “Let’s take care of that paperwork.”

“Fortunately,” the dean picked up a thick folder from her desk, “I’ve got it right here.”

Sarah skimmed through Science and moved on to the latest JAMA. Neither had an article that explained her emotions to her. There was probably a prize out there for someone who could. She checked her watch again. Friedman has said she was going to threaten Adam with the most dire consequences possible, but they had been very quiet in there for over half an hour. At last, the door opened. Adam stepped through. He was tall and dark and handsome. She was so stupid, to keep falling for them. As the dean said some parting words to him, he grinned a sickly little grin.

Sarah crossed the room in the most forceful stride she could manage. He touched her arm. She shook him off and slapped him across the face. “You used me. We’re through.”

[Author’s Note: Sarah relented when Dean Friedman explained what Adam had done, but they eventually broke up over other issues.]

JennaGlatzer

04-27-2005, 01:05 PM

Okay, just-for-funners, the new challenge has been posted.

This round, you have two options for first sentences...

"Only one person in the world knew what I had done, and I intended to keep it that way."

or

"People say you always find what you're looking for when you stop looking."

Choose either one. You have up to 1500 words to finish the story.

Deadline: Wednesday, May 4, 11:59 ET.

Good luck!

JAlpha

04-27-2005, 06:14 PM

What You Are Looking For

. . . people
say "you"
always

find what
you're looking for
when you stop

looking people
say, you always find
what you’re looking for

when you stop looking,
people say . . .
you always find

what you are

skylarburris

04-27-2005, 10:12 PM

Only one person in the world knew what I had done, and I intended to keep it that way. It would be easy enough, since that one person could not yet form words—she could do no more than grasp my finger in her tiny fist.

They had left her for dead on the flimsy, paper-coated table inside the Singer Parental Rights Relinquishment Center. It was my job to take the bodies to the crematorium, and I had done the task a dozen times before, wheeling gurneys gently laden with the corpses of children as old as 18 months (the legal age limit). It hadn't bothered me before. At SPRRC, the pay was good, and the benefits were phenomenal. It seemed to me it would take a prudish, narrow-minded kind of person to object to a parent's decision to terminate his or her parental rights. No one had contested the Supreme Court's ruling in Thompson vs. Nebraska for fourteen years.

But this time, when the gas was turned down and Dr. Verve exited room 74, when it was just me and the tiny, naked creature whose birth certificate had been deleted from the central federal database with the click of a button, I found myself reaching down to read the plastic bracelet strung about its wrist. Printed on the band was the national identification number assigned by the Federal Retirement Service Institute, followed by a dash and one of the only six governmentally approved female names that began with a T—Tabitha. Its flesh was still warm.

I let the green tinged plastic slip from between my fingers. I was about to grasp the rail and begin to push the thing out the door when I saw its chest rise. My first instinct was to run for Dr. Vevre, to tell him he hadn't used enough gas, that he had to return to complete the procedure immediately. But then its coffee-brown eyelids began to flutter.

Her eyes were open.

The snow had fallen furiously the evening before, and no one questioned the bulkiness of my coat as I hurried through the front door on my lunch break. They did call me, however, when I didn't come back to work. I told them I wouldn't be back for awhile, that I needed to make my annual pilgrimage to the District for the federally mandated tolerance training. But I never went East. I went west, to Oregon, to join the small commune of survivalists my peculiar brother had insisted on befriending. He had been a mockery to the family, and yet now I could think of nowhere else to flee. I couldn't raise this little girl in the real world. She was legally dead. She could never enroll in school, she could never apply for a job, she could never open a bank account...I couldn't even buy her diapers or baby food without furnishing proof of her national identification number. And that number was no longer in the system.

It was 12:15 in the afternoon when I walked out of the only world I had ever known. There were no clocks in the commune. There was only day and night, only light surrendering to darkness, or darkness consumed by light.

Duncan J Macdonald

04-28-2005, 06:48 AM

Having abandoned all good sense, I find that I must post yet another entry.

1500 words, on the nose, disregarding title and by-line.

Only One Person

by

Duncan J Macdonald

Only one person in the world knew what I had done, and I intended to keep it that way. Naturally, this would entail the utter and complete destruction of both the Central Control Computer Facility and the Joint Spaceflight Launch Control Site, as well as every spy satellite in orbit...

"Cory! Breakfast!" Mom's voice floated up the stairwell from the depths of the kitchen.
"Coming Mom!"

...plus every store that carried Puffed Rice cereal, orange marmalade, Brussels sprouts ...

"Cory! It's getting cold!"
"Coming!"

...and all the weathermen on TV, the Artic ice sheet, the whole continent of Antarctica ...

" Now young man! You'll be late for school!"
"Alright!"

...and all of the schools, school buses, teachers, and every, every, every thing else that I don't like.

Cory rolled off of his bed and tossed his newest action figure, The Evil Overlord -- Complete with Hand Auto-Pulser Cannon, onto his rumpled bedspread. He snagged his backpack from the corner where he'd dropped it yesterday after school and scampered down the stairs. Sliding into his usual chair at the table, he looked with disdain at the bowl of Puffed Rice, the toast with orange marmalade, and the glass of milk that were waiting for him there.

"Mom, I don't want Puffed Rice, I want Evil Overlord Crisps! The Cereal with an Agenda and Extra-Chocolately Goodness in Every Bite!"

"You'll finish the box of Puffed Rice that you made me buy last week before I get you anything different. And I'm not going to get you something that will rot your teeth with too much sugar anyway. Eat your toast before it gets stone cold."

The Masked Marvel stood in sweaty magnificence above the mangled body of his vanquished foe. Pumping his arms above him, he threw back his head and howled his victory song to the rafters, blending it with the roar of the capacity crowd here at the Hell's Kitchen WWF Smack Down. Suddenly, the roar subsided and the spotlights left him to converge on the arena entry ramp. The Masked Marvel cut his howl off dead and stared across the ring toward the blinding glare. Standing there, arms akimbo, was Stone Cold Stud Marvin.

"Oh my," the announcer said, "Stone Cold's not going to be happy with this! He'll be looking for revenge. In just two rounds, the Masked Marvel totally destroyed..."

"...my flower bed when you rode your bicycle through it yesterday. Cory? Cory! Are you listening to me? Cory!" His mother took one hand off of her hip and shook it at him.

"Yes, Mom."

She sighed. "Always daydreaming. You need to be more careful when you're out playing. Today, when you get home, you are going to be helping me replant that flower bed."

"Yes, Mom." Cory surveyed the crusts of toast and empty milk glass in front of him. He lifted the cereal bowl and drained off the last dregs.

The Earl slammed the tankard back down on the rough planking of the battered table before him. Breakfast finished, he began to plan his exploits for the day. One good result of Prince John's rule was that there were enough travelers in Sherwood Forest these days that he didn't have to provide his own. Robin Hood and his Merry Men would be hard pressed to visit all of the bands passing through the Forest, let alone steal all their gold. The Earl could just fall in with a band of Pilgrims, wait for the proper moment, and take what he wanted -- any blame would then be Robin's, not his. Rising, he made his way to the doorway, cuffing the churls aside and kicking the curs out of his way.

"Don't forget your lunch," Mom called, "and stop hitting the wall and scuffing your feet when you walk. The walls and floors in this house get enough marks on them without your adding to them deliberately. I swear, between you and your father, I'm not going to have a house left to take care of!"

"Yes, Mom. Sorry! Bye! See you this afternoon!" Cory went out the front door and headed down the walk to the street. Joey and Sam were just passing by, so he fell in behind them as they walked toward the bus stop.

That band of Pilgrims ahead of him seemed to be perfect for his needs. Small, and absorbed in private conversation, they took no notice of the Earl as he moved closer. The smaller one was speaking to her compatriot. Even better. Soon there would be a woman alone and frightened...

"Hey, Joey. Think Mr. Whittaker's gonna have our book reports graded yet?"

"Nah, he'll do what he always does. He'll pass 'em out to the class and we'll have to grade 'em ourselves."

Sam giggled. "I hope I get Lucy's then. She doesn't like me, and I want to show that bee-yatch just how I feel."

"Come on guys, hurry up! The bus is here!" Sharon yelled from the street corner. "Ms. Laverne don't wait on nobody!"

Joey, Sam, and Cory broke into a run and swung onto the bus just as the doors were closing.

Secret Agent 700 stood and shot his cuffs to adjust the fit of his tux. Glancing back over his shoulder at the now-closed vault door his lips parted in a slight sneer, showing his disdain for mere mechanical traps. The Society for the Proliferation of Absolute Monarchy (SPAM) had a penchant for overly dramatic gestures, and this gigantic door guarding the entrance to their headquarters was symptomatic of their hubris. Once more checking his attire, and flicking an imaginary speck of lint from his lapel, he started forward toward the sumptuous banquet that he knew awaited. Traps such as the door behind him were nothing for someone of his own exquisite skill and panache to deal with; but their constant intrusion into his awareness became annoying, the same way that a too frequent use of cloying perfume actually took away from a woman's intrinsic beauty...

"What's that stink?" Sam blurted. "Did we run over a skunk?"

...but this scent was far different. Only once had he had an experience with a woman who wore Channel No. 1, and he didn't want her to get away again. Agent 700 followed the faint traces of scent deeper into the labyrinthine corridors of SPAM's headquarters. He had been assigned to infiltrate their inner sanctum; tracking down his feminine quarry into the bargain would add a certain spice to...

"Hey, Sonny! Ya gonna get off? This is your school!" Ms. Laverne's voice was harsh from years of cigarettes and yelling at the kids on her school busses. "Move it! I gotta git to my next run!"

Cory hurried off the bus, and ran to the front door, making it inside before the kids from his bus could totally disappear. He, Sam, and Joey were in the same first period class -- Parker Junior High was trying to help their students' transition to the high school format -- and he followed after them.

The torches guttered in the dank drafts emanating from the crevices and chinks in the ancient mortar barely holding the huge stone blocks lining the walls of the tunnel. Despite the zigs and zags of its meandering, the tunnel had tended constantly downward since they had entered it hours earlier, leaving the sweet air and welcome brightness of dawn far behind, exchanging them for the stale stench of decay and the flickering gloom of the depths. Somewhere ahead lay the incalculable treasure of the Ancients. Somewhere ahead were also the traps and pitfalls that guarded it. Somewhere ahead there were monsters, without doubt...

"Good Morning class!" Mr. Whittaker was always cheerful. "I've got a little bit of a different task for you today. Before I hand back your graded Book Reports, I'd like to see what kind of imaginations you have. Take out a blank sheet of paper."

There was rustling throughout the classroom as the students complied.

"Okay. Now, I want you to just write a story on any topic you want, starting with the following sentence." He turned to the chalkboard and spoke as he wrote: 'People say you always find what you're looking for when you stop looking.' "Mind you, no more than 1500 words. Begin."

Cory normally enjoyed English Composition, and thought that Mr. Whittaker was okay as a teacher. He usually gave more direction that this.

The faint chanting that accompanied Matins echoed though the cloister. Brother Timothy had finished illuminating the first chapter of Genesis, and was working on copying the text of chapter two. He looked up as the Abbot stopped by his stand-desk. "Brother Timothy, whatever is wrong? You haven't written..."

"...anything, and the period is almost over." Mr. Whittaker's voice jarred him out of his reverie.

Cory sat looking at the blank paper before him, and couldn't think of a single thing to write. Nope, no ideas. He never could think of anything creative.

SueB

04-29-2005, 01:00 AM

Stop Looking

People say you always find what you’re looking for when you stop looking. Looking for marital bliss, I had married at age 20. I had known the mistake of it on my wedding night.

At 44, I admitted defeat and finalized the divorce I had started 5 years earlier. I knew I would never marry again. I must admit to a bias. I had transformed, in those twenty-four years, from a naïve bride who thought that most men were like her Dad-- loving, generous, honest and family oriented. I had come to have very low expectations from men. I was no longer looking for a husband and marital bliss.

I threw myself into my work, built a successful career in the US Postal Service, and enjoyed every day of work. I found dozens of new friends in the office.

Zeke was my very best friend. Like me, he had suffered a disastrous marriage. I found myself empathizing with him. I found myself admiring him. This dear friend of mine entered my heart and soul as no other had ever done. At 45, I married the love of my life.

Zeke was retired military. Special Forces, out of Viet Nam. The most honorable and trustworthy man I had ever known, he was the one true hero, I had ever met.

I had told him about Laura, early on in our relationship. He held me close as I gasped for breath, trying, with every fiber in my being, to unburden myself. He would wipe my tears, and wait patiently, when I could talk no more and simply had to sit there and weep. When I finished, he smiled at me, with those eyes that were more than a beautiful brown; they were honest and compassionate. “We’ll find her.”

“I don’t know”, I wept, “She may not know that she is adopted. If she doesn’t, there is no way I want to shatter her world.”

“Well,” he soothed, “I could find her and find out if she knows. If she doesn’t, I can just take you where you can look at her from a distance.”

“I don’t know.”

He patted me, “It will be ok.”

Shortly after we moved to Kentucky, Zeke’s home state, my beloved was operated on. He had Lymphoma, non-Hodgkin’s cancer. We went through three months of chemo. During this time, I broke my left arm/shoulder and tore the rotor cuff. We convalesced together.

Our picturesque log-home, nestled down in a ‘holler’ of Kentucky’s Daniel Boone National Forest, was spacious. People often remarked that it looked like a lodge, with the huge stone fireplace in the 18’ X 26’ living room. Friends and relatives loved coming to our home. Someone was always snapping pictures. “I’ve just got to show this to the guys at work,” Harry grinned, “I tell them about this place all the time, but a picture is worth a thousand words.”

Christmas…With a 17 foot Christmas tree under that towering cathedral ceiling, red berried holly, and mistletoe, from our back yard, dressed the ten foot mantle.

A 50’ covered porch, running the length of the house, led to the French door front entrance. Outside our kitchen door, a deck ran across the side of the house. Above this, the upstairs deck led into the master bedroom, through yet another French door. We had worked ourselves into a frenzy, laying hardwood floors throughout, during the first year we lived there.

I looked out one of the long living room windows that first spring. The Garden of Eden, I thought. The green earth was alive with bloom. Bright pink, wild, Azaleas spotted the banks of the ‘branch’, which flowed with a constant gurgle behind our home. The surrounding dogwoods shimmered a translucent white. Clumps of daffodils everywhere, somehow managed a soft calming appearance, in spite of their vibrant yellow. The magnificent magnolias and laurel towered over the delicate violets of a hundred different varieties and colors. Mother Nature, the master florist, filled in all this flora with a wide variety of ferns. Some were a delicate lace that only whispered their color as green, while others were a rich, sturdy and hardy variety, drenched in their deepest forest green. Standing on the front porch, the most heavenly perfume seeped into my soul.

It was here, on a Kentucky moon-lit night, that I heard my first whippoorwill. And oh, my first katydids! They started in a diminuendo, rubbing their little grasshopper-like legs together, and worked up to a frenzied, vibrating, and deafening crescendo. The forest came alive with their sound.

I continued breaking bones. Pain had become a way of life. My doctor sent me for a bone density scan. I had osteoporosis, and osteo arthritis. I had been a Post Master for only 6 months. It was my dream job. I fell and broke my back. My doctor shattered the dream when I asked him, “How long do you think it will be before I can return to work?”

“Susan, you will never return to the work force.”

“Why would you say that?!”

He held up the films in his hand, “Because I’m holding your records here, and it’s not a pretty sight. Not a pretty sight. You could break a bone from coughing or sneezing. No more bending, reaching, lifting. Go home now, and learn to live your life in the most comfortable and stress free manner that you can.”

I was crying now. “Susan, you will have medicines to help with the pain, but your attitude is all up to you. You can still have a full, happy life.”

How right he was. Appreciating all our time together, Zeke and I only draw closer with every passing day. Life has never been better.

The day I fell in our kitchen, I cried, “Don’t touch me. I have broken my back. Call an ambulance.”

Zeke kicked the kitchen counter, “Son of a bitch! That does it. We’re out of here. I’m taking you home.”

He had pined for his dear Kentucky, for all of those long forty years, before returning. Zeke had left, as a young man of 16, and joined the army, claiming 17. I did not want to take him from here. I thought, he’ll change his mind when things settle down.

We had many discussions about it, but he was unwavering. “I lived in Maine for fourteen years. It became home, more than Kentucky I guess, and it’s time for us to go back. Just think of those two grandbabies that have been born while we have been here. We need to get home and play with them,” he smiled at me.

Prior to my last fall, it had seemed I had ‘almost’ everything in life that a woman could want. I adored my husband and he was well again. I had attained my dream job--Postmaster. My retired husband kept the house for us. “The only way life could be better,” I had told Linda who worked for me, “would be if they would pay me to stay home with my husband. Heck, I’d even take half pay. I could deal with that. Oh, to spend all my hours with my husband……….” I had dreamed on.

Zeke and I had played with the idea of my quitting work, but found we really could not afford it. Seeing the impossibility of it, we gave up on the idea and looked forward to my eventual retirement.

I had broken my back the day before Thanksgiving, 2001. After living 5 years in Kentucky, we arrived back in Maine on May 16, 2002.

Again, I was not ‘looking’-- to stay home with my husband. (Anymore than I had been ‘looking’ earlier for a husband--a happy marriage) We had accepted our circumstances. Much as we would have liked to be together 24/7, we were grateful for my job. Suddenly, here I was, at home with my husband, 24/7 just like I had wished for. And my disability pension? Just half of my working pay……

I had looked for my baby, surrendered for adoption while I was still a teenager, for several years. No luck. All records were sealed. I finally stopped searching and signing registers on the internet. I resigned myself. After all, I had. two lovely daughters, a loving, devoted husband, and my retirement.

Zeke and I found another beautiful log home in Maine. Our family was growing. Before we knew it, number three grandchild was on his way, and then number four. My only regret was that I couldn’t play with them like I had always planned to. The doctors admonished me not to pick up the grandchildren.

One day, I opened an envelope and, found two more grandchildren and my long lost daughter! In that letter, God had once again granted my petition, once I had accepted his will.

Moral of the story? Seek and ye will find--maybe. Stop looking (surrender to his will) and you still might find!

SeanDSchaffer

04-29-2005, 04:38 AM

Shoes

AbsoluteWrite.com 'Just for fun: Join in on the Theme' Piece

Week 3

By Sean D. Schaffer

536 Words According to Microsoft Works Word Processor

(Story Text Only)

People say you never find things until after you quit looking... and they are not kidding.

I learned this as I searched for my white tennis shoes the other day.

I looked everywhere in my bedroom I could think to look for them. I plowed through every place I normally put them. Under my bed; at the foot of my bed; all through my bedroom I searched.

But it didn't end there. I knew I had put them in my bedroom, because that is where I always leave my shoes. I got on my hands and knees and searched underneath my bed. (I am wont, sometimes, to push my shoes under the bed by accident. It was therefore that day a logical assumption that I might find them there.)

They were not there.

By this time, I'd become frantic. I began chanting my favorite mantra right about then: "I will find my shoes. I am going to wear the shoes I want to wear today!"

My mind desperately tried to remember where in my apartment they could be. But the last place I remembered seeing them, was on my feet in my bedroom. Therefore, they simply had to be in my bedroom.

"I will find them."

Back to the same places I looked before, I went. Maybe I'd overlooked something.

Nothing.

Next to the bed I searched again.

Nothing.

Under the bed.

Nothing.

Time was running out before I had to leave on the bus for an appointment. This was not looking good.

Finally, I realized I was not going to find my shoes. I understood that I'd just have to wear my brown tennis shoes instead of my nice white ones.

I reached down and put on my brown tennis shoes. I figured they'd have to work.

As I was readying myself to leave, I made my way from my bedroom, through the living room, and to the bathroom so I could use...

What's this?

Was that a pair of white tennis shoes I saw just then, next to my recliner in my living room? You mean to tell me I'd been searching through the wrong room the whole time?

"That's right!" I mumbled. "I took them off last night while sitting in my living room chair, and did not put them away like I usually do. Aw, man!"

I looked at my watch: sure enough, there were still a few minutes to go before my bus should be leaving. I quickly took off my brown tennis shoes and thankfully put on the far more comfortable white ones.

Into the bathroom I ran -- out of the bathroom two minutes later.

I checked to make sure everything was off. It was.

Out the front door I bolted like a horse from a starting gate. Up the street to the bus stop and...

I got there just in the nick of time, as I always do.

Were it not my habit to walk out to the bus stop ten minutes early, I rather doubt this story would have ended on such a happy note.

But thanks be to God it did end happily...

...Though I was a bit out of breath when the ordeal finally ended.

Marisa Louise

04-29-2005, 01:18 PM

Under Our Noses
Wk 3 'Just For Fun' Entry
661 Words.

People say you always find what you're looking for when you stop looking. No one knew that better than Jennifer.

Being in my position, I got to know Jennifer pretty well in afternoon talks and conversations over lunch breaks and in between passing periods. She is not the girl that so many here, feel that they have come to know.

Throughout high school, Jennifer had been one of those highly dedicated students. Being the valedictorian of her class, and graduating nearly two full years early, she was immensely popular, and intelligent. She had everything that a young man could want in a high school sweetheart, and as was the normality for the popular girls in the school, Jennifer had kept a steady boyfriend since her freshman year here at Piedmont. This, I came to learn, was simply one of her personas. She had a secret that she kept far away from her classmates and her closest cliques; even from her family.

We would have talks. Yes, it’s true. But I assure you that I don’t have any clues as to where she might be. I never thought that she would be the kind of girl to act this irrationally, and I certainly never imagined that she would run off with that broad! I tried to counsel her and help her to change from her thinking, but nothing seemed to help. She insisted day after day that she was in love with her. Who? Why, that broad, of course. Cassie Bryant. Can I tell you more about her, sir? Well I certainly can!

Cassie is one of Piedmont’s most troubled students. You can ask any of the other professors here, and they’ll tell you the exact same thing. She is a troublemaker, and that is all there is to it. From the first day that she set foot into Piedmont’s course rooms she caused a ruckus. She’s never gotten along with any of the other students and she always dressed strangely. A bit more masculine than the other girls. I knew it was going to be a problem when I saw them together. Cassie was a senior and poor Jennifer; she was just a victim over taken by the curiosity of something different and unknown.

Like I said before, officer, Jennifer insisted that they were in love. I tried to get details from her, but she refused. She didn’t want to get too specific and would point out what she called the “judgmental tone” whenever I’d tell her about what she was getting into. She told me numerous times that she wanted to leave her boyfriend and be able to tell her friends and her parents all about what it was like to truly be in love, and to know exactly what she wanted. She would say to me, “you know, I never thought I would ever really be in love. I was just looking in the wrong places; and just when I gave up, stopped trying to be like everyone else on the inside, she came into my life. She makes me want to be different, and she makes me feel more okay with being me, Mrs. Patterson!”

They graduated together just a week ago. You see that picture? Look how close they are… their foreheads are touching and them looking into each other’s eyes like that. It’s a sin, you know! It isn’t meant to be that way. That’s it? That’s all you need? I’m sorry that I couldn’t give you more information; it’s all of the information that I know.

Oh there is? Give that here! Let me see that. “Dear Mrs. Patterson, I greatly appreciate all of your advice to me this year in everything and I appreciate your listening to my evolving story. I’m saying goodbye. I don’t know where we’re going. Just somewhere that better suits us………” Well, would you look at that officer! I guess what we were looking for was right under our noses!

Mr Underhill

04-29-2005, 10:59 PM

Week 3 Just for Fun entry

Withdrawn

Samm

05-01-2005, 09:57 PM

Week 3 just-for-fun entry

DRIVEL

"Only one person in the world knew what I had done, and I intended to keep it that way."

"Hmph!" Maria snapped the paperback shut and slid it back into its slot on the bookstore shelf. She repeated this motion dozens of times after reading only the opening lines of new novels, struggling to conceal her growing irritation.

"May I help you, ma'am?" a friendly store clerk asked, obviously aware there was some sort of search in progress.

Only if you can tell me what shelf the next great American novel is sitting on! Maria sighed before answering. "No, I don't think so. Thanks anyway." She watched the employee retreat in defeat.

Shaking her head, Maria tried to pinpoint just exactly how and why her satisfaction was so difficult to achieve. She used to be able to find tons of stories to immerse herself in and get lost in the characters' worlds. What's changed since then? Why is it so difficult for me to find something I want to sit down and read?

Then it dawned on her: ever since she began writing fiction in earnest, she had become the World's Biggest Critic.

She wished she could turn back the hands of time or undo the damage done to her enjoyment of the written word. Now, whenever she picked up something -- anything -- to read, she found grammatical errors, punctuation errors, typos, wrong words, weak words, redundant words, plot quirks, you name it! And don't get her started on sentence fragments or run-on sentences! Except in dialog. She made allowances for dialog.

Tired of looking for the "perfect" book, Maria left the bookstore in search of a quiet spot in the nearby coffee shop. She realized she was disappointed and disgusted with herself as much as anything. I'm too demanding. I expect too much. While watching the steam curls rising from her French Roast coffee, her ruminations continued. But there are so many stories that revolve around violence. Even romance novels! I see enough violence in the news every day; I don't want to read about it during my 'escape' time! And how some of these stories get published is beyond me. Why, I can write better than so many of them!

THEN WHY DON'T YOU? an all too familiar mocking voice crept into her head. WHY DO YOU SUPPOSE THEY'RE PUBLISHED AND YOU'RE NOT?

Maria lifted the cup to her lips and disguised her sigh by making it look like she was cooling her coffee before sipping.

WHY? the voice nagged. WHY? YOU KNOW WHY.

Yes. She knew. Because they finish what they started.

"Sentence fragment!" she bellowed out loud at her own thoughts. Embarrassed at her outburst and seeing many strangers' eyes upon her, Maria snatched up her purse and hurried out of the peaceful shop. Rounding the corner in her haste, she bumped into a tall cardboard display stand filled with books, teetering the stand and tumbling dozens of books to the floor.

Picking up the mess she'd made, she glanced at the title of one of the books:

Chicken Soup for the Writer's Soul.

"Now, this looks like it might do me some good," she murmured with a smile. Just when I'd given up looking. Another thought occurred to Maria as she stepped up to the counter to pay for one of the books. People say you always find what you're looking for when you stop looking.

=====

Drivel. But it's the first drivel I've driveled in a long time. J

05/01/05 Mayday! Mayday!

astonwest

05-03-2005, 07:56 AM

Probably not the best I could do......eh, just-for-fun, right?

*****

Only One

Only one person in the world knew what I had done, and I intended to keep it that way. I sat on the edge of the bed, a revolver in hand, eyes firmly fixed on the door. Shawna would be here any moment now, and then no one would know what I had done. It had to happen, and I had to be the one to do it.

A clock on the wall chimed out an awkward tone. Quarter past the hour, I grimaced. It usually took her about twenty minutes to come home from work, so it would only be a few minutes more. To pass the time, my mind began a slow dance with doubt, since I hadn’t completely convinced myself of what I needed to do.

I idly checked the gun over one more time, sighed deeply, and looked around the room. Posters of various male actors and musical stars adorned pink walls, while stuffed animals and decorated pillows rested on a hope chest in the far corner. Makeup cases and jewelry boxes had taken over the top of a weathered, wooden dresser. Then there was that forsaken clock, which had pounded out variations on the same battered theme for years. The whole room was on the dangerous bridge between childhood and adulthood, not quite sure which it was meant to be. Just like Shawna, I thought.

I looked down at the gun in my hands with sorrow. I’d already taken away her childhood, hadn’t I? Everyone had assumed it a tragic accident, even the police had agreed. But little did they all know of my heart’s intent. Anger and hatred had driven me to it, rage had carried the moment, and fear had taken me the rest of the way. One person still knew the truth, and I intended to keep it that way.

My mind screamed at me again to stop this, but there was no turning back, as I heard the sound of a car pull into the driveway. It was time, I thought and stood from the bed. I walked into the living room, as a car door slammed outside. With sorrow flooding my heart, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath to steady myself.

“Dad, I’m home.” Shawna called out as she opened the front door.

My eyes flashed open in shock. I couldn’t do this.

But I had to.

I looked up into her eyes, remorse in my gaze. Her eyes showed pure fear at the sight of the gun in my hands.

“Dad?” She asked in quiet confusion.

“I’m sorry,” I choked on my tears.

I lifted my hand and felt the barrel against my temple, only a moment before I pulled the trigger and fell to the floor. Her screams were a hollow echo in the background of my mind. Cold chills passed through my bones, as she fell next to me. She sobbed, while I felt the pressure of her arms against my head. I longed to be able to comfort her once again, but that time had passed.

“Why, Dad? Why?” Tears fell on my cheeks, but they weren’t my own.

I licked my lips. “For your Mom.” I whispered, while darkness slowly passed before my eyes.

“It was an accident, Dad. She just fell down the stairs. It wasn’t your fault.”

I wanted to tell her the truth. “Yes, it was,” I tried to say, but the words never passed over my lips. Instead, I heard myself gasp and choke on my final breaths. Only one person had known the truth of what had happened that fateful night, and now it was certain to stay that way.

Paolo

05-03-2005, 11:57 PM

This is the story the good folks here inspired me to write. It's also partially a product of insomnia. Since it's JFF, it's 73 words over the limit, so I'm pretty much disqualified before I start what I'm not really starting anyway...

Hope you enjoy it as much as much as I enjoy all of your work!

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Who is looking?

People say you always find what you're looking for when you stop looking. That's the difference between the lookers and the doers. That's the same difference between the losers and the winners. I don't believe in the things people say. Most people don't know what they're truly saying half the time and the other half just talk to convince themselves they're not alone. So when you said that to me, Janice, I knew that was it. I had my mark. That's what I was looking for. That's the difference between me and you. I live the truth, you live in a sickly-sweet plastic dream. Looking is taking and if you're not looking, you're not living.

It was easy to hide my predatory smirk in the candle light. I took a sip of wine and thought about how nice it would be to drain your bank account. That's what I was thinking that night. But what do you really need, Janice? You found me through your own illusions. All I had to do was figure out which mirrors and what smoke you used. It didn't take long. You gave me all the answers the first night. You just wanted someone to sit there and listen to your dreams.

I wonder how long you believed your dreams were so secret. If you'd tell your secrets to a guy you just met, it's safe to say you've told many others. You must believe people don't listen to you. I could tell you had a lot of practice playing that game. You work hard to make yourself seem misunderstood. That's how people work, though. People repeat the same disastrous behavior a thousand times looking for that one different result. Most people satisfy this definition of insanity. I was lucky to be there to provide that rare positive result that would make you mine.

You took me home and I stuggled through the sex by focusing on the pleasure of taking everything from you. You thought it was passion for your body or some kind of romantic notion I held for you. The truth is that this is not how I want to do you. I get off on the hunt. That's all I am. I'm a predator. What got me off even harder was knowing I was working my trade on a psychologist. I really believe people study psycholgy the way people buy manuals to fix their own cars. You're so messed up that you don't trust anyone to fix things right. That's why you were so easy. I guess if I had a conscience at all, that would make me feel bad. Instead it just makes me laugh because I don't have to feel the things other people do. Sociopathy has its advantages.

So I worked you and now here I am. Six months later and you're in business with me for fifty-thousand dollars. I'm showing you profits from dealing H on the side. That's enough to make you believe I'm a lawyer and an entrepreneur on the side. I didn't have to display even a fraction of the law I studied in prison. Those cases you think I'm traveling for are really, at last count, three other women better looking than you. I have to do something to get through the motions because you're really not all that attrractive. That was another factor working in my favor. Homely women aren't as easy as many assume, but you're not so hardened yet that you turn away an easy chance to boost your self-esteem.

Right now I'm writing you this note because you're my last mark. You were perfect. You gave everything to me so completely that I truly know I'm the master of this game. There's no point taking anything more from you. There would be no pleasure in it. Now that I know I've achieved all I can achieve, I'm really done with this life. If I don't die tonight, there will be nothing for me to enjoy. You can be satisfied that you were the last link in a very long chain of my career in manipulation. You really are a masterpiece. I cracked you open and read your entrails so well that I do believe you would do anything for me.That's all I need to know. I could leave you and go do that with anyone I choose. That's how powerful I've become. I'm a solar flare; brilliant but doomed to fade. So instead of just dissolving into space and empty motion, I'm cutting out while I'm still strong.

You'll get a package in a couple days. My prison record in in there. You'll find my real name all the psychological profiles from various places where they locked me up. The prison shrinks are really pretty good, but they're a bit dry. I'm sure you'll get a kick out of some of the evaluations from the state hospitals. Pay attention to all the editorial comments. They make the same error as you by looking at their own noses and mistaking it for insight. Good bye and have fun learning how badly you were taken. That sure will give me my last burst of pleasure before I go.

Alan clicked the send button and pushed himself away from his computer. He laughed hard and long and deeply till his eyes watered. He laughed till the effort made him weary. He shut the computer down and ran his fingers through his finely cut, sandy blonde hair. He wondered to himself it he would miss one hundred fifty dollar hair cuts in the afterlife. The though brought another round of laughter that stopped short when he caught a glimpse of something. The light described him as a ghost already in the faint reflction of his face on the blackened screen.

Rage flashed lightning in his vision. Alan reached into the desk for his 9mm Baretta. He brought the weapon to bear on the screen and squeezed the trigger. A dry click made him explode. He flailed at the world with the gun held like a hammer. At the computer screen, at the desk , at the chair and the lamp, he hammered. There was broken glass and cracked plastic and the desk was upended. He vaguely heard a voice screaming barely recognized as his own. No bullets. No more plan. He was a failure. He forgot to buy bullets for his gun.

The floor felt unstable beneath him. He couldn't feel the blood that turned his face crimson and made the veins in his neck spasm. He he didn't see the blood on his hands from his split knuckles as he lost his pistol to go at the walls with bare fists. He clawed at the world around him and slipped beyond rage to a place that was not even animal fury. An animal wouldn't do this.

His eyes fell on Janice standing in the doorway. He lunged at her throat but his broken fingers couldn't grasp her neck. Janice didn't flinch. She took him. They tumbled back into the hallway and she managed to get her arms around him tight. She had no fear.

He felt her there. She was soft. Her arms were hard beneath the softness as they struggled to hold him. As suddenly as the rage came, it was gone. Alan went limp and fell beside Janice. He stopped breathing.

She pushed him onto his back and slapped his face hard. No response.

She knew CPR would't work on a person without the will to breathe. Pain could reach him still. Straddling his chest, she held his head firmly in her hands and found the place behind his earlobes where the muslces hinged the jaw. She pressed that place as hard as she could with her index fingers. She knew it hurt. His dead eyes fluttered, then he breathed. He grew pale. His breath was shallow. She knew he might go catatonic at any moment.

“Alan, I know you're there. Don't go.” She spoke calmly as if all was well. “Stay with me Alan. I have something tell you.”

His eyes fluttered again. That was the only motion he made as she pulled his shoulders onto her lap. Alan felt the warmth of her thigh against his cheek. It felt like the first thing he could remember. All he could do was listen to her voice. Her warmth replaced thought.

“You haven't taken anything from me I didn't want to give. All I ever wanted was to love someone like you. I know what you're doing and I don't care.”

“That's sick. You're sick.” Alan whispered faintly.

She rolled her eyes, laughed gently and gave his cheek a delicate slap. His chest heaved once with fleeting laughter, then fell into sadness. The feeling was new, and he didn't understand it, but he recognized the sadness.

“I'm not sick, Alan, you are broken. All you have to do to fix yourself is believe that I love you and that you deserve it."

Alan lay there wondering how he found love in total blindness.

Paolo

05-04-2005, 12:36 AM

Having abandoned all good sense, I find that I must post yet another entry.

My face got sore reading this one because I smiled so hard all the way through it.

Paolo

05-04-2005, 04:17 AM

Week Two theme: Misunderstandings
1490 words

Three Little Lessons Learned Too Late
by Underhill

Oh wow. Chills. Goosebumps. Nothing more to say You got me.

Paolo

05-05-2005, 02:01 AM

Ah, I'm over here thinking my story bombed bceause nobody commented. That's not a valid assumption because, as someone pointed out, you have to ask for comment. I just assumed folks would remark. So here goes.

Please do me the honor of commenting on my JFF entry (http://www.absolutewrite.com/forums/showpost.php?p=183316&postcount=67). Don't hold back, I'm here for the exercise. My aim is to see how this stuff plays out with an audience.

Onward and Upward.

mommie4a

05-05-2005, 06:39 AM

Thanks for letting me subject you to these memories.

GENEVA DREAMIN' (1350 word count)

Only one person in the world knew what I had done, and I intended to keep it that way.
What I did began with a bottle of rum, super-sized colas and two trains in Milan, Italy. My friend Richard and I had agreed to meet at that city’s main station and take a high-speed rail to Geneva, Switzerland to visit a mutual friend. But while I waited by the tracks, Rich loitered in the lobby. As our ride rumbled out of sight, I schlepped myself and six weeks worth of travel gear back to the high-domed foyer.

Damn misunderstandings.

Rich determined that the next train would leave in five hours - at 1am - from a different station. We flung our baggage in a locker and searched the downtown street until we found an open liquor store. When we completed that mission, we strolled back to a Wendy’s across from the main station and purchased appropriate mixers for rum.

I felt oddly European that evening, as Rich and I talked, drank and flirted fruitlessly on the outdoor deck of a fast food joint. During our hours there, we buddied up with a couple of Arabic-speaking men who’d sat down near us. The friendship proved thin, however, after I took pictures of them and they tried to confiscate my film. The hijacking of TWA’s Athens to Rome flight had occurred just two weeks before and Rich and I - bellies full of Bacardi - became paranoid and suspicious.

We lost track of time but finally air kissed our new friends goodbye. My memory of our race from restaurant to lockers to train to second station is like that of a sped-up film clip of subway cars streaming over city bridges and through tunnels. Partly because it was two decades ago. Partly because I’d imbibed half a bottle of alcohol.

We arrived inebriated but on time. In dire need of relieving myself, I jumped down onto Track Number 9 and did a memorable impression of the Mannequin Pis just before our transportation pulled in. Even in the late night’s darkness, the orange paint of the TGV appeared like a neon banner across the bulge of the bullet-shaped passenger train.

Rich and I were too cheap to buy sleeper car passes, so we found room in a six seater section. We spied the last two seats, heaved our bags into the overhead rack and crashed into the Stratolounger style cushions. To settle into the seven hour journey, we wiggled until the chairs collapsed into a sleeping angle, then tossed standard issue rail-blankets over ourselves. It’d been a steamy evening outside but we shivered in our overly air-conditioned compartment.

It’s strange to be in a place with six stretched out bodies - four of them that belong to strangers - in an overnight train in Europe. My wooziness from the rum, in combination with the train’s motion, began to overtake the je ne sais crois sense I’d had just hours before.

About an hour into a dreamlike state of mind, I ballet-pointed my toes as I stirred under the makeshift covers. They brushed against what seemed to be a body part that didn’t belong to me. Slowly, I wagged, then poked my toes against the surface of my discovery. Smooth, but not skin; fabric; gives way like a tennis ball might when you press your thumbs into it to check for freshness; firm, not hard. To my surprise, the body part - something below the torso I decided - moved, and pressed into the arch of my foot.

Where was the rest of the body? I translated what I felt into an image. Legs wrapped in denim. A hole in the knee, large enough for two toes to wiggle and dart in and out of, and feel flesh.

“Passports! Passports!”

The trainman tugged on and then threw the compartment door open. Light intruded into my dream as he leaned in and thrust his hand into the air above our bodies. Each of us fumbled out from underneath our warm pile, rustled with luggage to find identification and offered them up like street children with hands that grasp cheap wares for tourists to buy.
A slit of ecru brightness illuminated my bunkmates. Apparently, the legs belonged to a handsome, Jackson Browne look-a-like, who occupied the window seat beside an elderly couple. Straight, shaggy, light brown hair tussled and past his earlobes. Oval face with sculpted cheekbones and cream colored skin. Subsisting on wine and cigarettes lean. Brown eyes whose color looked nearly black from being fully dilated.

We acknowledged each other with stares and waited like the others for the customs agent to pluck our booklets from our fingers. The uniformed man flipped each one around to read, checked for the appropriate stamps and jammed it back into the fingers.

“You still drunk?” Rich asked.

I let out a giggle-like gurgle as my head flapped back against the cushion behind me in exhaustion and mocking. I strained to lift up my head and face him, then rolled my eyes and smiled.

“I can’t believe we drank a whole bottle.”

My head dropped down sideways and my long hair splayed across his shoulder. I shuttered my eyes and hoped I could return to my pre-customs agent reverie.
Eventually, the six of us re-configured into sleeping positions, Jackson Browne and I stratolounged across each other again. My shoeless feet searched for his denim-clad legs. Once found, I curled one arch over a calf and swept the toes of the other along the outside of his legs, which rested at a slant toward mine.

With one foot, I massaged his outer thigh as if I were using my hand or lips, over and under motions, each sweep moving me up higher, down lower and further between his legs. Lost in the strong feel of his muscles, I startled when his hand grasped my toes, then fondled each one. But letting go to his touch felt s-o g-o-o-d.

He placed my foot in his lap, my heel on top of his pants’ zipper. Underneath which was a body part that was now more solid than his leg. My impulse was not to stop. Not to say no. Not to open my eyes, sit up or see his face.

My impulse was to go limp and let him do with me as he pleased, and pleased him. Because my body had already told me how pleased it was.

For what seemed like the remainder of the trip, this man took care of both of us in a way I’d never experienced. We never kissed, never spoke - except for deep, low, closed mouth acknowledgements of satisfaction - and didn’t see each other until we reached Geneva at 7:30am. For hours, we’d remained clothed, undercover and orgasmic. Yet not once did I touch his flesh, nor did he touch mine.

I woke up to Rich’s elbow poking my ribs. Outside, Geneva’s architecture and traffic looked postcard-perfect: clean, bright, colorful, sharp. Speechless, as we six collected our belongings, a nervous sensation crept through my solar plexus and I wondered, how do I exit.

I had no interest in this man. In fact, what had happened petrified and shocked me. Why wasn’t it only a dream? Could I make it one?

Could I have really done what I thought I had, for hours? Me, who had only one consummated sexual relationship in 23 years, and that one only six months before?

Slut. Whore. I thought.

I panicked. Here I was. In Europe. With two attractive male friends. I’d turned down men in Naples, at the Coliseum, and now from Milan to Geneva, a nameless Frenchman who wanted my name and contact information stood next to some historic stone structure that was our point of de-embarkation.

Jesus Christ, my mind ricocheted. What had happened?

In his broken English, and my broken French, I explained how pointless I thought it would be to exchange information. His face was beautiful. Kind, soft flow, curves, sweetness, smiles, lilted voice.

I’d now had my zip less f***.

Damn crossroads.

Ddama

05-06-2005, 12:41 AM

Just flat out late. Too much time spent watching Law and Order. Bad me. Fiction, 1300 words.

Only one person in the world knew what I had done, and I intended to keep it that way. After all, how could I tell them?

According to Maimonides, the highest form of charity is finding work for a needy man. Maimonides also held that in charity it is ideal for the donor not to know the recipient, and the recipient not to know the donor, minimizing the shame of the poor and the self-aggrandizement of the wealthy.

My neighbor’s son Eli was one of the brightest young men in the community. He was self-educated, devouring library books, sneaking out of his parents’ house to listen to Classical music and opera. To understand the opera, he studied Italian in Little Italy and, deciding not to waste any of his commute, he picked up Cantonese in Chinatown. The boy read math books on the toilet. He was fantastic with numbers.

The whole package was good, but the numbers sold me. I felt terrible, but his parents didn’t understand him. Better they didn’t. If they understood what he was capable of, they would have thrown him out on the street and mourned him. I told them I would keep an eye on him, protect him from the secular world.

Eli was too talented to waste his life in a yeshiva, too curious about what the outside had to offer. I understood; I had been the same way. His parents were too poor to afford the education the boy needed. I quietly arranged a scholarship for him at NYU’s Stern School of Business and he excelled there. True to my word, I kept an eye on the boy. The usual vices of college found him: sex, drugs, rock and roll, binge drinking, inappropriate behaviors of every sort. I trusted Eli to sort himself out once the novelty wore off.

I understand the Amish do quite well with rumspringa. Maybe if we let our children out like that, the modern world wouldn’t be so hard on them.

My hopes were rewarded when Eli graduated at the top of his class. I quietly arranged an offer for him at a bond trading company. The only person besides me who knew of my role was the company’s founder, a friend from the charity dinner and golf tournament circuit.

Why did I help Eli? He deserved it. He deserved the opportunity to find his own greatness and I knew to expect great things from him. I wasn’t disappointed. In December 2000, after six months on the job, he called me.

“Irving,” he was breathless on the phone, I still remember, “there’s something funny going on at Enron. Their debt doesn’t make any sense. I don’t have a clue… their balance sheet looks like spaghetti, but they’re hiding something. I told my desk to dump all Enron notes pronto, but they laughed at me. What should I do?”

I told him to fight for it, to get to the bottom of the numbers, and he did. They dumped Enron debt when it traded at a premium and avoided the carnage that followed. I sold the stock short and got a little piece of the pie for myself. I knew the boy was a genius.

His parents trusted me to look after him, to guide him, to protect him from the world. But they didn’t know I put him there, brought him into it as assuredly as if I had given birth to him. They would not have understood. They would blame me for failing them, for failing him, and they would be right. They trusted me to watch over him from my office at One Liberty, looking out at Tower Two, where he worked, knowing I was close by.

After the first plane hit, he called me at work to let me know he was alright, that they were telling everyone to stay calm and not to go outside. Over our PA system, they were telling us the same thing. Flocks of singed papers brushed flew by the glass wall of my office.

When the second plane hit, he called again to let me know he was okay, the plane hit far above his floor. Later, he called again. He was waiting with a friend of his, a coworker in a wheelchair, staying by her side until the firemen could reach them to rescue her. Everything would be okay.

Suddenly it came, a black wall onrushing, pounding against the windows. It shook, the whole building shook and swayed, and the cloud streamed past, billowing night, then stormy, then a falling haze of smoke and dust. Sunlight filtered through and when we crawled out from under our desks, we could only gape. To turn away or to watch in horror as men and women jumped. To give in to some sick voyeuristic impulse, human, to stare into the smoking ruin and void, where ten thousand people surely lay dead. Security announced that the building was locked down. We couldn’t leave.

I stood by the window and stared out. I had arranged his education, his job. I had put Eli there, into that mass grave. I had led him down the path that took him away. How could I tell his parents that? They trusted me. When Tower One collapsed, I was knocked to my feet. Still we couldn’t leave the building.

How could I face them?

Security kept us there until after five, until after 7 WTC collapsed, then they herded us over the bridge, into Brooklyn, to fend for ourselves. I walked home, to console my neighbors.

The entire neighborhood crowded their house, spilling out the front door. We all knew each other. Chaya and Lazar were respected, righteous. I was despised but tolerated, despised as an apostate by their rigid standards, tolerated because of the charities and the foundations. When I walked in, the sea of people split to let me pass.

The hall mirror was covered and I thanked God I couldn’t see myself. For a parent we mourn for a year, for a child only a month. How can you mourn only a month for a child? The loss stays with you always, written in the lines on your face and the sadness in your eyes.

Lazar stood and took my hand. “Yitzchok,” he said, choking a sob. On the outside, I was Irving; here, in the community, I was known by my Hebrew name. “Yitzchok, was there any pain?”

I sighed, holding myself in. “No pain, Lazar. It was instant.” I pronounced it as if it were a fact. He crushed me in a hug. I could smell drink on his breath. “I’m so sorry.” I couldn’t tell him. It wouldn’t help. It would only add to his pain and strain our relationship, take away whatever consolation I could give him.

Throughout their brief mourning, I prayed as I had not since I mourned my own flesh and blood. In the ancient Aramaic cadences of the Mourners Kaddish, I found dialogue with God.

“Yisgadal v’yiskadosh shmei rabboh...” Magnified and sanctified be His Great Name…

“Amen.”

Sleep fled from me and I prayed more. I envied the Catholics their confessional, not for the first time. It’s not enough to share your soul with God. Sometimes you need to share everything with a human being, someone who can answer you and make everything okay.

“B’alma divra khirousei v’yamlich malkhousei…” In this world He created as He willed and in His kingdom to come…

“Amen.”

How can I tell them? How can I tell them it was my fault?

“Oseh shalom bimromav, hu ya’aseh shalom aleinu…” He who makes peace in Heaven, He will make peace among us…

“Amen.”

mommie4a

05-10-2005, 01:39 AM

Seventh Grade, Seventh Grade (sung to the tune of Matchmaker, Matchmaker)

Seventh Grade, Seventh Grade,
Oy what a year!
My kid’s got the zits,
And girls he now fears.
Seventh Grade, Seventh Grade,
How could it be
You snuck up so quickly on me?

Bat mitzvahs, Bar mitzvahs,
My kid wants the cash,
Spouse wants the pride,
It’s happening too fast.
Why can’t we skip it
like floors numbered 13?
I wish I could wake from this dream.

My mother - she wants 200 people.
My father - he won’t pay anything.
My inlaws, well they’re prima donnas,
They stay at the Ritz and drink everything.

When I had this honor it all was so tame,
I wore a tube top,
Some spray in my mane.
How could it have been 30 years ago now,
When I had to take that bow?

(tune changes here to “Hodel, oh Hodel”)

Oh mother! Oh father!
Have I got a club for you!
It’s close! It’s cheap!
Alright it’s WASP-y too.
But it’s a nice club, a clean club.
True? True!

I promise we’ll do kosher,
And even if we don't,
There's more to life than Glatt---
Don't ask me what.

Dear husband! I found him!
The table rental guy!
He’s handsome, he's strong,
Oh let’s give him a try.
Cuz he’s a shiksa, a Shabbos goy,
Oy? Oy!

You know that I’m bi-polar.
I’ll cry, then laugh each day,
But only until after,
So it’s okay.

Are you scared I’ll let you down?
Well, I’ll try to break and bend.
But with no Lexus, no iPod, no fancy Manolos,
Be glad our kid’s got friends!

(return to beginning tune of Matchmaker)

Maxwell, oh Maxwell,
You know that you’re
Our first born son,
Of that we are sure.

But up to this minute,
You never understood,
You’re stuck with us parents for good.

We promise,
We’ll try not to embarrass.
Remember,
One day you’ll be a dad.
It's not that
We want you to suffer,

But in this day and age this event’s a big fad!

We know that in our town,
The pressure is high.
There’s so many Jews,
We know we must try
To throw you a shindig
That makes us all smile.

So,
Let’s find that hall!
We’ll have a ball!
I know we can
Concoct the best plan -
To organize your Bar Mitz-vah!

Paolo

05-10-2005, 02:51 AM

Seventh Grade, Seventh Grade (sung to the tune of Matchmaker, Matchmaker)

Seventh Grade, Seventh Grade,
Oy what a year!
My kid’s got the zits,
And girls he now fears.
Seventh Grade, Seventh Grade,
How could it be
You snuck up so quickly on me?

You had me worried. For a moment , I thought you might go the other route in rhyming "zits".

I loved it. It made me remember stuff about my own zitty-nerdy-awkward phase like it was yesterday. Wait, it was yesterday...

astonwest

05-10-2005, 04:53 AM

I was almost run over in the seventh grade...fortunately, a clarinet case saved my @$$...that would probably be a story to retell...too bad I'm hot and heavy into another project at the moment...such is life...

Mr Underhill

05-10-2005, 08:22 AM

Haiku
Way, way less than a thousand words, dude

at twelve we outshone
the whole sorry world it seemed
but we were lamer

Paolo

05-10-2005, 11:43 PM

Haiku
Way, way less than a thousand words, dude

at twelve we outshone
the whole sorry world it seemed
but we were lamer

I'll have a steak sandwich and a steak sandwich.

Cassie88

05-11-2005, 06:19 AM

JILL, I loved it. I'm the one in the family that does all the lyric-changing to honor or roast whomever.....I've done a million tributes using "My Favorite Things" Good one for people getting older as you can throw in all the meds and over-the-counter remedies... Great job. I don't want to distrupt the story flow, but I've got to remember to tell you something about song tributes, etc.
Cassie

Paint

05-11-2005, 07:17 PM

TIMMEKO’S PRIVATE WAR

Timmeko froze, suspending even his breathing. Sweat broke out on his brow and under his arms. He knew he was supposed to be over this fear. He was in the seventh grade, not a little kid anymore. Actually it was a cool spring morning; but for Timm it was hot in the small, Texas town. The warm sun beat down on him, adding to his discomfort. He watched a tiny bee with intent eyes, not moving a muscle. He took a much needed breath, a small, shaky one.

The bee was oblivious to the panic Timm was feeling. It happily crawled around the top of the bright red trumpet flower. Its legs were covered in downy gold pollen. Timm was sure the bee was watching him, ready to attack and sting him cruelly at the slightest provocation. He imagined its beady eyes squinting as it assessed the distance between the flower and Timm.

Around him were the sounds of town. Drivers blatted their car horns at each other, trying to be number one at the town’s only traffic light. His best friend Jimmie’s lab, Zoë, was barking at old lady Getty’s Siamese cat. Zoë probably had it up the cottonwood tree again. Yes, Timm could hear Mrs. Getty coming, swearing at Zoë and probably waving that cane she used as a weapon. Timm prayed it would not upset the bee.

Timm’s knees were beginning to weaken. He felt a quivering starting in the back of his legs. He had to get out of this situation. Just as he was starting to breathe again, the bee took flight. “Please, please, God, make it go away.” Timm prayed fervently. “Not at me, not at me, let it go away.”

As if in answer, the bee took to the breeze and ambled unknowingly downtown to the city gardens. Timm let out one long breath and wiped his face with his hand. Now he could feel the air was blessedly cool. He felt as though a heavy weight had been lifted from his heart and it could beat again. Now that the bee was gone there was hope for life.

Feeling much better, Timm went to find Jimmie and see what was up for the afternoon. Maybe Jimmie would be willing to go inside, where there were no bees, and play some video games. When he connected with Jimmie, his friend wanted to go to the creek and fish.

They walked slowly down to the end of the road where the blacktop turned to dirt. Timm kicked rocks down the dusty road ahead of them. Big cottonwood trees swayed over the path to the creek, rustling leaves as they went by. Jimmie whistled for Zoë, who abandoned the Siamese to another day and came running. The boys laughed at Mrs. Getty screaming threats at the departing dog.

Zoë thrust her cold nose into Timm’s palm and licked at the sweat there. “How ya doin’ old girl?” Timm asked the dog, who happily waved her tail to express the joy she felt to be with the boys. She was thrilled to be headed toward her favorite haunt, the creek.

When they got to the water, Jimmie broke off a big stick and shook the string out of his pocket. He had a fishhook stuck in his shirt and pulled it out, tearing the fabric a little. His shirt front was covered in little holes from other fishing days, but he paid it no mind, happily whistling as he went about his chore. The creek was more like a river this time of year; it was full and roiling, almost too much for fishing. Jimmie let the string fly and settled down on the bank with his friend to wait for the inevitable tug.

When it hit, it was more like a jerk. “I must have the hugest catfish in the world!” Jimmie yelled.

He stood up to have more leverage. The muddy bank crumpled and Jimmie tumbled into the brown, murky water. He was trying to get his balance when the spring current quickly pulled him into deep water. Jimmie dunked down and came up sputtering, arms waving in the air. Zoë hit the water in one fluid dive. Her lab instincts and good swimming took her right to Jimmie, who clutched the dog frantically. Mercifully the dog was able to keep them afloat. As they pulled away from shore, the current became faster and more aggressive. It would not be long before boy and dog would be heading down river.

“Help me Timm! Help! I can’t swim in it! It’s going too fast!” Jimmie yelled, spitting out water and thrashing madly. Zoë was having a hard time as well, front legs splashing wildly, her mouth open and tongue hanging off to the side with the effort.

Timm looked around frantically, trying to find something to pull Jimmie in with. He spotted a big cottonwood tree limb and dove for it. Poised right where Timm reached was a huge honey bee, basking in the sun. Timm swatted at it and stomped where it hit the ground, all in one swift move. Hanging on to a sapling, he stretched the limb out to Jimmie and Zoë. Jimmie was just able to reach the tip of the branch, grabbing twigs and leaves while trying to get a better grip.

Timm backpedaled up the riverbank with all he had, sliding and stumbling. Jimmie felt his toes touch earth. Feeling a surge of adrenalin, he thrust himself toward shore. Zoë was feeling ground too, and swimming for all she was worth. Finally they clambered up the shallows and stood gasping air. All three of them were exhausted and flopped down on the bank to get their breath back.

“Thanks Timm, I would’na made it without ya!” Jimmie said sincerely. Timm heaved a deep, shuddering sigh of relief. It was then that he remembered the bee. He sat up with a jolt, realizing that in one single moment of time his whole life had changed.

Paint
Prompt: Seventh grade
1008 words

Kappie

05-11-2005, 11:25 PM

Paint I really enjoyed your story. You set it up, had a conflict and resolved it all in 1,000 words. I loved your description of how Timm felt about the bee in the beginning of the story. I taught 7th grader for a few years and it is very believable that they would be afraid of a bee, heck I still cringe when I see one flying near me:)

gogoshire

05-11-2005, 11:37 PM

Nice story, Paint!

Duncan J Macdonald

05-13-2005, 05:48 AM

Sorry that this one's late -- I actually had to work at my real job. Anyway, I give you an opus in 568 words:

Opening Day
by
Duncan J Macdonald

"Sar'Major, is it really necessary to do all of this?" The lieutenant indicated the closed circuit cameras covering the auditorium. Sergeant Major Truesdale sighed and put down his stack of note cards.

"Lieutenant, this is your first year doing these, right?"

The Lieutenant nodded. He was just three weeks out of quickie Officer Candidate School, and he was nervous.

Truesdale shook his head. "Son, remember that these kids are at a turning point in their lives. Last year, as 6th graders, they were all the F**kin' New Guy, and too green to not stick their heads up into the line of fire. Next year, as 8th graders, they won't give a sh*t about the Eff-En-Gees just coming in -- all they'll care about is High School, and the problems of jumping from the top of the ladder back into the bottom of the pool again. Son, these 7th graders are d*nm smack in the middle. They want to get back at the Eff-En-Gees coming in -- payback for all the cr*p they went through. They -- or most of 'em at least -- are starting to take a real interest in sex, what it is, what the opposite sex wants, what they want, and what defines 'opposite' sex. Let me tell you, a raging bull elephant during mating season's got nothing on a gaggle of 12 year old girls trying to make the same guy."

The Lieutenant still looked unsure, but the guards were almost done herding the crowd into their seats, and it was almost time to start.

"Sir, think of it this way. Each of these kids is convinced that they are in fact the best, and they deserve to be on top, and they care f**k-all for anyone who gets in their way. We need to stop that sh*t in it's f**ckin' tracks, sir, and we've found that these assemblies are the best way to start. Yeah, we'll keep the guard posts manned 24/7, the machine gun nests, and the snipers in place, but this is the way we start. I've been doin' this for six f**kin' years now, and I'm startin' to see some of these kids cyclin' back into my guard force. We f**kin' train 'em right, and they get easier to f**kin' train later on."

The doors to the auditorium slammed shut with the same ponderous finality as a bank vault. The guards who had been ushering retreated to flank each door with weapons at port arms. The house lights dimmed, and the spotlight focused on the podium brightened in proportion.

"Show time, sir. Watch and learn."

Sergeant-Major Truesdale straightened the already laser straight creases of his uniform shirt and trousers, brushed imaginary lint from off of his shoulder, and frowned at the mirror bright flawless shine of his dress boots. He strode out of the wings and onto the stage, marching relentlessly toward the podium. The rustling coming from the audience heightened in anticipation, growing louder the closer he got.

"ATTEN--TION!" The roar from the PA system was electronically limited to only 132 decibels, and broke through the noise from the audience with all the subtlety of a jackhammer. In the deafening silence, Truesdale's voice was as sharp as the blade of a surgeon's scapel.

"Good Morning, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the first Faculty and Staff Meeting of the school year here at Chelsea Clinton-Ridge Junior High."

Ddama

05-13-2005, 07:43 AM

Fiction, about 650 words.

Nothing in my Masters program had prepared me for a twelve-year old suffering a miscarriage in my second period classroom. The usual idiots were yelling, raucous and rowdy with testosterone poisoning.

“Miss!” They couldn’t be bothered to remember my name. I was just another adult imposing on their world. “Miss!” It was John D-------. “Miss! This story is totally gay!”

I was about to scold him when S------ called out, “Miss Ross!” She held up her hand. “I don’t feel so good.”

S------ was the brightest student in the class and one of my best students. She deserved to go to college, but with a baby on the way in junior high, she probably wouldn’t graduate high school.

“Do you need to throw up?” It had been a few weeks since the last time she had morning sickness in my class.

She sniffled, “It hurts.”

If we stood next to each other, you might guess that I was twelve and she was twenty-four, but physical appearances aside, she was very much a little girl.

“Honey, do you need to throw up?”

S------ began trembling as I walked towards her desk. She had wedged her belly into a space the manufacturer never intended for a pregnancy. “No…,” her voice wavered.

She needed to get to the nurse, but I couldn’t leave the class alone. I could hear the boys making lewd jokes. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw C-------- pantomime sticking a finger down his throat. His desk was closest to the phone box, which, of course, was not locked shut.

“C--------. Call security. Tell them we need a student escorted to the nurse’s office.”

“Aw, miss!”

“Do it now!”

“Alright, miss.”

John D------- stage-whispered, “She’s gonna puke again.” I had no time for him now.

I kneeled by S------ and whispered to her, “Honey, are you going to be okay?”

Tears rolled down her cheeks. She leaned her head on my shoulder and I hugged her. She gasped, “I think I’m losing… I think,” she gasped again, “I’m losing my baby…”

As she buried her head in my shoulder, I noticed the blood.

S------‘s parents didn’t believe in abortion and, as far as she was concerned, she was in love and her boyfriend would marry her once she was old enough. Surprisingly, near as I could tell, he felt the same way and wanted to do right by her.

It’s illegal for me to talk about sex in the classroom. Under our federally-mandated abstinence-only policy, I could lose my job if I discussed birth control or even the biological basis for reproduction. I did anyway. I let the students know that my door was always open to answer any questions they had. Every semester, I set aside a day for sex-ed. They needed it and they sure weren’t getting it anywhere else. At home and in church they were kept in the dark and fed misinformation, told old wive's tales, that condoms didn’t work, that you couldn’t get pregnant from losing your virginity.

Adult supervision was absent from most of their lives and they did what came naturally. My students asked me so often if they could get pregnant from oral sex, that I had to conclude that it was widespread. What did I know? I hadn’t lost my virginity until college.

S------ grabbed my hand tightly and sobbed.

“C--------, did you get security?"

“Yes, miss.”

“Well, what did they say?”

He shrugged. “They’re on the way, miss.”

The boys had clustered together, laughing and throwing paper airplanes. John D-------- looked like he was about to taunt one of the smaller boys when I glanced sharply at him. He gave me his best “but, oh, miss, I didn’t do nothing” face and settled down, for the time being.

The girls were quieter, whispering, pushing their desks closer together every time I turned my head.

Where was security?

S------ shuddered and shuddered. Suddenly, she planted her feet and howled in pain, “Miss, I don’t want to lose my baby!”

The classroom fell silent.

I deliberately scrubbed this draft of any indications of location and ethnicity. Did this help or hurt? In advance, thanks.

Yeshanu

05-20-2005, 10:15 PM

I deliberately scrubbed this draft of any indications of location and ethnicity. Did this help or hurt? In advance, thanks.

I don't think location is necessary, as it could be Anytown, USA, although it's plainly not anywhere in Canada, as sex ed is mandatory in our grade seven/eight classes (though not always well done...).

However, not having names was distracting, and IMHO, the story suffered.

Other than that, it was very touching. Thanks for sharing, Ddama.

kappapi99

05-20-2005, 10:53 PM

Blood and Honor

by

Duncan J Macdonald

The sun rose slowly, as if still weary from the night before, and heavy with the knowledge of what her light would reveal during the coming hours. She had risen enough times in recent days to reveal the blood spilled for honor's sake, and honor spilled for blood's. Civil war strode the land, and where he stepped both honor and blood flowed free....

Duncan,

I am new to this whole idol thing and just now reading this thread. I wanted to tell you that the above story is, in my opinion, some first class writing. I enjoyed it very much!

KP

Duncan J Macdonald

05-20-2005, 10:57 PM

Duncan,

I am new to this whole idol thing and just now reading this thread. I wanted to tell you that the above story is, in my opinion, some first class writing. I enjoyed it very much!KPThanks. That's what keeps some of us going -- the feedback from the readers.

mommie4a

05-23-2005, 04:19 AM

Week 5 - here we come - hope more members will post here too!

From Jenna's post in the Week 5's finalist forum (Jenna - hope it's ok to re-post it here):

HOPE.

In 1,400 words or fewer, give us a story that will leave us with a feeling of hope.

As usual, it may be fiction or nonfiction, poetry or short story, etc.

Deadline: Sunday, May 29th, 11:59 p.m. ET.

mdmkay

05-23-2005, 06:54 AM

HOPE SPRINGS ETERNAL- 906 words

It had been at least 20 years since Karen had visited the small house where she had grown up. Walking through the rooms in the ram shackled old house the quiet that abided there now, contrasted sharply with the angry screams and violence of her memories of this place. With a white-knuckled grip on her purse Karen took one last look at her past before walking quickly out into the bright sunshine of the day.

“Was it as bad as you thought it’d be?” asked her husband of ten years, looking at her with loving concern.

“No, …no it wasn’t. Its over. I can finally put in the past ,” she stated through clenched teeth willing herself not to cry. As they drove away from her childhood home Karen wondered if she had been truthful with Joe. Before they had arrived she really did believe that she had overcome her past. Coming back to that house was her final step in letting go of the painful memories. Her therapist had warned her that it would be difficult but for some reason she just needed to see it one more time before she felt she could bring closure to what was a bitter and damaging time in her life.

Memories of her step father’s abuse flashed through her mind as they headed away from the house. Using the skills she had learned over the years she wouldn’t allow the obsessive cycle of memories she used to endure to even start, except for the night they had escaped. She had been eleven years old when the argument had taken place. It had started out like so many arguments had between her mother and step-father but apparently he had finally pushed her mother one step to far. Karen had no idea after all the years of abuse why this night was different. That night events, even after 20 years, were still crystal clear in her mind as if it had taken place only yesterday. They had started fighting again. She still could hear the screaming, feel the fear, and finally see as she and her sister in the doorway of their bedroom screaming at their mother trying to warn her about the knife he carried. Her mom screamed for them to leave. While they were outside Karen remembered hearing the sound of a gun firing. Her mom must have been able to call a neighbor for help because he arrived just in time to hear the gunshot. He ordered the girls to stay where they were and left them outside while he went in to see if anyone was hurt. Karen remembered how numb she felt after hearing that shot knowing that she would never see her mother ever again. By then both girls were so emotionally damaged by living with daily violence that they no longer had the capacity to react as normal children would. They just stood outside quietly watching to see what direction their life would now take. Would the state finally intervene and take him away or would he come out and shoot them too? Neither choice excited nor scared them. This was just the way life for them was lived…one minute to the next….never knowing. When Karen’s mom came out of the front door and quickly bundled the two girls inside the car. She told them they no longer had to fear their stepfather because she was going to take them to live with their grandma, neither girl spoke, not yet ready to believe that it was over.

Now, 20 year later with a husband and children of her own, once again she was silent on the car ride away from that house. This time was different though. This time she knew in her heart of hearts that this really was the last time. Fifteen minutes into the car ride home she looked over at her husband and smiled thinking of the peaceful wonderful life she now led. It had taken a lot of work and a lot of hours in a therapist’s office but she finally felt free. Free to enjoy the fruits of her labors and to be able to relax knowing the past was really was over for her. She could finally let down the guard she had held for fear of the past repeating itself. Since that night her life had changed. On the outside at least, she had become an outgoing confident over achiever and made her way into a challenging fulfilling career that she could rightly be proud of. But until this day, hidden inside her, was that frightened little girl still living in fear with the memories of the past just waiting below the surface to re-emerge. When she turned 20 she began to remember. At first, the memories came in just small bits and pieces that made no sense but as they continued they finally became troubling enough for her to seek therapy. It had been a long hard road but she had kept working at it and finally she felt she had arrived at a place she could leave all those memories and that scared little girl behind to walk forward as the strong woman she had always known she was.

On that fateful night when they heard a gunshot ring out and it felt as if all hope was lost, a miracle occured. They found that hope really can spring eternal.

Kay L. Schlagel

I never write short fiction and now you know why. Any comments welcome

Celeste

05-23-2005, 10:25 PM

Wow! And you say you don't write fiction???

I think this is great! I mean, it's a sad story, yes, that really touched me, but pretty damn good for one who's never written fiction. I could see everything and even relate to a lot of it. I think this is a beautifully written story. A few grammar and punctuation errors, but so what. It's the story...

This sentence here is what really got to me:
''By then both girls were so emotionally damaged by living with daily violence that they no longer had the capacity to react as a normal child would...''

I know that feeling, if you can call it a feeling and relate in my own way...
I've lived through so much that most people will never experience (or want to for that matter) that I know how it is to be numb and nonresponsive to situations where most would be hysterical. That's why I liked this story so much, because I can relate to a lot of the feelings, (or not feeling) the numbness you expressed in this piece.

Also the feeling of going back to a place, or time, facing one's nightmare, looking back and being able to feel free from it.

You did a great job, mdm! Damn! You should be in the finals! You've even given me a little push to write one. :Thumbs:

I think you did a fabulous job! :Clap:

mommie4a

05-24-2005, 06:35 PM

Falling Up

Nick arrived home drunk. Wobble-kneed, slumped in a chair, closing his eyes so the room wouldn’t move drunk.

Goddamnit.

Not sixty seconds earlier, Anna had called her book group to say that she’d be late. Not four minutes before that, she’d talked to Nick on his cell phone. She wanted to know when he’d be home, since he should’ve been home already.

Anna hated making those calls. And Nick harassed her for making them. But the regularity of tardiness had become the rule rather than the exception. Recently, she’d missed their oldest son’s square dance, two church meetings and several of their kids’ sporting and drama events because Nick failed to follow through on commitments to them. Excuses included: a late conference call (but he smelled like beer when he got home); skipped out for golf (but he smelled like vodka when he got home); got stuck in traffic (but he smelled like bar smoke when he got home). This night, he’d had a celebration for new associates but told Anna earlier in the day that he’d only stay for a couple of drinks, a round of pool and then drive home to relieve her to attend her bi-monthly book group.

Anna blamed Nick’s ramped up neglect of her and the kids on his lust for money, possessions and power. But Nick saw his behavior as fueled by ambition. Either way, Anna hated Nick’s manifestation of this drive and his personification of greed as good.

Now, while their youngest children sat transfixed by a worthless cartoon, Anna cried, cursed and speed circled through rooms like someone who’d killed impulsively and only later realized that she had to hide the body. The oldest was already upstairs, getting ready for bed. She’d either have to move her messy husband or usher the other two kids through a different room to avoid them asking questions.

Mommy, why’s Daddy mumbling? Why’s Daddy smell like the inside of a garbage can? Why’s Daddy’s body as limp as spaghetti?

Anna crouched down next to Nick, whose neck drooped against the swivel chair’s headrest.

“I’ll be okay. I’ll be okay. Just give me five minutes. Just give me five minutes.” His voice sounded hollow and ethereal.

“Let’s get you upstairs. Can you stand up? I need to take you upstairs.”

“Just give me five minutes. Five minutes.”

With his eyes still closed, Nick gripped the armrests and tried to push himself out of the chair. His body caved to the floor. Anna draped one of Nick’s arms over her shoulder and neck, her hand around his waist and hip. She dragged him across the carpet but his feet slid more easily over the marble floor. She unwrapped him from her body, and deposited him in the small guest bathroom.

His body sagged in folds, his limbs criss-crossed and his face cuddled the toilet seat. Anna closed the door and went to gather the children. She handed them kazoos to blast as they paraded past the throaty heaves that emanated through the bathroom door.

After bedtime books and lies about why Daddy couldn’t kiss them goodnight, Anna darted down the stairs to retrieve Nick. The book group met only a few minutes from her house and only thirty minutes had passed since its start. She still wanted to go out and, with the kids nearly asleep, she hoped Nick could handle sleeping while they did.

The door to the bathroom opened in but jammed against Nick’s shoes. His legs failed to give way even as Anna thrust the door into them. Anna shoved his feet with hers and the door’s bottom jagged around the edges of his heels until it opened wide enough for Nick to exit.

Except that he couldn’t exit. Because he couldn’t stand up.

Though only a few inches taller than Anna, Nick’s dead weight challenged her strength. She wrangled around him and into the room, then circled his waist as if scooping up a pile of dry-cleaned slacks. With grunts of indignity and effort, she pulled him from the room.

Why did a drunk man feel so heavy?

She tried to encourage him with phrases, Lets just get upstairs. Let’s just get you to bed. Let’s just get you undressed. Let’s just get you to sleep.

They made it up, then down the hallway to their room. Even without stools to reach the top of their four-poster bed’s mattress, Anna managed to swing and roll Nick’s body onto it.

“Go. Go,” Nick said weakly. “I’m here. I’m here.” Anna inferred that Nick wanted her to go to the book group. But as she retreated again to the stairs, she heard the unmistakable sounds of retching.

Anna couldn’t spew enough or nasty enough obscenities to compete with her thoughts and emotions. Tears rippled down her cheeks, inflamed and red. Yet, Nick’s de-evolution activated Anna’s caretaker mode. Through his own vomit, she whipped him off the bed, lugged him to their bathroom and abandoned him on the tile, his body leaning against the porcelain tank like a corpse against a casket.

Accompanied by her own words, questions, and mumbles, Anna stripped and re-made their bed, then re-loaded Nick into it and under an unsoiled comforter.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Gags.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

She turned out his night table lamp and squinted at the clock on her dresser across from the bed’s footrest. Two hours had passed. But how would the rest of the night?

Anna went to her basement office and began to write. Two glasses of wine and three hours later her word processing program threw up an error screen and she lost the novella of venom she’d written.

This wasn’t the norm. It wasn’t their norm. This was too far. Nick could’ve died on the highway. No one should’ve let him drive. He shouldn’t have let him drive. He has kids. He has a wife. You don’t do this. Ever. Ever. Ever.

But what do you do?

By four a.m., she’d exhausted herself and trudged back to their bedroom. Despite the space in the king bed that she’d always thought was oversized, she curled around herself on the edge and clutched her pillow.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she heard again.

Anna drew her head up and slid to her elbows, still belly down. She stared at the headboard two inches from her eyes, and clamped her hands against her chin. She knew what she wanted to say.

“Our kids cannot have an irresponsible father. You want to say that you’re stressed, you deserve to get this way, you never get this way, everyone gets this way.

“I don’t care. You do this again, you don’t come home to this house.” Anna’s head dropped to the pillow and faced away from Nick.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The next day, Nick remembered nothing of what he’d said and not much more of what he’d done. But even with his extreme hangover, he knew what he had to do now. Likewise, Anna knew what she had to tell him he had to want to do, or else leave the house.

Two days later, Anna stood in the kitchen and handed Nick the phone. He called his internist, wrote down a name and number, hung up and re-dialed.

“Dr. Peters, I got your name from my internist. I was wondering if we could make an appointment, if we - if I could talk to you.”

“This week,” Anna said.

“This week,” Nick said.

PS: I would appreciate feedback if you don't mind - nitpicky, nasty or glorious lies. I rarely know the difference.

trumancoyote

05-24-2005, 10:33 PM

Hey, Jill :)

I don't really know what to say -- I'm not too good at this critiquing business.

One thing that really stuck with me, minor though it may be, was a really powerful image; it did what imagery is supposed to do: aside from giving the reader an idea of what's physically going on, it also characterized Anna: She wrangled around him and into the room, then circled his waist as if scooping up a pile of dry-cleaned slacks.

It may seem silly to point out, but to me this line really reinforced the fact that Anna is a mother -- that, in describing things, she'd present them in a maternal way, because taking care of the kids in their reprobate father's absence is what she knows and does. Granted, it's not a first person narrative, but I really felt a dip into her head at this point in the story.

My only criticism is a minor one. I wish that Anna would have left her husband sprawled out on the bathroom floor and gone to her writer's group in spite of his vomiting. She deserves it. And perhaps, the feeling of hope evoked by the ending --by putting her foot down and making him seek help-- could have been more powerful had she really shown him what's what and left him to bask in his own puke. It would've combined both hope for their relationship and a shift in their dynamic of power; a shift in her favor, which I believe would be charged with even more hope.

But then, it may not have been in keeping with her character.

So don't listen to me :)

I enjoyed it immensely, Jill.

mommie4a

05-24-2005, 10:36 PM

Zach - thanks so much for reading and posting. It means a lot to me that you took the time especially given that you're leaving the country for TWO MONTHS in TWO DAYS (boooooo). I'm going to print out your comments because I think I might want to work more with this piece.

You're a love. Thanks.

trumancoyote

05-24-2005, 10:38 PM

Bah. You're too sweet, woman.

I look forward to reading the rewrite if you ever get around to posting it :)

mdmkay

05-25-2005, 12:40 AM

I always enjoy reading your posts mommie4a. Its amazing how you never let anyone pigeon you by having such a far reach with your pieces. I particularly liked this one and yes, you could definetly take it further. You really nailed the "straw that broke the camel's back" moment of a loving wife who finally has to make the decision on whether to continue to support her husband's addiction or her family's safety. The only "nitpicking" thing I've got is that normally you can't smell vodka....just a thought. The rest of is really fantastic.

mommie4a

05-25-2005, 12:42 AM

maestrowork

05-25-2005, 12:46 AM

Jill, I'll PM you.

mommie4a

05-25-2005, 12:47 AM

Jill, I'll PM you.
Cool - because I just PM'd you.

Duncan J Macdonald

05-25-2005, 05:54 AM

You asked.

Skip the opening down to here.

But the regularity of tardiness had become the rule rather than the exception. Recently, she’d missed their oldest son’s square dance, two church meetings and several of their kids’ sporting and drama events because Nick failed to follow through on commitments to them. Excuses included: a late conference call (but he smelled like beer when he got home); skipped out for golf (but he smelled like vodka when he got home); got stuck in traffic (but he smelled like bar smoke when he got home). This night, he’d had a celebration for new associates but told Anna earlier in the day that he’d only stay for a couple of drinks, a round of pool and then drive home to relieve her to attend her bi-monthly book group.
For something to become a rule vice an exception, it has to be going on for a significant period of time. I'd expect Anna to have put the kids to bed and gone to her meeting knowing that Nick was going to be late again.

Anna blamed Nick’s ramped up neglect of her and the kids on his lust for money, possessions and power. But Nick saw his behavior as fueled by ambition. Either way, Anna hated Nick’s manifestation of this drive and his personification of greed as good.
I don't see this. Seems to be the wrong reasons for Nick's drinking. Getting drunk every night is not an expression of lust for materiel goods, nor of ambition. There's a deep dark depression lurking around here somewhere.

"Skip a little bit, Brother." - Brother Maynard

With his eyes still closed, Nick gripped the armrests and tried to push himself out of the chair. His body caved to the floor. Anna draped one of Nick’s arms over her shoulder and neck, her hand around his waist and hip. She dragged him across the carpet but his feet slid more easily over the marble floor. She unwrapped him from her body, and deposited him in the small guest bathroom.
I've got as little bit of experience with drunks this bad. (Hey, 20 years of Naval Service with liberty calls in some of the real garden spots of the world will do that for ya!) Anyway, Nick wouldn't cave to the floor so much as slump, and Anna would have a hard time lifting him enough to get his arm over her shoulder and her arm around his waist. Dragging him by the heels would be easier, but her real reaction should be dialing 911 and telling the kids, "Daddy's really sick, and the ambulance is coming to help him. Now, I need you all to go to bed, so Mommy can help Daddy." Which, after all, isn't such a big lie in this case.

After bedtime books and lies about why Daddy couldn’t kiss them goodnight, Anna darted down the stairs to retrieve Nick. The book group met only a few minutes from her house and only thirty minutes had passed since its start. She still wanted to go out and, with the kids nearly asleep, she hoped Nick could handle sleeping while they did.
Nicely done.

Except that he couldn’t exit. Because he couldn’t stand up.

<snip> Nick’s dead weight challenged her strength. <snip> With grunts of indignity and effort, she pulled him from the room.

Why did a drunk man feel so heavy?

She tried to encourage him with phrases, Lets just get upstairs. Let’s just get you to bed. Let’s just get you undressed. Let’s just get you to sleep.

They made it up, then down the hallway to their room. Even without stools to reach the top of their four-poster bed’s mattress, Anna managed to swing and roll Nick’s body onto it.
If he's that much of a dead weight, there is no way she's getting him upstairs quietly enough to not wake the newly sleeping children. If he's that far gone, use a fireman's carry.

The following makes more sense if he's partially self-mobile, but is just bouncing off the random wall or two. “Go. Go,” Nick said weakly. “I’m here. I’m here.” Anna inferred that Nick wanted her to go to the book group. But as she retreated again to the stairs, she heard the unmistakable sounds of retching.
Any hope of getting to that blasted meeting went out the window when Nicky-poo passed out downstairs while praying to the porcelain god.

Anna couldn’t spew enough or nasty enough obscenities to compete with her thoughts and emotions. Tears rippled down her cheeks, inflamed and red. Yet, Nick’s de-evolution activated Anna’s caretaker mode. Through his own vomit, she whipped him off the bed, lugged him to their bathroom and abandoned him on the tile, his body leaning against the porcelain tank like a corpse against a casket. I like that image! For two pins, she'd make his condition permanent and collect on the insurance.

<snip>

And on to a really strong ending --

“Our kids cannot have an irresponsible father. You want to say that you’re stressed, you deserve to get this way, you never get this way, everyone gets this way.

“I don’t care. You do this again, you don’t come home to this house.” Anna’s head dropped to the pillow and faced away from Nick.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The next day, Nick remembered nothing of what he’d said and not much more of what he’d done. But even with his extreme hangover, he knew what he had to do now. Likewise, Anna knew what she had to tell him he had to want to do, or else leave the house.

Two days later, Anna stood in the kitchen and handed Nick the phone. He called his internist, wrote down a name and number, hung up and re-dialed.

“Dr. Peters, I got your name from my internist. I was wondering if we could make an appointment, if we - if I could talk to you.”

“This week,” Anna said.

“This week,” Nick said.

I like the story, but it seems either hasty or unfinished, as if it were part of a larger whole. The flow doesn't seem to be a continuous one, but rather jerky.

PS: I would appreciate feedback if you don't mind - nitpicky, nasty or glorious lies. I rarely know the difference.

I tend to nitpick, but I certainly don't intend it to be nasty, and lying in a critique is no critique at all.

Duncan J Macdonald

05-25-2005, 06:05 AM

No, really!

Somebody mentioned that a theme of Hope for Week 5 would stem the tide of dead bodies. Well, not so fast, pardner!

Anyway, the following contains graphic descriptions of dead bodies, and various and sundry parts thereof. The squeamish need not apply.

And yes, the theme is Hope.

The Dark

by

Duncan J. Macdonald

It was dark, and it stank. Stank of death and moldering bodies, ones long since liquefied, and those just recently bloated.

She struggled to move her left arm up, up so that she could grab the next rung of the ladder. Her right leg moved up next, so that she could place her right foot.

Right step -- pause.
Breathe.
Gag.
Left step -- pause.
Push through semi-liquid body parts.
Breathe.
Gag.
Right step -- pause.

Further down, eons ago it seemed, she'd had to hold her breath, lungs aching, until she could find a bubble of breathable air. The smell, rancid, gangrenous, had made her puke more than once.

Curiosity had driven her to try to find out what those bubbles were. She had freed one arm, wrapping the other around the ladder in a death grip, and reached out tentatively. She felt soft squishy material with a harder substance behind it. Fumbling around, she traced the limits of the softness, probed the hardness. Slowly, her fingers discovered enough to paint a picture in her mind. This bubble was contained in an open topped box turned upside down. A box three hands deep, a forearm wide, and two arms long with remnants of hinges along one long side.

Left step -- pause.
Breathe.
Retch.
Right step -- pause.
Pull dead groping fingers from her hair.
Breathe.
Left step -- pause.

She'd checked a few other bubbles, some were hexagonal with unequal sides, some were made of what seemed to be wood, others of metal or stone. On some, the top was still attached, or at least half of it. In those, the stench was worse. After a time, she stopped checking the bubbles. She just accepted their existence. There are only so many ways to make a coffin.

Right step -- pause.
Breathe.
Wipe intestines from her eyes.
Gag.
Left step -- pause.
Breathe.
Gag.
Right step -- pause.

Later, the need for her to hold her breath ended. That was when the bodies started to be a little wholer, less decomposed, a little further apart, allowing air to seep between them.

Left step -- pause.
Breathe.
Push a disjointed leg from her path.
Right step -- pause.
Breathe.
Cough.
Left step -- pause.

Gradually, she became more visually aware of her surroundings. The dark wasn't as dark as it had been. There was a source of light from somewhere near her. Enough for her to see the ladder, as rusted and pitted as her hands and feet had long since stopped reporting. The body parts, too, were more discernable. Legs, arms, hands, feet, intestines, brains, heads. All the parts, in no particular order.

Right step -- pause.
Breathe.
Gag.
Left step -- pause.
Breathe.
Gag.
Right step -- pause.

The smell was getting worse. She wondered why her sense of smell hadn't shut down the way her hands and feet had stopped reporting their pain, or the way her muscles responded to the unnatural task of constantly climbing. Her left foot spasmed, and the shock of the pain raced through her. The light was a little brighter, and she continued upward.

Left step -- pause.
Breathe.
Pause.
Right step -- pause.
Breathe.
Shoulder aside a rotting torso.
Left step -- pause.

Her hands seemed to be on fire. She stared at them stupidly, wondering why she was not seeing flames. The rungs of the ladder were less rusty, more whole. The coffins around her were whole, and most of them were upright. The bodies were further apart and less fragmented, with dirt between them instead of decomposing effluvia.

Right step -- pause.
Breathe.
Left step -- pause.
Breathe.
Right step.
Left step.
Right step.

The light surrounding her was coming from her. She seemed to glow, and in that glow she began to see the earthworms and moles, and grass roots that surrounded her. The bodies were gone, and the ladder gleamed as if newly made.

Left step.
Right step.
Left.
Right.
Left, right, left, right.

She burst through the surface, at the bottom of a hole, six foot long, three foot wide and six foot deep. The ladder, which had been her constant companion, ended flush with the bottom of the hole. She stood on the top rung, grabbed the edge above her, and on the strength of Her arms alone pulled Herself out of the grave.

She remembered. The when, the how, and the why of Her incarceration. Most specifically, She remembered the Who. Oh, yes, the Who.

Vengeance is Mine, She thought. At Her side, a sword of gleaming steel appeared.

"Damn you, Lucifer! I have returned!"

Her light grew, blinding the eyes of those who would not see, and bringing the Light of Day to those few who could.

mommie4a

05-25-2005, 06:47 AM

You asked.

And your crit is the kind that makes me glad I did.

A couple of comments - more for conversation than explanation.

I like the story, but it seems either hasty or unfinished, as if it were part of a larger whole. The flow doesn't seem to be a continuous one, but rather jerky.

You are dead on and I think this result/impression is because I don't know where it fits/what it is, so to speak. I had the story, and it's a story that highlights the last in a string of events that began three years earlier in Nick and Anna's lives. The drinking isn't central but a symptom. If I'd had to submit it as a finalist, I wouldn't have. I would've taken the next five days to figure it out more and make it neither hasty nor unfinished.

No excuses - I chose to write it in two days and post it. And I'm glad I got it started. And I'm glad I'm getting wonderful feedback (as in, constructive criticism) to use. But there were chunks I removed that showed more about Nick's increasing sloppiness and Anna's denial of his increasing sloppiness.

Lots for me to think about.

Duncan, thanks again for taking the time. I look forward to reading your story.

Jill

mommie4a

05-25-2005, 07:35 AM

Duncan J Macdonald

05-25-2005, 03:23 PM

Dear Duncan,

I read to the end, that's a good thing, right? (in case you hate smilies like a lot of the folks around here, just imagine one right here)

You write so well that even though I could never read a book of stories like the one you've written, I appreciate the smoothness and specificity it demonstrates.

But then, I loved - I mean loved - your Idol entry too. Just like your writing, period. But not the stories so much. Just my sensibilities.

Write on.

Jill

Jill,

You're right, I'm not a smilies kind'a guy. (Or at least, the newer kind. I don't mind the older ASCII ones. :-o )

Thanks for the honest words. The worst thing that can happen to a story is that it doesn't affect the reader. That affect can be deep revulsion, to the point of throwing the work (and its author, in effigy) across the room, or it can be a reaction of "Hack! I can write better with both my arms tied behind my back!"

To be honest, I don't read that kind of thing either, at least not on a usual basis. I wasn't sure if I could write it either, but it just sort'a flowed off the old keyboard.

On the flip side, you may have noticed that I haven't submitted anything near to a 'real life' story as you and so many others have. Maybe I'll try one, someday, but I'm not sure that I could. I just seem to prefer romances, in the original sense of the word.

As far as my Idol Entry goes, the Adventures of Dave Treadway, P.I. is still rolling along, a work in progress (at a mere 20K words and still growing), although I am starting to reach the dreaded 'mid-book crisis.'

mdmkay

05-25-2005, 08:55 PM

Duncan,

You didn't say whether or not you wanted any critique on your piece or not but I do want to make a couple of comments. First off, I can't say I agree with all of your critique of mommie4a's piece but that's just a personal opinion (you'll find I can be a disagreeable old bat who talks to much and says exactly what she thinks...I'm old and senile..it happens). It was very interesting that you mentioned that you don't normally write this particular type of horror. It was good and you do have talent (actually I want to find some other stuff you have posted you have me quite intrigued). While I was reading I don't know why but I had a weird feeling of almost a reluctance that most horror writer's lack for going for the "gore and shock value"...not that I personally, didn't appreciate it since that really isn't my bag. I found that as I read it I started to skip the step, pause, whatever, thing...., I found that almost annoying because it was too often; breaking up the storyline. The ending was a little to hurried and tidy but that often happens in short story fiction. Now that I've nitpicked and whined let me tell you my impression of the writer. I get the impression that your background and talent lends itself to someone who has very good scope and grasp of the realities when writing. I truely hope you don't get too bogged down in the mid-book crises not to finish because with your grasp of reality (esp. when you take into consideration your apparent experience with not only the human condition but I'm just guessing...good knowledge of wonderful backdrops for your stories..extensive travel) combined with heart-felt romantism I can only imagine how good it will be.

I hope I haven't crossed any boundaries here and as you know this is only an opinion. If you got through all the rambling you'll know that all in all I was quite impressed.

maestrowork

05-26-2005, 02:36 AM

Edit: Thanks for you comments...

mommie4a

05-26-2005, 03:16 AM

I think it's adorable, Ray. I love the twist that the mom's the pregnant one. Maybe a few unanswered questions but geez, if that's a quick throw-together piece of work, I can't wait to read your book.

I'm glad you posted it. Lots of JFF entries this week and it's only Weds. Cool.

Celeste

05-26-2005, 03:19 AM

Very good, Ray! Very, very good.

Jeanine and Cassie remind me of a mother and daughter I know. We've always joked with them that it's the daughter raising her mother...

I enjoyed reading...

Maybe, just maybe I'll take a stab at this too. I have something in mind. I'll work on it t'night...maybe. Lol..

Cassie88

05-26-2005, 06:24 AM

Ray, I enjoyed your story! I love that the contast between the feeling of hope and the brewing storm. And it felt somewhat comforting to read about another Cassie with "Thick thighs."

maestrowork

05-26-2005, 06:30 AM

Oh Cassie... I hope you're not mad! :) I knew sooner or later someone named Cassie's going to tease me... ;) Or Jeanine, for that matter.

Glad you liked it.

rhymegirl

05-26-2005, 06:39 AM

I liked it. Good dialogue. I think the teen girl sounds realistic. Especially her food choices. (I know about teens.) :)

Samm

05-26-2005, 03:32 PM

"THE LADDER"

C'mon, Mylo, we shouldn't be out this far," Jarrod's voice echoed in the underground passage. "This area is restricted and we're getting too far from the Designated Perimeter," he cautioned his classmate and friend.

Mylo continued eagerly down the dark, damp corridor. "No, it's okay, I've been this far before," he encouraged. "We've got about forty cycles before the Designated Perimeter Unit checks this quadrant again. I've timed them."

"I just don't want to get picked up by the DP Unit, that's all." Jarrod glanced around in all directions and stumbled slightly on the uneven ground. The only light around them glowed from their dry cell lumens. "I'd hate to get stuck down here without light. How's your lumen cell? Got enough life in it yet?" Jarrod asked nervously.

"Yeah, yeah, quit pothering. Nobody's going to find out. They wouldn't do anything even if they did find us here." Mylo halted so abruptly that Jarrod bumped into his back.

"Hey! What the--"

Mylo had stopped in the postern of what appeared to be a large, rounded, metallic room. Slowly scanning the chamber with his lumen, Mylo could find no visible doors or passageways. Then an object across the room caught Mylo's eye. "Trade lumens with me for a cycle," he said as he handed his smaller light to Jarrod.

"What is it?" Jarrod asked in a quiet, suspicious tone.

Mylo walked toward the structure. "It's a ladder!" he exclaimed, then shone the light on the ceiling above. "And there's some sort of door! Here," he instructed Jarrod, "shine the lumen while I climb."

Jarrod stood silently, unsure and afraid of the unknown. "You're not going to open it, are you?" he asked in disbelief.

Mylo gave a spirited laugh. "This must be what it feels like to be a genuine explorer! Just think of what we might discover up there!"

"That's what I am thinking about," Jarrod said, his voice filled with apprehension.

As Mylo forced the old lever to slide out of its catch, small bits of dirt and dust began seeping in around the ceiling hatchway. Sputtering and wiping the dust out of his face, Mylo determinedly pushed and shoved upward at the hatch until it finally gave way. A blinding light poured into the metal chamber, and the young teens stood stunned for several moments.

"Close it! Close it and let's get out of here!" Jarrod urged his friend.

Shading his eyes, Mylo climbed two more rungs of the ladder and peered through the opening. "Wow...."

Nervous and frightened, Jarrod pleaded once more. "Mylo, let's get out of here!"

Slamming the hatch and securing the lever once again, Mylo scrambled back down the ladder and hurried back toward the damp corridor the way they'd come.

Once out of the restricted area and back to the Safety Zone, Jarrod found his voice again.

"So, what was up there anyway?"

"I don't know. It was so bright up there it hurt my eyes. I never saw anything like it. Let's bring Professor here and ask him." Mylo's senses had been awakened, and he wanted answers.

=====

Before proceeding beyond the Designated Perimeter, the white-haired man stopped Mylo and Jarrod. "Do you boys realize we'll be breaking Zoning by going beyond the DP?" Professor began, testing their resolve and sincerity.

Mylo spoke up boldly, respectfully. "Yes, Professor, but what I've seen out there is worth the risk of running into the DP Unit."

Professor straightened his back and stared Mylo in the eye. "Then lead on."

As Mylo once again climbed the ladder and reached for the latch, Professor called up to him.

"Wait! Do you mean to tell me that you opened that hatch without your air filter equipment? You risked contaminating yourselves, this entire chamber, and corridor by opening that door not knowing what lay beyond?"

Though the lumen did not reveal Professor's countenance, Mylo could see the man's scowl in the tone of his voice. "I wasn't thinking about contamination then," Mylo admitted. "But I did open this hatch, and it was amazing. It's safe. Well, at least it's safe to look, once my eyes adjusted to the brightness. I didn't go all the way up."

With that, Mylo threw open the hatch door and blinding light carved a straight, unwavering beam through the dark chamber air.

Jarrod stood silent once more, curious yet intrigued, while their eyes began to accept the brightness.

Professor motioned Mylo to climb back down. "Don't go up any further," Professor instructed. "Let me have a look."

Professor ascended the ladder until the upper half of his body was no longer visible to the boys. He stayed there for a long, soundless time, then climbed the rest of the way up through the hatchway.

Mylo and Jarrod exchanged a puzzled glance, then hurriedly scaled the ladder to the surface.

Professor stood anchored amid tall, wispy plant growth, apparently staring at one tall object across this wide area of plant life.

Mylo approached Professor, stunned and concerned to see tears streaming down his cheeks. "What's wrong, Professor? Are you all right?"

Voice quavering, Professor began to speak. "That, over there, dear boys, is a tree," he said pointing to the tall object a far distance from where they stood. "And this open area," he added, grabbing a few strands of the wispy plants around them, "is a meadow." He sniffed. "Do you know what this means?" his voice cracked.

The boys just looked at each other.

"This means that enough time has passed... that we can reclaim the ravages of the Ultimate War."

The boys showed a small spark of comprehension.

Professor smiled, and more tears slid from the outside corners of his eyes. "We are witnessing the rebirth of this planet. Life is beginning anew."

~~~~~

Susan M. Russak

Duncan J Macdonald

05-26-2005, 05:34 PM

Duncan,

You didn't say whether or not you wanted any critique on your piece or not but I do want to make a couple of comments.

No worries. Comment away.

First off, I can't say I agree with all of your critique of mommie4a's piece but that's just a personal opinion (you'll find I can be a disagreeable old bat who talks to much and says exactly what she thinks...I'm old and senile..it happens).
Strokes and folks, they are different. As long as we can agree to disagree, all will be well. (That's not designed to shut off commentary, but rather to acknowledge the fact that for disagreements to be worthwhile, they need to be non-acrimonious. So, no harm no foul.)
It was very interesting that you mentioned that you don't normally write this particular type of horror. It was good and you do have talent (actually I want to find some other stuff you have posted you have me quite intrigued).
Thanks. Truth to tell, the majority of my writing these days is limited to my day job (contract proposals, white papers, one-page-point papers, etc). The full body of my posted work is here, in this thread, or in the original AW Idol Auditions thread.
While I was reading I don't know why but I had a weird feeling of almost a reluctance that most horror writer's lack for going for the "gore and shock value"...not that I personally, didn't appreciate it since that really isn't my bag. I found that as I read it I started to skip the step, pause, whatever, thing...., I found that almost annoying because it was too often; breaking up the storyline. The ending was a little to hurried and tidy but that often happens in short story fiction.
Yup, it was hurried. Not being a finalist in the competition, I'm afraid that I didn't go back and edit it more than ten or so times. Part of the haste is in fact my unfamiliarity with the genre, so I wasn't familiar with the expected tropes.
Now that I've nitpicked and whined let me tell you my impression of the writer. I get the impression that your background and talent lends itself to someone who has very good scope and grasp of the realities when writing.
Heh. I'm an engineer by training and inclination. Hard to build something out of nothing, which tends to be a crimp in my style when writing fiction.
I truly hope you don't get too bogged down in the mid-book crises not to finish because with your grasp of reality (esp. when you take into consideration your apparent experience with not only the human condition but I'm just guessing...good knowledge of wonderful backdrops for your stories..extensive travel) combined with heart-felt romantism I can only imagine how good it will be.
Thanks again. 20 years in the Navy allows for a lot of close-quarters observation of people in all their good, bad, and indifferent moods. As for backdrops -- remember that the Navy tends to visit places where there are piers and docks. Those don't tend to be in the 'good' parts of town.
I hope I haven't crossed any boundaries here and as you know this is only an opinion. If you got through all the rambling you'll know that all in all I was quite impressed.
Again, no worries. Skin do be thick.

maestrowork

05-26-2005, 06:32 PM

I liked it. Good dialogue. I think the teen girl sounds realistic. Especially her food choices. (I know about teens.) :)

Thanks Kate, that's a great compliment! It's good to know that I captured that teen voice. ;)

William Haskins

05-26-2005, 06:40 PM

She’d forgotten how old her mother looked. Or that her mother had a life before her.

poetry.

Cassie88

05-26-2005, 09:58 PM

"THE LADDER"

"This area is restricted and we're getting too far from the Designated Perimeter," he cautioned his classmate and friend.

********************
Mylo continued eagerly down the dark, damp corridor. "No, it's okay, I've been this far before," he encouraged.
********************
How's your lumen cell? Got enough life in it yet?" Jarrod asked nervously.
********************

"What is it?" Jarrod asked in a quiet, suspicious tone.
********************

Jarrod stood silently, unsure and afraid of the unknown. "You're not going to open it, are you?" he asked in disbelief.

Susan, I really enjoyed "The Ladder" ..first word to end. I point out the sentences above only because of a recent post by Jenna... Check it out in this forum - Thread is JUSTIFY YOUR VOTE..Post # 101
Great story and it looks like just the beginning.......

Cassie

mommie4a

05-26-2005, 10:20 PM

Hi Susan. I'm so glad you posted this story. What a fun middle reader or YA story or just regular sci fi, hm?

I have the same comment Cassie made - it has to do with just using "said" and "asked" instead of "exclaimed" "echoed" "cautioned" "instructed" etc. after an utterance.

Also - check the ratio of gerunds (-ing verbs) to nouns. There's almost always a way to eliminate -ing and make the verbs punchier.

Example:

As Mylo forced the old lever to slide out of its catch, small bits of dirt and dust began seeping in around the ceiling hatchway. Sputtering and wiping the dust out of his face, Mylo determinedly pushed and shoved upward at the hatch until it finally gave way. A blinding light poured into the metal chamber, and the young teens stood stunned for several moments.

...dirt and dust seeped into the ceiling hatchway (or the hatchway overhead).

...dirt and dust began to seep into the ceiling hatchway.

Mylo sputtered, then wiped the dust from his face. He pushed and shoved the hatch until it gave way.

You have extraneous words that can take up precious word count (I write short a lot and so I'm always thinking about that!!) like wiping the dust out, determinedly...upward. The pushed and shoved demonstrate his determination and we know the hatch is above plus the direction of those verbs indicates upward - so you can take that word out.

Anyway - just some of my thoughts when I read - VERY NITPICKY I know - please ignore if you don't like or don't agree.

Last picky thing (ignore ignore ignore if you like) that has to do with economy of words and packing more of a punch:

Professor ascended the ladder until the upper half of his body was no longer visible to the boys. He stayed there for a long, soundless time, then climbed the rest of the way up through the hatchway.

Mylo and Jarrod exchanged a puzzled glance, then hurriedly scaled the ladder to the surface.

Why not say: Prof. ascended the ladder until his torso disappeared....Mylo and Jarrod exchanged a puzzled glance, then scurried to the surface. (or whatever active verb best describes the hurried climbing action)

Ok - enough from me! Thanks for sharing and good luck with the piece!

Jill

stranger

05-27-2005, 12:11 AM

Any crits, comments are welcome.

Lunchtime

Be casual, I told myself. I clenched my lunch-box as I meandered towards the four girls who sat on the carpet, their legs folded underneath themselves. Jenny and Liz leant against the walls, with Maggie and Sharon facing them. Pockets of students dotted the walls but there was plenty of space around these four. I agonized over how close to sit beside them. Be brave. I plumped myself down with my shoulder almost touching Jenny's but at the last minute pulled away, leaving a foot between us. I tucked my skirt under my legs keeping my head down, silently berating myself for my cowardice.

I could feel them looking at me but I didn't look up. I opened my lunch-box and removed a sandwich. I licked the raspberry jam that oozed out and glanced up. Maggie had half an eye on me but the rest seemed to have forgotten I was there.

"But what are you going to do?" said Liz.

Jenny tilted her head. "Well he is cute."

Jenny always had a queue of guys interested in her. I remembered her kissing Patrick Branagan at the last school disco. They had been wrapped around each other, swaying to the music of Moon River. I had felt sick. But I couldn't stop watching her, trying to share the experience, imagining his warm tongue in my mouth, his lips sucking mine, the tips of his fingers resting on the top of my arse. Dirty bastard. Imagining it was as close as I'd come to having Patrick kiss me. Or any boy. Who wants the fat ugly nerd when they could have Jenny Ryan?

"You should let him sweat for a few days," said Sharon. Sharon always sounded sure of whatever she said.

"Yeah, keep him keen, they get bored if you give them too much too early," said Liz. She giggled. Liz was fatter than me but at least she had friends and could talk. Say something, I ordered myself. Nothing funny came to mind. Nothing wise. In fact nothing at all. What's wrong with me?

"He was going out with that girl from the pizza place for months. Do you reckon they did it?" said Jenny. "Do you reckon he'll expect me to?"

Maggie snickered. "Oh they did it alright. Your one is a right old slut."

"Doesn't mean you have to," said Sharon.

"I know." Jenny pressed her lips together. She wore a touch of lipstick, though it was against school rules. "But maybe it's time."

"You have to find the right guy," said Sharon.

"I'm nearly eighteen," said Jenny, "I can't wait forever." She made it sound like she was nearly eighty.

He'd be happy to hear you saying this. The words popped into my head. Should I say it? Would Jenny be offended by it? Before I could say anything Sharon spoke.

"It's too early to start thinking like that."

I squeezed my eyes shut for long second. It was too late for my joke.

"It's never too early. Do you think his, you know, do you think it's big." Maggie said. The four girls giggled.

"Maggie," said Sharon, half outraged, half laughing.

"What? That's the most important thing. How else are you going to decide if he's the right guy?" They all laughed. They sound so happy, I thought, feeling empty. I didn't know whether I should laugh or not. Do they consider that I'm eavesdropping or am I part of the conversation? I haven't said anything so I better assume that I'm not. I continued to stare at the opposite wall. Fingermarks smudged the white paint.

"Let's get some air before class," said Sharon, standing up. The others got up and followed her out. I looked down at my sandwich, I still hadn't taken a bite. Red spots marked where my fingers had broken though the bread to the jam below. I wiped my fingers on the bread and dropped it back in the box. It now repelled me. I wished I could treat all food with such distaste.

Did it mean anything that they had had an intimate conversation in front of me? Was it their way of tormenting me? Or their way of inviting me to be friends? I sighed.

I had sat beside them today, maybe tomorrow I'll speak to them.

Sarita

05-27-2005, 12:17 AM

She’d forgotten how old her mother looked. Or that her mother had a life before her.

This was my favorite line as well. Nicely done, Ray.

mreddin

05-27-2005, 12:22 AM

Theme: Hope

Jimmy tossed the stone with a quick flick of the wrist. The flat gray stone skips across the glassy water surface, causing a ripple at each point the stone strikes.

"Woah! That was 7 skips, beat that!" Jimmy proudly points out.

Tad scratches his wavy brown hair, searching the ground for a suitable stone to meet Jimmy's challenge. A white stone with a few specs of silvery quartz glistens in the sun and attracts his attention. He reaches down and admires the stone in the palm of his hand.

"That's not flat enough to skip." Jimmy warns.

Tad shrugs indifferently, the bright sunshine overhead turning his arms a shade of pink. He tosses the stone, which plops into the water with a splash and settles to the sandy bottom.

"Told you..." Jimmy chides his friend.

The boy lets out a sigh, scanning the ground for another rock. Tad pulls a small flat piece of granite from the muck and gives it a toss into the water. The stone strikes the water's surface, skipping several times before sinking to the bottom. The boy looks silently out over the pond, rubbing his eyes.

"What's wrong Tad?" Jimmy asks.

"Nothing..." Tad mumbles towards his feet.

"You're lying, I can see the tears in your eyes."

Tad turns away from his friend and does not reply. He folds his arms and looks up into the sky.

"You're thinking about him aren't you?" Jimmy asks softly, reaching out to touch Tad's shoulder.

The boy just nods without replying.

"I miss him too you know." Jimmy says, tears forming in his eyes now.

"You were his best friend." Tad says softly.

"No, you were." Jimmy says with a smile.

"You can't be best friends with your own brother stupid."

"Sure you can. You can be best friends with anyone, there's no rules." Jimmy chastises Tad.

"I dunno, just doesn't sound right is all. We were kinda like best friends in a way. I miss him so much Jimmy, it's not fair."

"Remember the time the three of us got lost up here and the rangers had to come find us?" Jimmy asks.

Tad smiles and nods, "Yeah, I thought sure we were gonna get grounded for that. That's what we got for chasing those deer without paying attention to where we were going. It was fun though wasn't it?"

"Yeah it was..."

"I wish he was here with us right now..."

Jimmy looks into his friends face, "He kinda is though isn't he?"

"What do you mean?" Tad asks with an inquisitive look on his face.

"Well we both remember all the fun times and adventures here. Will you ever forget the time we saved that goose?"

"Hell no!" Tad exclaims. "I never knew geese could bite so hard."

Jimmy laughs, "Yeah, well you'd bite too if you were tangled up in a rope being carried around by three kids."

"I suppose...He really took off when we finally cut the last of the rope off him. His black and white wings spread out and he soared into the sky like a rocket. It was really cool seeing him free and happy." Tad rubs his eyes again and chuckles.

"He never looked back either." Jimmy adds.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Tad asks, with a look of annoyance. The boy knew what his friend meant.

"Do you think your brother would want you to mourn him forever?" Jimmy asks.

"No. But that doesn't mean I can't miss him once in awhile you know."

"But it's more than once in awhile isn't it Tad?" Jimmy retorts while shaking his head.

"I can't get that sound of my head, I'll never forget it Jimmy. First, there was sound of screeching tires then the sound of crunching metal. I don't know how Jimmy, I just knew something terrible happened to Matt. I was dribbling a basketball in our driveway at the time. I ran towards the sound, it was like I could hear him calling for me, like in the morning when it was time for school and I overslept but it was inside my head. The neighbors would not let me near the car, but I could see his face. He was still alive Jimmy."

"What? You never told me that..."

"It was just for a minute I think. He turned his head and looked right at me. I knew he was hurt bad, but he smiled at me. He whispered something to me, I saw his lips move but I'm not sure what he was saying. When he closed his eyes..." Tad begins choking on his words. "I he was never going to open them again."

"Stop this Tad! Why are you doing this to yourself?" Jimmy demands.

"Because it should have been me!" Tad fires back angrily.

"What? How could you say such a thing? Matt would be pissed if he heard you say that."

"Why did he smile at you?" Jimmy asks, his tone becoming angrier at his friend.

"I dunno!" Tad says, walking towards the waters edge, away from Jimmy.

"You damn well know why. Say it!"

Tad looks back slowly then looks down. "He was glad I was ok. He was more worried about me than himself, just like always. It's not fair, that some ****ing drunk can take my brother away." Tad picks up a rock and hurls it into the water forcefully, sending a splash of water into the air.

"So he kept himself alive just long enough to make sure you were ok and say goodbye." Jimmy says, wrapping his arms around Tad's chest and hugs him.

Tad rests his head on Jimmy's shoulder and begins sobbing into the soft fabric of his blue tshirt. "He always protected me. Remember when he gave Billy Wilson a wedgie for picking on me. Right in front of all his bully friends too."

Jimmy laughs, "Yeah nobody dared pick on you after that, wish I had a brother like that to look out for me when I was little."

"But he's gone now Jimmy."

"I'll watch out for you, that's what friends are supposed to do you know." Jimmy reminds Tad.

"Yeah, we watch out for each other. Jimmy, promise me you won't go dying on me too." Tad says, he gives a mocking laugh but Jimmy knows the request was serious.

"I wasn't planning on doing any dying in the near future Tad. You never really answered my question though. What would Matt think about you dwelling on him like this?"

"He'd get mad probably then try to cheer me up or else threaten to give me a nugie." Tad says, smiling weakly.

"Yeah, that sounds like Matt. He wanted you to be free and happy, just like that Goose. As long as you keep replaying that day, you will never be free or happy. I don't think that's what Matt would have wanted and you know that." Jimmy says, shaking Tad's shoulders gently.

"I know your right, he wouldn't want that. He'd want me to go and make my own life without him."

"Well, let's go find some deer to chase and just pretend he's here with us because in a way he always will be."

Tad smiles, "Yeah, let's find those deer. Or maybe we will find an animal needing to be rescued."

The two boys walk side by side into the forest of green pines, disappearing into the forest canopy in search of a new adventure.

maestrowork

05-27-2005, 12:58 AM

"THE LADDER"

Susan M. Russak

Susan, I enjoyed your piece. I think you set up the mood very well. You have some nice imageries and the dialogue is good.

There are some technical issues that others have already mentioned, such as the "Said syndrome." Apart from those, I guess the only concern I have with this piece is that there's a general lack of conflict and drama. Yes, there's suspense and a sense of adventure and certainly it adheres to the theme of "hope." But I find the ending a little too on the nose with not enough "conflict" going into it. For a "dooms day" story, I think you can add a lot to it if you create some conflicts. What do these people want? And how are their wants conflict with each other's?

Samm

05-27-2005, 09:58 PM

Thanks bunches, Cassie, Jill, and Maestro, for reading "The Ladder" and taking the time to comment. I always learn better by doing and seeing, and the examples given to me are very helpful. When I checked the date on this one, I originally wrote it in 1999, my creative year. I keep hoping that by resurrecting something older, it will generate a new spark for me and I'll get motivated to write again. No luck so far, but Real Life is getting in the way for now, and I know things will settle eventually. Thanks again for your time and feedback.:) ~Susan

maestrowork

05-27-2005, 10:10 PM

Don't stop writing, Susan!

Mr Underhill

05-27-2005, 10:23 PM

Haibun
245 words

Spring in New England is a funny beast. It starts with snows dissolving and bare ground pierced by shoots of new life. Next come early flowers and buds on bare branches, and the action builds through enchanted pink-petaled showers of cherry, followed by a many-colored procession of lilac, azalea and rhododendron. The days are getting warmer and longer, and the leaves on the trees are bursting into leaf from their buds when suddenly it stops.

Unpredictable, but not uncommon is the week or two of wet November that drops from the skies into late May or June. Nature lowers the curtain and dims the lights while she sets the stage for the next act. Take a front-row seat and you just might hear the rustling of stagehands and clatter of hammers. This time is pure delight for mosses and ferns, but human spirits flag. You start to fall asleep.

About the time you’ve resigned yourself to it and given up on the weatherman, summer arrives. One day you climb out of bed or walk out the door from work and the curtain has been raised. Some of spring’s bright-hued palette is still on stage, but the whole world has been filled in with a leafy green paintbrush. The solar spotlight shines full strength and suddenly it’s time for sandals and sailboats, for beaches and backyard barbecues, for late-lingering evenings with fireflies.

dark gray days so cool
curtains of rain descending
washed away by sun

mdmkay

05-28-2005, 04:25 AM

This thread is becoming my very favorite to visit. I always hurry over to it first thing to see if anyone else has posted anything new. I loved the idea of having the Idol contest but as enjoyable as that is it is really nice having this thread to entertain us between deadlines. I have to admit the hope theme was so entice that even I was willing to try my hand at some short fiction and realized it is more fun than I had ever thought it would be. I'm so thankful I found this board. I can't express in words what it has meant to me to meet such wonderful people and to have myself feel stimulated, encouraged to further my writing scope, and just encouraged to work on my writing skills. Thank you all.

BTW I also thought that ladder was a great start to much bigger story especially one for middle graders.

Samm

05-28-2005, 10:49 PM

Maestro, I can't quit writing altogether. I've tried before when driven to the brink of despair by any number of circumstances, but I always return to writing. It's just something I have to do. :)

Mr. Underhill, you painted a lovely (and accurate) picture of New England's springtime. :)

mdmkay, thanks for reading The Ladder and commenting. It started as a word challenge somehow, somewhere. It never had the oomph to become more than it is, but I suppose it could grow. "From the ashes of disaster grow the roses of success." lol

~Susan

brokenfingers

05-28-2005, 11:08 PM

Wow,

I'm afraid I haven't been here in a little while but I must say that I thoroughly enjoyed your little foray, Mr. Underhill. Vivid and well done!

Ddama

06-01-2005, 11:31 AM

Wow, that's quite an amazing selection from this past week... and I haven't even looked at the official entries yet. I hope everyone had a happy and reverent Memorial Day weekend.

I admit to thumbing my nose at Simon-Ray... but, since I haven't been able to corral this story properly, the joke's on me. In fact, I couldn't even keep it straight on theme, but I'm posting anyway... just for fun http://www.absolutewrite.com/forums/images/smilies/smile.gif It's why we're here, no? Fiction, barely. 1400 words. Without further ado:

The glasses chimed softly as I held them under the faucet. One for me, one for Claire. Outside, the stench of burning plastic hung in the autumnal city air. A month after and even on 34th street, miles away, it hung, it lingered. Its taste was in our mouths when we kissed and its ashes dusted our windowsills. It made liars of us.

"How do you feel?"

"Fine."

The taste, the lies, the fear, the roaring fire engines and sirens zooming past on the closed parkways, catching that first unbelievable glimpse of doom in its cinematic splendor, 34th street and the smoke blowing past us. And past us the smoke and the fear, the lies and the taste of unwanted kisses lingering in surprise.

The black mood enveloped us. Later, after I realized I hadn't thought about sex once in six months, I would know it for depression. That day on 34th, all she spoke of was San Francisco.

"It's just that... I can't take it anymore." She collapsed into my arms for the last time. "I can't stay here."

I moved in for a kiss, but she turned away, pushed herself off of me.

"I can't stay with you." She looked away. "It's not you..." She shrugged my hand off her shoulder. "Please, it isn't. It's everything else, all of it. It came between us... and I can't... not anymore."

I took a big gulp of water, uncertain, wanting to be angry, but unable to feel the emotion.

"I promise it's not you. Look me up if you ever visit."

Claire had lost her job. I was on my way up, though. I could support her. I promised to, if that's what bothered her.

"It's just." She finally sipped at the water, blushing, looking away. "That I want to find myself. First my family, then college, then you... I've always been a part of someone or something else. I can't take it anymore."

I told her to go. She left. I sprawled on the sofa, not even seeing her out. I breathed in air and could taste and feel the ashes on my tongue. The thought of burning consumed me and the taste of ashes made the thought constant.

I woke up six months later at a small table at Picholine, looking into the hazel-green eyes of a golden haired beauty. Tall, blonde, buxom Aline. Our shotglasses clinked in a toast and I took my first waking breath in six months. I savored the sliver of truffle in fresh cream, heavy, heady, reeking of soil and roots, so intense on my palate that my other senses were eclipsed. When I could see and hear again, I awoke a new man.

“Hey, baby,” her smile was wicked, “happy birthday.”

Aline and I had met at a business dinner. I had no recollection of asking her out, we just coalesced. Caviar omelettes and truffles and cream, designer jewelry, midnight trysts at her office, while her coworkers slaved away oblivious, traveling together to five star hotels in Europe, moving in to her off-Wall Street condo, a duplex, where every day I averted my eyes from the scar in the ground on my walk to the subway. I lived in a dream.

One spring weekend, two years after we met, we sat together in the Conservatory Garden, surrounded by tulips and crabapple blossoms. Looking into Aline’s eyes, hazel-brown in the sunlight, I realized I had no idea who she was, other than a creature that consumed. We were living together, we were engaged, we were planning a wedding, and I had never even realized that her eyes changed color.

My heart pounded as she stared at me. I shrank away, studying my acquisition in her little black dress and her heels. I was mistaken. It was not the scent of the truffles that had stirred me… it was the clinking glasses. They had brought me back to that last moment with Claire. Intoxicated with the sudden realization, I fled.

The cab caromed down Fifth and my phone rang. I picked it up.

“Baby! What happened?”

“The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning; but the heart of fools is in-”

“The house of mirth! I know that line. It’s from Shakespeare. Which play is it from?”

“Ecclesiastes.”

The previous summer Aline and I had taken a whirlwind tour of Italy, gorging ourselves on food and wine and buying couture and jewelry. We toured Rome by limousine. The next morning, our driver barreled down the autostradi at 200 kilometers an hour to take us to lunch in Positano, then we spent a delightful afternoon in Pompeii. We partied one night on Capri and another in Rimini. While Aline shopped for leather in Florence, I took a daytrip to Assisi, to pay my respects to my favorite saint.

As I walked along the road from the station, past the rows of tall sunflowers, the white bulk of the basilica loomed over the approach to the city, reminding me of how the Cathedral of St. John the Divine seemed to float high above Harlem on the cliffs. When I was a boy, my father took me to the cathedral every year, to watch the elephants and the camels and the cats and the dogs being led in through the gaping center portal on the saint’s feast day. On the feast of Saint Francis, the choir sang his canticle, with its borderline paganism. Climbing the steep switchback, I remembered their voices, trying not to choke on the diesel fumes of passing cars and trucks.

Be praised, my Lord, through Brothers Wind and Air, and clouds and storms, and all the weather, through which you give your creatures sustenance.

Be praised, My Lord, through Sister Water; she is very useful, and humble, and precious, and pure.

Be praised, my Lord, through Brother Fire, through whom you brighten the night. He is beautiful and cheerful, and powerful and strong.

Be praised, my Lord, through our sister Mother Earth, who feeds us and rules us, and produces various fruits with colored flowers and herbs…

Be praised, my Lord, through our Sister Death, from whose embrace no living person can escape.

Somehow, at the saint’s tomb it all made sense, the material and the spiritual. When Aline picked me up at the train station in Florence, she asked how Assisi was.

All I could think to say was, “Fine.”

Once upon a time, there was a wealthy merchant who found sainthood in poverty. At first, he was regarded by his fellow citizens as mad. Later, they revered him as a symbol of the greatness of their city, transforming it into a site for pilgrimage. When he died, ten thousand men and women turned out for the pauper's state funeral.

The BART was a smooth ride compared to the New York Subway. We bought round-trip fares from Berkeley to Colma. Claire had grown out dreadlocks and was dressed like a hippy, but her smile was the same, alive as I had not seen it that last month in New York.

“How did you find me?”

“Google.”

“Duh.” Claire smiled. “I’m glad you did. Shouldn’t you be working?”

“No.” I smiled too. “No.”

We got off the train at Colma and walked down the road to the Green-Wood Cemetary. At the office, I was suddenly shy.

“Who are you here for?,” the attendant asked.

“Um. Joshua Norton.”

“Oh,” she brightened, “you’re here to see the Emperor! See this map… that crown on it, that’s where he is.”

His stone was surrounded by a forest of brightly carved plinths inscribed with Chinese characters. A fitting tribute for a man who had stopped an anti-Chinese lynch mob merely by falling to his knees and reciting the Lord’s Prayer.

We sat down against it and I brought out the flask of grappa I had bought in Venice. I took a sip, bitter and tasting of prunes, and passed it to Claire. She choked down a healthy swig. We passed it back and forth a few more times, talking of pleasantries and penny philosophy, and watched the afternoon sun descend. The cemetary was empty. Emperor Norton had no other pilgrims.

“Did you ever find yourself?”

“I did. For now.”

“Tell me about it.”

Duncan J Macdonald

06-09-2005, 07:12 AM

Jenna's handed out a hard assignment -- comedy. Good comedy is hard to do, damned hard. This week has made me happy to not have made the final cut.

Okay. I took a stab at it. Rest assured that I won't be giving up my day job to write comedy, for which we should all be thankful.

(1082 words, and in keeping with the contest rules, stage directions are included in the word count.)

Headlining
A Play in One Act
by
Duncan J Macdonald

The Scene: A cemetery, just before midnight. A mist is rising from the ground, and begins to wrap itself around the headstones, statuary, trees, etc. Center stage is a grandiose mausoleum, one that resembles an Ante-Bellum Southern Mansion. The mist thickens, swirls, and forms into figures dressed in mid- 19th century finery. There is an old man sitting on the porch steps, and a younger couple standing next to him.

VERA

Oh my!

(She places her hand to her breast in surprise and sits down quickly on the front stoop, right next to the old man).

I am sure that I am quite overcome by the vapors!

(She opens her fan and starts to gently fan herself)

OLD MAN

(He holds an ear trumpet to his ear and leans toward Vera)

Eh? What was that?

VERA

(Loudly, into the trumpet)

The vapors!

OLD MAN

Oh.

JEREMY

Yes Dear. You know that you won't be able to go any farther into the yard than this porch until you accept the fact that you're dead.

VERA

Pish Tosh. I'll accept no such thing Jeremy!

OLD MAN

What vapors?

JEREMY

M'dear, this same affliction has visited you every day for the last one hundred and twenty years. And always right here, on the porch steps. Hasn't that struck you as strange?

VERA

(To the Old Man)

My vapors.

(To Jeremy)

Why no. Whatever do you mean? My crinolines merely get caught in the crypt door everytime we come here to visit Grandmother Tuttle, and the effort of getting them free without tearing them just tires me out so.

JEREMY

Why don't you just take them off? We're dead, you know, and you have no body left to be modest over.

(Aside)

As if modesty ever affected her.

OLD MAN

Your vapors? We’re all vapors!

VERA

(To the Old Man)

Yes, Father, we are.

(To Jeremy, while starting to fan harder)

It's not that simple, Jeremy. I can't just snap my fingers and whisk them away.

(She mimes snapping and waving her hand in a shooing motion)

JEREMY

(Looks Heavenward in supplication, and then back to Vera)

You never had a problem with losing your crinolines when you were alive, m'dear. I fail to see why you have that problem now.

VERA

Well, I never!

JEREMY

Yes, you did. And quite often. Why, I remember ...

OLD MAN

Never what?

JEREMY

(Loudly to the Old Man)

Lost her clothes.

VERA

Jeremy Arthur McLain Tuttle the Fourth. I will not hear you say another word!

(Fans even faster.)

Why, what would the Douglas' think if they overheard you?

GRANDMOTHER TUTTLE

They'd think that he was right.

(Grandmother Tuttle floats out of her crypt and joins the group on the front porch, standing next to Jeremy.)

Mercy sakes child, mercy sakes.

(She shakes her head)

OLD MAN

Who’s nekkid?

VERA and JEREMY

(In unison)

No body!

OLD MAN

O’ course we ain’t go no body. We’re all dead!

(Vera swats at the Old Man with her fan. His head flies across the mausoleum and lands upside down, facing the audience)

GRANDMOTHER TUTTLE

No need to snap his head off. He is right, you know.

(Vera fans even harder, and starts to float away)

Oh come back here child.

(Grandmother Tuttle grabs hold of Vera’s leg and keeps her from floating even higher)

JEREMY

(He crosses to the Old Man’s head, picks it up and strikes a Shakespearian pose)

Alas, poor Yorik, I knew him well.

(The Old Man’s head sticks out its tongue at Jeremy, while the Old Man’s body shakes a fist in Jeremy’s direction. Jeremy returns to the group and replaces the head. It falls off. Jeremy tries numerous times, but to no avail. Finally, he turns to Grandmother Tuttle)

I just can’t keep a head of him. Will you do, the VooDoo, that you do, so well?

GRANDMOTHER TUTTLE

If I must. Here, keep your wife from flying.

(She hands Vera over to Jeremy and begins to chant, dance, and draw symbols on the ground in front of the Mausoleum.)

(Singing)

That Old Black Magic
Has me in its spell.
That Old Black Magic
That I knew so well.

(Singing fades as she dances faster)

JEREMY

(Jeremy takes Vera stage left and ties her leg to one of the portico columns with his handkerchief and belt.)

There m’dear, you’re tied to not flit.

GRANDMOTHER TUTTLE

(Finishing up her spell)

Oooh, yeah! Baby! Baby! Can’t you hear my heart beat!

(She stamps her foot twice.)

In a puff of reddish smoke, a Demon appears center stage. He is wrapped in a bath towel, has a shower cap on his head, and bears a striking resemblance to Rodney Dangerfield.

DEMON

Hey! Why ya gotta call me when I’m in the shower? Don’t I get no respect?

GRANDMOTHER TUTTLE

Oh Lord of the Underworld, return that spirit’s head unto its appointed place.

(She points with one hand to the Old Man’s body, and with the other to his head, still held by Jeremy.)

DEMON

I went to the Doctor and said, “Doctor, it hurts when I do this.” The Doctor said, “Don’t do that.”

GRANDMOTHER TUTTLE, VERA, and JEREMY

(In unison.)

Bah DUM dum dum.

DEMON

I'll tell ya, my wife and I, we don't think alike. She donates money to the homeless, and I donate money to the topless!

GRANDMOTHER TUTTLE, VERA, and JEREMY

(In unison.)

Bah DUM dum dum.

DEMON

Last week my tie caught on fire. Some guy tried to put it out with an ax!

GRANDMOTHER TUTTLE, VERA, and JEREMY

(In unison.)

Bah DUM dum dum.

With each bad joke, Vera drifts lower and the Old Man’s head gets closer to his body. Finally, Vera reaches the ground, and the Old Man’s heat re-attaches.

GRANDMOTHER TUTTLE

I now return thee to thy rightful pain! Take a boat or take a plane!

(She makes some mystic passes)

DEMON

I don’t get no respect.

(He disappears in a flash of light)

VERA

Jeremy, I’ve been such a fool. Of course I’m dead – no one could survive jokes like those!

JEREMY

(Unties Vera)

Now that that’s been settled, we can finally go home!

The figures of Vera and Jeremy drift slowly together and exit stage right, while Grandmother Tuttle’s shade drifts back to her crypt. The Old Man remains in place, and merely becomes thinner until he, too, vanishes, just as a rooster crows off stage. As the lights come up, the curtain goes down.

THE END

Paint

06-09-2005, 07:50 PM

This is a romantic comedy I wrote a year ago. It is rough and breaks several 'writing rules.' It's corny and fun.

I was at the cemetary at dawn. I wanted to get some shots of the fog and tombstones before the sun came up and changed the light. It was an old cemetary, around the 1700s. The tombstones were unique, and most were tipping over. The fog rolled around, kissing the stones. The sun was just begging to be seen through an opaque curtain of mist. My camera was one of the computer types and it was having a problem with all this diffused light. I kept fumbling with the lens trying to get the camera to do what it did not want to do. My friend, Jane, tells me this is 'spirits' trying to mess up the camera so their pictures will not be taken. But I don't believe that crap.

I peered through the viewfinder and thought I saw another person in the cemetary with me! Then, quick as a bunny, he or she ducked behind a cement tombstone of a tree. Trying not to get upset or unduly frightened, I pretended to take a few shots while steering my camera back to the spot. Of course, the thought of ghosts raced through my mind, but I snuffed them down with clear logic. That would just be too corny for one thing. What self-respecting ghost would hide like that if the prospect of a good scare were around?

There he was peeking around the stone at me again. Inwardly I groaned. It was my ex-husband, stalking me. Does the man ever sleep? We had broken up our marriage a year ago and he was still being a pain. Showing up everywhere I went and telling me what to do, in spite of my efforts to convey I did not need or want his advice.

Jim is a photographer and a very good one. He makes a living at it. I, on the other hand, just like to play at it.

"I can see you Jim so you can stop lurking around that fake tree." I yelled at him.

"Marjory, you are shooting too close to your subject!" He yelled back.

"Jim, why are you out here bugging me again? Can't you see I'm working on a time frame here?"

"I'm just trying to help out!" He replied, wounded.

"Go help somebody else," I responded, getting irritated again.

I stumbled over a tombstone that was buried flat, but had lifted up in one corner. It read "Jeremy Elfish."

"Jeremy, how can I get this jerk to leave me alone?" I asked the stone.

Suddenly an explosion caused me to cover my eyes and step back. The air was filled with a sulfur smell and something else I could not define. When the smoke cleared, I was gazing into the clear blue eyes of a Confererate Soldier!

"Whoa!" I said, shaking my head to clear it.

"I think you mean 'who?' don't you, mam?

"Who is this guy?" Jim said, hurrying over to do his macho thing.

"I am Lieutenant Jeremy Elfish, Fifty Third Division to you sir! Mam, are you okay? I heard you calling me."

"I called you?" I said, not believing my eyes.

"Yes mam, I believe you did." He was smiling. I was drowning in those eyes.

"Can you be my hero and get rid of this guy?" I asked, gesturing toward my ex, who had almost caught up to us.

"I am most confident I can, mam." He replied with a southern accent to die for.

"HALT!" He commanded, "Or I will run you through!" He was pulling out a massive sword.

You could almost smell burned rubber as Jim slammed on the brakes, slipping and sliding in the wet morning grass. Jim is not a 'hero type.' Jim is a 'watches TV and talks too much type.' He stopped and stared, not believing his eyes. In fact, he was rubbing his eyes furiously, looking for all the world the two year old that I often swore he stopped maturing at.

"I think I am dreaming." he mumbled.

"If you are, we are having the same dream. I want you to leave and never bother me again! I want you to get it through your thick skull we are over and go on with your life." I told him, trying to stay calm and almost failing. I was noticing a strong chemical reaction to the ghost standing so gallantly at my side defending me. It was definitely a man and woman thing. My knees were starting to quiver and my breath was coming in short pants.

"Well, if this is a dream, I am outnumbered here and I'm splitting the scene!"

"Good bye, sir" my hero was saying. I could hardly hear, there were angels singing inside my head.

I did not notice if Jim left or not. I spent the rest of the day wandering around the cemetary with Jeremy. We did some things I will not mention here, a lady doesn't kiss and tell you know. The sun came out and we lay among the tombstones and flowers that were growing riotously, talking about the differences in our worlds.

I only saw him once after that...in a photograph my camera took with all my fumbling about in the fog. He was standing, sword drawn, on a huge tombstone, looking for all the world like my hero.

Ddama

06-10-2005, 12:38 AM

Yuck. Comedy. Fiction, 1400 words.

“Don’t be silly, it’s only a graveyard.” Latif peeked around a skewed slab of granite, its name and date long weathered away.

Mabrouk edged away from the stone. “Look, all we have to do is spend the night and, God willing, we’ll win the bet. Let’s just stay right here.”

They had secreted themselves in the niche of a monument, hidden, but with a good view of the main path through the vast necropolis.

“Why? You afraid?”

“We could get caught. Why risk a sure thing?"

“Don’t you want to explore?"

“No.”

“Then you’re afraid.”

“Of getting caught.”

In old wives’ tales, the ancient graveyard was haunted with jinn, shape-shifting demons who ate carrion and drove men mad. Mabrouk knew better than to believe in fairy tales. He had seen corpses before, at his father’s clinic. They were scary to think about, but harmless. He tried not to think about them.

A keening wail rose over the stones as the sun set. Latif jumped back, nearly knocking his older cousin over, but Mabrouk held on to him and held his balance.

Latif gasped. “Is it the jinn?”

“That sounds like Ahmed. He does that to bother his older sister.”

Latif backed away and stamped his foot. “He’s cheating!”

“Quiet, or Ghiyath will catch us and tell our parents. Let Ahmed get caught. I’m staying right here.”

Ghiyath was the village idiot, but he followed simple instructions well, and was afforded a job as night watch for the cemetery, so as not to depend on charity. From their niche they could see him make his rounds down the path, lighting his way with his electric torch.

The howling noise started again. Sure enough, Ghiyath turned in its direction and moved outside of their field of vision. The sounds of a scuffle broke out.

Mabrouk clamped his hand over Latif’s mouth. A voice, unmistakably Ahmed’s, cried out. Mabrouk smiled. They were the only ones left in the competition and night was falling. They would win. Latif struggled.

Mabrouk whispered, “Hold still. Be quiet.”

In the fading evening light, they saw the bulky form of the night watchman dragging a whimpering smaller shape down the path. Once they were out of sight, Mabrouk eased his grip.

Free, Latif turned around. “Don’t you understand?”

“What?”

“Ahmed will tell his father about us, if he hasn’t told Ghiyath already. They’ll tell our fathers. We need to get home before they find out!”

“And you just know that Ahmed will find some way to blame the whole thing on us.” They couldn’t see Ghiyath anymore. “Let’s go.”

The two boys ran. Half-buried slabs reached up to trip them. Headstones leaned over to bruise them. By the time the moon rose and they could see again, there was no trace of the path.

Latif sobbed, panting for breath, “We’re lost. I want to go home.”

Mabrouk held his younger cousin. “Calm, now. We just need to find the path and get out of here before Ghiyath comes back.”

“What if the jinn find us first?”

“I’ll protect you from them.”

Latif pointed over Mabrouk’s shoulder. “A light!” His voice was a choked squeak.

“Hush.” Mabrouk turned around. “I don’t think it’s Ghiyath.”

The smell of roasting meat reached them before they heard the old man muttering to himself.

Latif asked, “Is it the jinn?”

“No, cousin. Just a majnun. Leave him alone.” [Majnun means “madman,” literally “one possessed by a jinni."]

“Who’s there?” The old man’s voice was soft and ragged. “Children? Boys? Come here.”

He was near them now. The flickering light smelled of kerosene, burning rags tied around what looked like a human thigh bone. Mabrouk had seen pictures of skeletons in the clinic. He shuddered to think where it had come from.

“Are you lost? It’s very dangerous here at night.”

The old man was bald, save for unkempt wisps of silver hair that floated around his head like a halo in the firelight. His nose looked like it had been smashed in at some point and, as he smiled, his few teeth were crooked.

Latif was on the verge of tears. Mabrouk would be strong for both of them.

“Thank you for your concern, good sir. We are looking for the path out of the cemetery. Do you know where it is?”

The old man cackled. Mabrouk hoped the lunatic was as feeble as he looked.

“Are you boys from the village?”

“Yes, sir.”

The old man squinted at both of them. “You,” he jabbed a twisted, bony finger at Mabrouk, “you look like Mustafa ibn Taher. And you,” he studied Latif’s face, “you look like Naguib ibn Khaldun.”

“Those are our fathers, sir.”

“Very well, then. Tell them that Hajji Musa ibn Abd ul-Qadr sends his regards.”

“We will, sir.”

“Good, good.” The old man bobbed his head. He lifted his torch. “The path is this way.”

Despite his infirm appearance, the old man lead them at a sure pace, stopping in front of a mausoleum. A cooking pot, filled with a meaty broth, hung over a fire.

Mabrouk could hear Latif’s teeth chattering, despite the warmth of the evening. “Are we stopping here?”

“This is my home. No rent, no soldiers hunting me, no annoying relatives complaining I owe them money. It would honor me greatly if you would share my dinner.”

“Sir, thank you for the invitation and God’s peace and blessings upon you, but we must return home. We’re already late.”

“Well, you’ll need this, then, to find the path. It’s that way and to your left.” He held out the torch. “Bring this back in the morning. I’d appreciate the company.”

Mabrouk grasped the bone, it was smooth and cold. With his other hand, he sought out Latif’s clammy fingers and held them tightly.

By morninglight, the cemetery was only a field of stones. Mabrouk smiled at Latif.

“I’m glad you’re feeling brave enough to come back.”

“I owe you.”

“Well, you saved both of us, cousin. You were right about Ahmed. By the time Ghiyath and father burst into my room, I was sound asleep.”

“Me, too.”

“Did Ahmed’s sister say anything?”

“Not yet, but I bet he’s grounded for life.”

“I bet he’s been sent to the army. Or sold to slavers.”

Mabrouk chuckled. “We really need to thank the Hajji for helping us out.”

“I brought some meatpie for him.”

They left the path. They could see where they had made the wrong turn the night before and how the tombstones had confused them. They retraced their footsteps and found the mausoleum. The old man was nowhere in sight.

“Do you think he’s asleep, maybe?” Latif stepped towards the open doorway of the tomb.

“Are you kidding?”

“Look, if he lives here, it’s desecrated anyway. No big deal.”

Mabrouk shook his head, but couldn’t argue with the logic.

“Hajji Musa? Hello?”

The inside of the tomb was cool and dry. Thin blades of light arced in from narrow windows above. Only the dust stirred.

Mabrouk called out, “Anyone home?” His voice echoed off the dome and stone walls.

Suddenly, Latif began motioning with his hands. “Mabrouk!”

The younger boy was wiping dust off a cracked stone leaned up against a sarcophagus.

Al-Hajj Musa ibn Abd ul-Qadr al-Farami

1339 - 1400

Mabrouk gulped. Latif was quaking. Peeking over the sarcophagus rim, Mabrouk could see the skeleton was missing its thigh bone. Breathing heavy, he placed the bone back where it belonged.

“Latif. Don’t look. Just give me the pie.”

He placed the slice in the tomb and recited the prayer of protection. “I take refuge with the Lord of Men, the King of Men, the God of Men, from the evil of the Cowardly Whisperer who whispers in the hearts of Men, among Jinn and Men.”

Together, the two boys ran from the cemetery.

Ghiyath drank a shot of whiskey from the flask the old man proffered, washing down his share of the meatpie. After he wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his robe, he said, “It will be a long time before they come back. Thanks.”

“No,” said the old man, “thank you, for always being so vigilant. We need to keep the drop points safe.” The old man smiled. He had moved a lot of heroin through the graveyard. Business was booming. “Now, they’ll tell all their friends that there really are demons here.”

Ghiyath laughed, “Aren’t there?”

mdmkay

06-11-2005, 12:33 AM

I have to admit after reading the other enteries posted here I almost chickened out posting but as the others said, "it's all in fun and besides it's good practice." I have to tell you that I haven't read the finalists yet but have really loved the these stories that have posted here. KTC for writing on the fly....it was absolutly hilarious, if I would be so hard pressed to vote on this thread what is the finalist thread going to be like?<<<<<holding aching head in hand.....Argh, it's getting harder and harder to choose a favorite amongst the finalists they're all too good.

Grandma’s house was built with children in mind with a house full of “touchables” for eager small hands and a perfect circle that ran throughout the rooms of the house that made for a great sport of tag and hide and seek. The outside of her home was a virtual paradise with trees to climb, places to hide, animals to chase, eggs to find, and unlimited feeling of freedom, safety, and love never to found anywhere else.

Our Saturday’s would start with sister and me jumping out of the car as soon as we rolled into Grandmother’s circular driveway. We would run laughing and screaming into the house to find Grandma for hugs and kisses, then the inevitable running through of the house to run off the excess energy that had built up all week with anticipation of going to Grandma’s house. She would let us run about seven laps that were thrilling especially with the “trip door” that you had to avoid hitting, going through Grandma’s bedroom. You had to be sure and make the corner just right or you’d bump into the door making one or two of her robes swing out entwining you in their fragrant softness, but also tripping you into a spill that you wouldn’t soon forget. We were glad that she never moved those robes because the game wouldn’t have been near as fun if you didn’t have that tricky corner to trip either you or your quarry up. Around about the seventh lap Grandma would yell out, “are you girl’s going to go out and gather the eggs for me before my hen’s get grumpy?” Wherever, we were in the house, we would slow down long enough to exit the nearest door, and run to the chicken coop to Grandma’s grumpy hens (looking back, I realize that the hen’s were more grumpy after we were done then when we started, but even the farm animals seemed to know the importance of patience with little hands at Grandma’s house). The rest of the day would be filled with chores, trips, and tasks for Grandma done with eager minds and little hands met with the patience and love that seemed to surround everything that had to do with being with Grandma.

The evening would arrive quickly, but with no less anticipation with the special rituals that grounded us and gave us a feeling of security, that far exceeded the actual events of the night. We would pick out one of grandma’s amazingly soft worn chenille robes. We would wait patiently as grandma gave us each our own special time alone, talking to grandma, as she bathed us in the bubble bath with the fragrant warm suds of our choice. ( I can remember passing many of what would have been a bad night; closing out the sounds of loud arguing voices on the other side of the bedroom wall during the week at home, by spending hours thinking about what color of bubble bath I would chose for my next bath at Grandma’s.)

After our warm bath and cuddling in the folds of the soft bathrobe that always smelled of Grandma’s delicate scent, we would sit ourselves down in front of grandma’s recliner to have our hair brushed. We’d watch Disney and Bonanza as we munched on the special freshly made sweet popcorn only she could make. I have never since felt the security and contentment that I felt on those nights sitting with Grandma.

When it came time for bed, Grandma would look into our childish faces and with a sparkle in her eye, she would say (as if she were saying if for the very first time), “Do you girls want to hear a ghost story?” Thrilled to the bone we would both listen intently to every word she said.

“Well…….one night your Uncle Haramn decided to go down to the local bar to have some drinks and talk to his friends. Now, I had warned him over and over again that drinking so much alcohol would someday get him in trouble but he never listened. That particular night your uncle had drank way too much, so he decided to walk home that night. He was so drunk that he got lost on the way home. It was a really dark night because the heavy clouds where hiding the moon so there wasn’t hardly any light to see where you were going. He stumbled around trying to find his way home when he stumbled and fell down into a deep hole in the ground. The minute he hit the bottom he immediately sobered up. Now, you have to realize something, your Uncle Haramn had always been a lucky man and his luck hadn’t deserted him that night, because right after he fell the bright full moon that had risen that night came out from behind the clouds and so Haramn had a little light to see better with. He realized that he hadn’t just fallen into and ordinary hole. He had accidentally stumbled into the local cemetery and had fallen into a newly dug grave. Your uncle wasn’t normally a religious man but that night he immediately dropped to his knees to plead with God to help him find a way out of that grave. I’ve always said that you can pray to God all you want but if you really want him to help; you have to be willing to take a few steps to get things started. Apparently he had remembered what I had said so he began to run and jump trying to crawl up the side of the grave. He kept running and jumping, jumping and running, but couldn’t get high enough to get a grip in the dirt to pull himself out and kept sliding back down to the bottom again. Exhausted, cold, and alone he finally decided that he was going to have to just wait it out till morning before someone would come along to help get him out of there………….(here she would pause waiting for us to plead with her to tell us what happened next). Just as he was sitting in the middle of the grave thinking about trying to get some sleep, he heard a deep voice coming from one of the dark corners of the very grave he was sitting in. It said, “I’ll give ya a quarter if you can get out of here.” It frightened your Uncle so bad that he jumped up, ran to the side, leaped out of that grave, and ran all the way home. He’s never taken a drink again. The next morning when the grave diggers came back and rescued the other drunk that had fallen in the grave earlier that night he told them, “you should have seen the other fella that fell in there. He just jumped right back out again and he never did come back for his quarter.” She would let us girls roll in laughter as we did each time we heard that punch line and then it was time for our prayers and into the bed.

My last memory of my grandmother was as she was laid to rest in the local cemetery at the gravesite service after her funeral. As a minister who had known my grandmother only socially droned on about the exemplary life she had lived as wife, mother, and grandmother; scenes from my childhood flashed through my head giving me comfort in the knowledge that she had left an invaluable inheritance of wisdom, unconditional love, and the value of laughter.

As the rest of the family walked back to their cars amid hugs, laughter, and the unity my grandmother had brought to us once again. I stayed behind not knowing how I was going to say goodbye to the woman who had been so important to me. As I stood beside her casket I remembered someone had told me once, that placing a penny in the casket was an old tradition to bestow the person luck and safe passage. Reaching into my purse for a penny my seeking fingers encountered the rough edges of a quarter. I had to smile as I pulled it out and slipped the quarter into my Grandmother’s hands and leaned over to whisper to her, “I know you’re already in heaven but just in case, I’ll give you this quarter, so you’ll be sure and get out of there.” I was then able to turn and walk away with tears but a smile knowing that Grandmother was watching me from heaven and laughing one more time at an old ghost story.

Kay L. Schlagel

mommie4a

06-11-2005, 05:59 PM

Total post: about 1200; what I wrote - about 900. Anyone with suggestions on how to turn this into comedy, let me know (seriously).

DYING TO GET IN

John was in heaven and I was in hell. Yet only twelve inches separated us.

“No walking tour includes this place.” I clutched my Frommers and refused to move.

“That’s exactly why we should go.” John smirked and slinked his head toward his desired destination.

“God, John. Can’t you see how morbid it would be? Enough poverty and filth already. If I’d never seen this city, I swear I wouldn’t regret it. The only way I’d go is if you were buried there.” I flapped my hands against my sides.

John and I were squabbling for the thousandth time in ten days - the length of time we’d been traveling through Egypt. My favorite college buddy and I didn’t define adventure the same way and that led to fight after fight after fight.

First, we argued about food. You’d think the intestinal virus that had wrenched every solid food out of our guts within two days of arriving in Cairo would slow down our bickering. But while I stuck to water crackers and bottled water, John continued to devour the local street chefs’ shishlik (a cylindrical, vertically rotisseried hunk of lamb) that hung only a few feet above horse dung and flies.

We argued about ferries. John preferred the twenty-five cent civilian rafts that looked like Huck Finn rejects. Given the number of diseases alive and kicking in the Nile River, I wanted to take the fifty cent luxury craft, held together by spiral metal bungee cords instead of plant leaves. I just didn’t get why being real meant you had to risk dying from malaria.

Then we argued about trains. For me, it was a lose-lose proposition. Typically, only men rode in first class. Egyptian women could choose between second and third class, the latter also being used for cattle.

As a tourist, I could enter first class, but I’d have to cover all exposed flesh and put up with mucus-spewing men who smoked a lot and seemed to cough more. Many Middle Easterners frowned on tissues and handkerchiefs. How could you sneeze into something and then, Ah Allah - stick it into your clean pocket? Just cover one nostril and blow out of the other, for goodness sake. Never mind where it lands. For a day and a half, I listened to CCCHHHaaahhh PPTTttuuuuu every few minutes and gagged to keep from gagging.

Twenty or more hours later, hundreds of miles into the south of Egypt, when we disembarked, we stood between two “hotel” choices, both of which looked like vintage Wild West brothels, with sagging wood shutters and broken porch rails. I liked the idea of not sharing a bathroom with all the other occupants of the hotel and preferred the dollar a night deal on the left. John wanted to save money and stay in the fifty-cent bed-only option.

“John! Do you realize that we’re arguing over fifty cents???” I literally was hopping mad, which I think was why John caved on this one. I acted as though the virus had infected my brain.

About the only thing we hadn’t argued about during the trip was whether John should trade me for a rug. He’d told a few vendors that he’d need at least three in exchange, but no one thought I was worth it. Talk about insults.

Now, on our last day in North Africa, we stood in a residential neighborhood miles from the center of Cairo. John had one place left on his must see list. But I’d hit the tourist’s wall.

Cairo depressed me. Where John saw hundreds of turquoise hues in every one of the thirty or more mosques we’d visited - me balking after the third one, I saw a brilliant sun that washed out all colors but brown. John perceived character and intrigue in the native’s faces. But I felt crushed by the mass of bodies that stared and reached out to touch my blonde hair and fair skin whenever we walked through markets. These images stuck with me like freak show characters in a Federico Fellini film, all shapes and sizes, coming at me from all angles and at all speeds.

“John, it’s called the City of the Dead. It’s macabre. It’s exploitive. It’s wrong.” I should never have studied sociology, or never have come to Cairo. “I can’t feel anything but contempt for a people who so mismanage their city that tens of thousands of families live in cemeteries. God.” I sighed as John launched into one last pitch.

“Think of it this way. You’ll see them for yourself and be able to rally others on their behalf.”

“You’re sick, you know that?”

Although my choices were ghastly -- travel alone back to our hostel or wander in a graveyard among clotheslines, carpets and primitive kitchens, I killed John’s hopes of persuading me to go, and left.

When I’m dead and buried, I’ll still believe I made the right decision.
____________
For anyone not familiar with the City of the Dead, here is a synopsis from www.virtualtourist.com:

City of the dead. Actually, Egyptians never call the sprawling cemetery at the eastern edge of Cairo 'City of the Dead.' Only Westerners do. Cairenes prefer to call it simply the arafa, the cemetery, and it is as much a part of the topography here as glass and steel skyscrapers are in Hong Kong. But what better name than City of the Dead to describe the four-mile-long walled necropolis that now houses thousands of families and countless small businesses? Video stores, car repair shops and tile factories line the main arteries of the cemetery, and cramped buses deliver hoards of commuters at the end of each work day. Furniture makers ply their craft inside tombs and streams of uniformed children parade to and from school, stopping for a quick soccer game between the cenotaphs. The arafa is a necropolis turned metropolis, where the needs of the living have far outpaced the sanctity of the dead. Here, survival takes precedence over superstition, and the impact of overpopulation and overcrowding wears a human face. The cemetery is filled with refugees from Cairo's housing shortage who became homesteaders in a landscape of tombs and mausoleums. Today, some 50,000 people live in tombs while between 500,000 and a million more are cramped into tenement houses where tombs once stood. These people staked their claim in the cemetery when no place else could absorb them, and subsequently they came to prefer the silent company of the dead to the harsh conditions of urban living. Many claim they wouldn't leave even if they had the chance. Today, tombs that were designed to house a single family teem with bare-bottomed children, chickens and goats. Soccer balls fly where the relatives of the deceased used to pay their respects every week, and tattered laundry floats between the cenotaphs, obscuring the names and prayers engraved on weather beaten surfaces. Where horse-drawn carriages used to deliver weekly visitors, sooty buses honk their way down paved roads, and on a once contemplative lane between the tombs, a Friday junk market overflows with the refuse of modern society looking to be reborn.

rhymegirl

06-12-2005, 05:33 AM

R.I.P. (Romp in Progress) Approx. 925 words

Whenever I tell people I work in a cemetery, you should see the looks I get. Man, does it creep them out. And they always gotta ask me the same dumb old questions. “Do you ever see any ghosts?” “Has Stephen King ever showed up?” “Ever fall into an open grave?” Yeah, right, like I’d be that dumb. I admit I dig the graves. It’s a dirty job but somebody’s gotta do it. And yes, that’s another one of the jokes I hear. Lots of dirt jokes. Who cares anyway? It’s a job.

Being a grave digger I do have a few stories to tell. In fact, something happened just the other day. I had to do some digging at night. Rush job. Don’t ask me why. They paid me overtime, I did their digging for them. And wait 'til you hear this. There were these two kids, teenagers, fooling around on top of somebody’s grave. Yeah gross, I know, but I’m telling you the truth. I’d been digging for a while so I sat down behind a big headstone to take a break and have a smoke. Don’t know how long I sat there, but all of a sudden I heard these moans and groans. At first I thought I was imagining things. I do have quite the imagination. But not in this case. All I could do was sit there and listen. After they were done they started talking. It went something like this:

“Ow! Andrew! You gave me a friggin’ hickey.”

“I thought you liked hickeys.”

“My mom’s gonna freak. I’m already grounded, ya know.”

“Yeah, you’re grounded all right. I grounded ya pretty good.”

“Shut up, jerk. I’m serious. How am I gonna explain this?”

“Just say a vampire came into your room tonight.” Then he cracked up laughing.

“Oh you’re SOOO funny. I ought to throw dirt in your face.”

“Try it and see what you get.”

And they just kept on fighting like that ‘til I decided to scare the pants off of them. Well, actually they already had the pants off of them, but you know what I mean. I decided to make some owl hooting noises and stuff like that. This is what happened next.

“Whoa, quiet, Andrew. Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“That noise.”

“What noise?”

“Are you totally deaf?” A pause. “THAT noise!”

“It’s just a friggin’ owl. You’re scared of that?”

“It’s creepy. This whole place is creepy. I wanna go home.”

“You’re scared of an owl! What a wuss. Amber’s scared of an owl, Amber’s scared of an owl…”

“I’m gonna punch you into next week if you don’t shut up.”

“I’d like to see you try it.”

This is when I decided to do some ghost noises. I’m particularly good at ghost noises.

“Holy sh*t! Did you hear that? I’m gettin’ outta here, Andrew.”

“Now that’s creepy, man. But kinda cool, too.”

“Are you totally insane? We’re in a cemetery. And we were screwing around. Maybe we woke up somebody’s dead relative.”

“Yeah, maybe. If I wasn’t so drunk I might actually be worried.”

I decided to increase the volume and the scare tactics now that I knew their names.

“Ammmmbbbberrrr. Kill Ammmbbberrrr.”

She screamed. “Andrew, let’s go! Now!”

Andrew finally started freaking here.

“Sh*t! What IS that?”

“It’s a ghost, idiot! Let’s GO!”

Now I just want to mention that I was well hidden behind that headstone. I had my flashlights turned off so they couldn’t see me at all. However, there was a full moon that night (in more ways than one), so if I peeked around the stone I could catch a glimpse of them. What I saw now was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Both of them were trying to put their clothes back on in a big hurry. But they were arguing and chasing each other around the headstones, tripping, trying to get their pants back on.

“Don’t call me an idiot!”

“You are an idiot! I don’t know why I ever listened to you.”

“Yeah, well you’re not really that hot anyway. Your mom’s pretty hot though.”

“WHAT?”

“You heard me. Your mom’s hot. Hotter than you are.”

“YOU are a big fat jerk!”

“Skank!”

“Creep!”

“Wuss!”

"*ss!"

“You’re gonna be sorry!”

“YOU’RE gonna be sorry!”

They were chasing each other around, getting closer to where I sat, so I crawled off as fast as I could and hid behind some bushes. Since they were pulling each other’s hair at this point, they really didn’t notice.

“Stop pulling my hair.”

“Stop pulling MY hair.”

“You’d look better bald.”

“So would you.”

Suddenly they were right at the edge of the big hole I’d been digging. It all happened so fast.

“Get away from me,” said Amber and when she pushed him away he fell right over into the hole. She stood there for a moment, trying to figure out what just happened. Then she started howling.

“Get me outta here!” shouted Andrew.

She knelt down and peered into the hole. “Hey, nice place you’ve got here. Suits you perfectly.”

“Amber!”

She brushed off her hands and started walking away. “See ya, Andrew.”

“AMMMBBBERRR!”

Then she really did leave. Before you get all upset, rest assured I helped the kid get out of that hole in the ground. I bet he’ll never set foot in a graveyard again.

I guess I'll keep grave digging a little while longer. After all, where else could I get such great material to write about!

mommie4a

06-12-2005, 05:07 PM

Kathy - system won't let me rep you so here ya go: Nice work!

jdkiggins

06-12-2005, 05:46 PM

A Place For Me was written in 1985 without the last three stanzas. It was originally written about my brothers and their lack of understanding toward me. L Figured I’d add a bit of cemetery humor to a truly heartfelt poem. Enjoy all! This IS to be taken as humor. Here’s hoping it is.

Nearly 100 people walked into the cemetery: contestants who’d been voted out; AW members who didn’t participate, but voted; finalists still in the running. Each one, heads hung in respect, each with their own thoughts.

William placed the roses in the vase and added water as he looked at the headstone.
“Sara, do you think there is any humor in all of us being here?
“Not in being here, but humor in a cemetery, sure this is one of my favorite themes. Too bad JD couldn’t compete in this one.”
“Yeah. I know you said you loved the way Jenna makes us think. But don’t you think this was a bit much? I mean…right after JD’s death.”
“I don’t know what to think anymore. But I’m sure JD wouldn’t want us mopping around. You know how she tried to brighten up the forum. She’d want us to continue laughing and joking.”
“I told her she was an inspiration to the boards. I hope she knew I meant that.”
“I’m sure she did, William.”

AW members crowded around the fresh dirt of the newly dug grave.

William glanced at the headstone. “I thought she said her marker would say, ‘She’s finally really skinny.’”
“She did say that, but you know William, Jo always joked about herself and with others, and I think she got her joke across with this as well.”
“She said she didn’t find humor in death, but she sure found humor in herself.”
“Wonder how many will understand it?”
“No telling, we are all writers, after all and we all have feelings despite that.”

William laughed as he read the roughly carved words of the poem Joanne wrote to be placed on her gravestone.

A Place For Me

All my life you’ve led me to ways in which to serve.
The more I do, the more I see all things are deserved.

You’ve shown me how to earn trust by little things I do.
Through this, I feel I must do more and more to prove.

You’ve lit the way and opened doors to many avenues.
You’ve shown me how I can do more to show my love for you.

You’ve shown me how to deal with those who don’t know what I’m about.
I’ve made friends from those foes by taking a different route.

I’m sure that you know I care what people say and do.
You’ve shown me ways I can share the things I do for you.

In my heart I know you’ll find a way to make them see.
There is a place for all mankind and there’s a place for me.

For those who wonder why I write such a heartfelt chant.
Some will see my heart, and some of you just can’t.

For those of you who know me, and know me to be true.
The last line of my epitaph is certainly not meant for you.

For those of you who don’t understand and still need to ask.
I’ve buried myself face down, so you can all kiss my a.ss.

After William read the epitaph aloud, chuckles and some loud laughter came from the crowd. A few walked away, waving a hand muttering “Ppffftt.”

“ I can almost hear her saying, ‘Party on guys.’” Sara looked at the members who participated in Ray’s House of Love.

William stood and rubbed his fingers into the images on the carved stone.
“Her and her goddamn smilies. You know, I never thought I’d say this, but I miss them already.”

maestrowork

06-12-2005, 06:23 PM

You guys crack me up.

Jo, that's a beautiful poem. Thanks for sharing. (Especially the last two lines. ;) )

jdkiggins

06-12-2005, 08:18 PM

Thanks, Ray. :)

BlueTexas

06-12-2005, 11:59 PM

I'm glad you posted that, Joanne. I enjoyed it.

jdkiggins

06-13-2005, 04:22 PM

Thanks Kira.

jhgregory

06-13-2005, 11:35 PM

I’ve been following this contest from its beginning and have enjoyed it every step of the way.

Joanne, I’m glad to see you continuing with the challenge and look forward to more! Great Job.
-Jo

jdkiggins

06-14-2005, 01:33 AM

Thanks Jo. Glad you've been following the contest.

BlueTexas

06-14-2005, 10:07 AM

I wrote two this week, because I didn't like the first one. Anyway, thought I'd share the one I didn't enter. I chose the other one because this one seemed contrived to me, like I was trying too hard. I'd love to hear any thoughts on this, or of the piece in general.

Hope I'm allowed to post here....

“Ooh—look over there! That looks like a spooky spot.”

“It’s kinda dark, isn’t it?” asked Laura. “I mean, all those trees…”

“What did you expect, the tombstones to have porch lights? Come on, would ya?” Rosa tromped ahead, straight for a small copse of trees. Moonlight dipped before her, turning the dewy grass into a frosted path of light that seemed to glow from within. The night was silent but for the pumper-jacks humming a whiny, uneven rhythm on the wind.

Laura followed, sneaking glances back over her shoulder at the car they were quickly leaving behind in the darkness. The wind blew strands of her dark hair forward to her face, brushing her cheeks in delicate, wispy swishes. It made her think of the soft shuffle of a spider, the feeling of a touch so soft it almost isn’t there. She shivered and wished she’d tied her hair back.

The dark shape Rosa was searching out slowly came into focus. First, the rough edge of stone side, then the eerie blur of a stained-glass window reflecting moonlight into the shadowy trees. The reflected light glanced off the speckled granite; the mausoleum fairly shimmered in the night.

“It’s so pretty,” said Laura. Her voice was whisper-soft, punctuated with the chuff-chuff-clack from the nearby oilfield.

“Almost surreal, isn’t it?”

“Do you think there’s really a ghost out here?” Laura was no longer sure she really wanted to find a ghost, after all. She’d been excited at the idea earlier, in the bright safety of daylight.

“I don’t know. Those old men were right about one thing, though…this place does glow at night. It’s just the full moon, but still.”

Rosa approached the small mausoleum and rubbed at the dust on the window. The stained-glass depicted a white cross on a patchwork of blues.

“Can you see in?” asked Laura.

“Not really. Look for yourself.”

“I don’t want—wh-what was that? Did you hear that?”

“It was just the wind blowing the gate.”

“But it sounded closer than that.” Laura looked back toward the gate, but saw only the enveloping darkness. Her knees were locked, her feet anchored to the ground.

“It wasn’t. It’s just the wind. Listen—can’t you still hear the pumper-jacks?”

“Yeah…do you remember what that one man said? The one in the corner with the watery eyes?”

“He was full of it,” Rosa said. She moved to the corner of the mausoleum, craning her neck to see around it. “There’s no such thing as aliens. Besides, this place is supposed to be haunted, not full of UFO’s.”

“Yeah. It’s just that awful noise…it’s freaking me out.”

“It is creepy,” admitted Rosa. “I wonder where the ghost is supposed to show up?”

“I wouldn’t show up here if I were a ghost!” The dark sky loomed above them, pinprick stars punctuating the fabric of the night.

#

Jonas overheard the girls, and was rather pleased at their unease. Too eager, they were, he thought, to disrespect the dead. And too young not to be toyed with. He sat in the stand of trees just beyond the mausoleum, catching fireflies in a jar. He didn’t see so sharp, but he could hear them well enough, and dark as it was, that put him ahead.

#

Laura and Rosa sat at the base of the granite stairs leading up to the mausoleum. The moon had lowered in the sky and now its light shone directly into the little blue window. If they heard noises in the woods, they attributed them to small animals and the chuff-chuff-clack of the pumper-jacks.

“Did you bring a flashlight?”

“I thought you did,” said Rosa. “There’s not one in the car?”

Laura looked back toward the car beyond the cemetery gate. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, but the gravel parking area looked empty. “It’s so dark I can’t even see the car.”

“Oh well. Maybe we can read the inscription on the door now that the moon has shifted.”

“Have we been here that long?”

“Who knows. Listen, I’ll read it to you,”

Toward heaven she flew in a silent flight;

The path revealed only in moonlight.

To east thee shall never see her,

By west the way the night shall illume.

“What kinda weirdo poet wrote that?”

“Who cares…let’s look for the path,” said Rosa.

“Are you kidding? You think there’s really a path?”

“We haven’t seen a ghost yet, we might as well look for something.”

“Which way is west then? I can’t tell out here.”

“It said the path would be illumed—lighted, right? We should be able to see it.”

“A lighted path in the middle of a backwoods cemetery? I don’t know, Rosa. Maybe we should just go back.”

“Don’tcha want to see something? I’m not going back until something spooky happens. You can if you want.” Rosa turned and walked to the corner of the mausoleum, and disappeared around it before Laura could get to her feet.

#

When the girls started moving again, Jonas took advantage of the noise cover. The woods on the west side of the cemetery were mostly ignored by mourners and maintenance men alike. He was hoping to find enough spider webs undisturbed, and he was not disappointed. By the time the girls had finished reading the inscription on the door, he had dotted the webs he found low to the ground with fireflies, tossing them gently into the sticky filaments. The path pulsed with mottled green light, leading west into the woods.

Jonas’ car was parked in a clearing just past the edge of the woods, and his son’s remote control airplane waited for him there. After the girls had left the coffee shop where he told them tales of aliens, he had affixed small green and blue LED lights to it. In the dark, the airplane would be invisible but for its rounded, glowing edges.

#

“Rosa! Wait for me,” called Laura. She turned the corner, and heard movement behind her. “Rosa!”

“I’m right here, on the other side. Shhh…look at this,” said Rosa.

The path was on the opposite side of the mausoleum from where they had been sitting. The small, fluttering green lights danced, casting their eerie light into the mist and dewy grass below.

“This must be west,” Rosa said, taking a step forward.

“Rosa, no! Are you crazy?” Laura took a step to catch up with Rosa. Fear rose in her stomach; her feet felt like lead.

“It’s just like the X-Files. I wonder where it goes,” said Rosa.

“I don’t think we should find out. Let’s just go back, okay? It’s creepy. Why didn’t we see it before? C’mon Rosa, let’s go back to the car.”

“Maybe we weren’t looking. We didn’t come in this way. The mausoleum blocked the light.” Rosa started to walk into the woods. Laura looked down the path. It wended deeper into the trees, winking out into nothingness. The chuff-chuffing sound was louder now, a heartbeat rhythm in her ears.

“Rosa…this is not a good idea.”

“I’m going. Do what you like.” Rosa was ten feet down the path now, calling back over her shoulder.

Laura had no choice but to follow her friend into the woods.

#

Jonas watched the two girls argue and hesitate, and used the time to power up the toy airplane. He started the electric motor in time with the pumper-jack noise, giving the impression that the whine was now constant. He waited until the girls were more than halfway down the path. He wanted them too far down the path to turn back.

Cemeteries were sacred ground, he thought. No place for irreverent teenagers to be out a-ghosting. Like as not, if they didn’t see a ghost, they’d start tipping headstones. Not tonight, they wouldn’t.

#

Rosa saw the lights rising off the ground first. She stopped short, causing Laura to walk right into her.

“D-d-do you see t-that?” Laura’s voice wavered, the sound tinny to her ears.

“Oh my God! Aliens…aliens?”

The lights hovered just feet off the ground, swooping side to side, the glow melding with the green haze on the ground. At the word aliens, the lights headed straight for them.

“It ain’t no ghost! It’s a freaking UFO! Run!”

They ran, breath screeching out in shrill whines, tearing the firefly-laden cobwebs to shreds as they passed. The path vanished behind them, the chuffing more a buzz now, and closer behind them with every step.

Jonas let the “UFO” drop to the ground and killed the power as Rosa and Laura neared the edge of the woods. The girls stopped as they entered the cemetery again, out of breath, bent over with their hands propped on their knees.

“It’s gone,” Rosa said, huffing out breath that burned her throat. “How can it be gone?”

There was no reply but a cold laughter coming from the depths beyond the trees.

KTC

06-14-2005, 03:08 PM

I'd like to thank everyone who rep'd me in regards to my post...not for the rep points of course, but for your kind comments. They are much appreciated!

mommie4a

06-17-2005, 05:25 PM

Anyone want to suggest how we might do Week 7 here in the JFF thread?

jdkiggins

06-17-2005, 05:36 PM

Maybe include all three themes in one. :Shrug:

mommie4a

06-17-2005, 05:37 PM

Oy vay:)

maestrowork

06-17-2005, 05:42 PM

Just pick one (or all three)... this is Just For Fun. [I've contracted the Haskins No-Smileys disease]

stranger

06-17-2005, 09:20 PM

Since it seems the idea is to take the finalist out of their comfort zone, perhaps for the JFF thread you should choose the character which you find the most difficult to write about.

Sarita

06-17-2005, 09:26 PM

:idea:What about doing it by age range? If you're between:

0-30 = write about 40 y/o man
30-50 = the 90 year old woman
50- up = the 8 year old boy

Duncan J Macdonald

06-17-2005, 11:46 PM

No, this isn't an entry (yet).

My take on the issue is to do have all three POV's present at the Party. Since I've already promised to kill someone JFF this week, the party will take a ... shall we say Darker? ... turn.

I've got a couple of ideas already -- which is scary, since for the other JFF entries, I've generally just sat down ans said, "Okay, gotta write. Come on fingers!"

Smilies, never did like the buggers. 5:-()

mommie4a

06-19-2005, 04:41 AM

I ain't sayin' much, but a lecherous Chuck E Cheese keeps squeaking in my brain.

Duncan J Macdonald

06-21-2005, 10:38 PM

This entry contains bad language, blood, guts, murder, death, mass murder, etc. You have been warned. Also, certain characters may bear a faint resemblance to real people. This was intentional, and I certainly hope that they take my intimations in the spirit in which it was intended, and not as a slur on their good names. Also remember that one character agreed to be killed off in this entry.

Enough caveats. 2508 words.

The Party
by
Duncan J Macdonald

It had been late evening. The majority of the Sisters at the retirement convent were either in bed, or just finishing their evening ablutions. Sister William habitually spent a few extra hours in the peace and quiet of the main chapel after Compline. At ninety years of age, she didn't need that much sleep, and her long life had left her many things to pray for and about. She had finished, and was returning to her cell when the Sister charged with Night Desk duty found her.

"Sister William, you have a phone call."

"Good Evening Sister Peter. I find it hard to believe that anyone would bother me at such a late hour."

"The gentleman mentioned your Grand-nephew."

"Oh dear." Sister William looked startled. "I haven't heard from him in some time. I'm afraid that this cannot be good news. I'll come immediately, Sister. Please, return to the desk, and I will be there directly."

Sister William sighed and checked the bolt action on her 1940 Garrand M-1 sniper rifle. Dry-firing a few rounds helped knock the rust off long unused motions. Her body was beginning to remember how to perform, but it was moving a lot slower than she liked -- or needed -- for this assignment. It was a good thing that she'd arranged for an extra week at the Ranch this year. She'd need it to cover the trip.

Her mind replayed the conversation she'd had with her control as her hands field-stripped the weapon and placed the disassembled parts lovingly into their sculpted foam bed.

She'd reached the convent's front desk shortly after Sister Peter, and picked up the phone. Sister Peter had excused herself to allow Sister William privacy.

"Hello, Joseph, is that you?"

"Sister William, this is Alpha-Omega. I authenticate Niner Fife."

It had been over thirty years since she'd heard that phrase. She'd frozen for an instant, staring at the phone as if it could rise up and bite her. She hastily sketched the Sign of the Cross over the instrument and stumbled over the reply: "Alpha-Omega, I authenticate ... Betty Grable."

"Roger. Groups follow. I set Alpha-Whiskey. Alpha, Golf, Dog, Zebra, Zebra, ..."

She'd broken field-craft and hurriedly copied the groups down on a scrap of paper. Old habits came back quickly, and she was able to copy all fifteen five-letter groups without requesting a repeat.

"Roger, copy all. Will advise via normal channels."

"Alpha-Omega, copy, out."

While she'd reminisced, her hands had finished their well-remembered task -- the rifle and all its accessory parts were ready for travel, the beryllium case closed and locked. She piloted her power chair over to the conservatory window, and fished the crumpled page from March's Monthly Missalette where she'd broken the groups -- she'd recovered her senses enough to burn the original scrap once she'd broken it, and disposed of the ashes in her bedpan. Smoothing the wrinkles, she read the message once again:

Target: Code Name Blue Texas
Location: Dallas
Status: Hold
Method: Choice
Next Contact: Fortnight
Instructions: Track and Confirm. Upon Status "Go", Terminate With Extreme Prejudice

She looked again at the cased rifle, sighed, and turned back to the window. After a moment she sighed again and began telling her rosary for someone Code Named Blue Texas.

#

Chauncey Kirkham looked up at his wife of twelve years and mumbled around a mouthful of meatloaf, "This is great babe!" He swallowed and said in a clearer voice, "Sarah, I mean it! This really is great. Do you think that you could make this next Saturday when the guys from my bowling team come over? I bet Sam and Joey have never had it as good."

Sarah smiled to herself. Sam had tasted her "meatloaf" before, and he'd certainly liked it. She wasn't sure if Joey ever would, he had that beer-gut. But he did have cute eyes and a nice butt. Maybe next week she could fit him into her schedule.

"It's just something that I threw together at the last minute." She'd been slaving over that bland concoction of meat and breadcrumbs for most of the day. God, I'm glad I watched Dr. Phil this past week, she thought, I really need to get hubby into a good mood tonight before I break the news to him. I wonder if he'll still think it's great then? Not that I care.

"I've got a meeting of my bridge club that night, Hon, but I'll make it up ahead of time, and all you'll need to do is cook it."

"Aw, babe, that'll be okay I guess, but I think you oughtta be here to get the compliments yourself!"

"Oh pish!" Sarah smiled again. As long as he's in this good a mood, let's just move onto Phase Two. "Hon, let the dishes go. Give me five minutes, then come on up to the bedroom." She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead, then got up and walked slowly over to the stairs, hips swaying. "Remember, five minutes, and no peeking!" She turned and ran lightly up the stairs. Yeah, I'll wear that lingerie that he bought last Christmas that I've never worn; well, not for him, at any rate. Give him a blow job, f*ck him, moan a bit. That'll make him easier to handle. And then tell him about the divorce.

Chauncey leaned back and watched his wife wiggle up the stairs. That usually meant she was horny, or that she'd bought something really expensive. Sometimes both. Five minutes, eh? Okay, he'd play along.

The phone rang as he was stacking the dishes in the sink.

"Hello, Kirkham residence."

"Brother Chauncey, this is Alpha-Omega. I authenticate Seven Tree."

"Alpha-Omega, I authenticate Lloyd Bridges." His reflex answer was past his lips so quickly that it seemed as if no time had passed since he was twenty-eight, fresh from his last job. All before he'd met Sarah, fell in love, and retired from the Business.

"Roger. Groups follow. I set Bravo Zulu. Niner, Fower, Tree, Tree, Una-one, ..."

The voice continued in its singsong recitation. Chauncey noted each group, and broke them as he listened, each group committed to memory as easily as always.

"Roger, copy all. Will advise via normal channels."

"Alpha-Omega, copy, out."

Chauncey left the kitchen and went down into the basement den, sat down at his desk, and opened the bottom drawer. Removing the home model fireproof safe that Sarah thought held the mortgage and insurance papers, he opened it and took out the codebook. He had committed the entire book to memory years ago -- he'd always had the ability to remember exactly anything that he'd ever seen or heard -- but he always double-checked breaking Alpha-Omega's groups.

Target: Code Name Blue Texas
Location: Dallas
Status: Hold
Method: Choice
Next Contact: Fortnight
Instructions: Track and Confirm. Upon Status "Go", Terminate With Extreme Prejudice

Chauncey sat back. Activated. After twelve God-damned years. About f*ckin' time; he'd hated working down at Max's Wide World of Tires Store (Location #231), and he really detested bowling. It was the Lord's punishment that he had a 235 average in the local men's league.

Standing up, he shoved his desk two feet to the left, bent down, and removed the square of loose wallboard. He took out the .32 automatic in its special case and screwed on the silencer. This assignment was his way out, away from the drab life he'd been living.

He didn't bother replacing the desk as he tucked the gun under his belt at the small of his back and started up the stairs. He'd miss Sarah, but the b*tch was cheating on him. Served her right, trying to hide things from him like that.

#
D. J. Paskell, XXIII, heir to the Paskell fortune (when he came of age), was bored. Bored, bored, bored. He'd run through the latest X-Box game in just five hours: hardest level, no hints, and no God Mode. Even cracking into the DoD's SCI network had taken him no more than 12 hours. Granted, the pay was good, but he really didn't need the money. He had plenty of that. He'd inherited quite a pile from his parent's estate -- it was tragic, they way they'd died in that plane crash on their way to his eighth birthday party, shot down by mistake as they jetted in to Orlando from somewhere in the South Pacific. D.J. hadn't been sure where they'd been, and neither had the family servants.

Alpha-Omega knew, though, and had provided the Gulfstream's transponder ID code. All D.J. had to do was upload that info into the US Army's Kwajalein Atoll Reagan Missile Test Range, and the Star Wars Missile Defense System took care of the rest. The settlement he'd gotten from the government to hush him up had been both sizeable, and sufficient.

There was a soft electronic 'ding' from the rack of computer equipment in the corner. An electronic contralto voice said, "Incoming message. PKI token required. Please insert cryptographic key."

D.J. got up from the bean-bag chair and sauntered over to his PC desk. He opened up his e-mail queue and noticed that the highlighted message had no subject line, no addressees, and no sender data displayed.

All right, he thought. He took a thumb drive out of his pocket and inserted it into the front panel USB port. The system activity light blinked.

"Token accepted. Please provide retinal scan."

Hey, this one's important. His normal secure e-mails just needed the PKI cert to unlock. Only one sender required a retinal scan too. Alpha-Omega. Suddenly he wasn't bored anymore.

#
Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport isn't in either city, but is located between them, about twenty miles from each city center. By Texan standards, that's 'right next door, and turn that durned music down I'm trying to sleep here' close. Sister William hadn't been in Dallas since that fateful day in November of 1963. Lee Harvey was a nice boy, but terribly susceptible to manipulation. The JFK job had been the pinnacle of her career -- she'd retired to the Training Staff after that one, except for the occasional "special" that came her way. Still, she was feeling every one of her ninety years. The heat helped to relieve the aches, but she just didn't recover from her days at the Ranch as quickly as she used to.

The nice young man at the Avis desk had helped her put her power chair into the van, and was equally helpful in loading her luggage and in giving her directions to the Mexican consulate. She needed to reclaim her weapon; due to recent events and security changes she'd had to ship it via diplomatic courier. Still, no one would remark on a Nun visiting the Consulate -- especially just days before El día de los Muertos.

#

Brother Chauncey deplaned from American Airlines flight 1184 from Des Moines at Terminal C, gate 33, in Dallas. The guys down at Max's had been just as horrified as he'd been. No one had thought that his wife and his bowling team's captain had been having an affair. Sarah and Joe had been too respectable for that. They must have known that it was wrong themselves. Why else would Joe have committed a murder/suicide? No one blamed Chauncey for not wanting to stay at his own home since he'd found them in his own bedroom, both dead, when he'd returned from a movie. He had told the guys at work that he was going to take Reverend Mueller's advice and take a vacation, get his head straight, right after the funeral. Nobody had said a word about it except in sympathy. It was all too sordid, especially after more details of Sarah's infidelity came out during the investigation.

Chauncey laughed to himself as he picked up his one suitcase from the carousel. He could fly under the radar on this one. If he never showed up at Max's again, everyone would write it off as him just being unable to return and face the shame. Everybody would remember Sarah and Joe and Fred and Sam and every Tom, Dick, and Harry she'd ever met; but nobody would remember the poor schmuck of a husband she'd fooled except that he'd left town after, and never come back. Perfect. That, and the insurance policy had him feeling no regrets.

The Dollar Rent-A-Car van pulled up, and he boarded. As soon as he got the "Go" signal on this one, he'd pocket even more. Then, a quick trip down to Rio de Janero. No extradition, and lots of pretty babes. He settled back in his seat and started whistling.

#
The BlueTexas Family Picnic and Birthday Party Extrordinare took place every year on November 1st at Cedar Hill State Park. This year, they'd gotten the Eagle Ford picnic area reserved early. It was close to parking, a playground for the younger folks, and the Joe Pool Marina for the older ones who wanted to fish. It also provided clear sight lines from the fishing piers and from the Lakeview RV dump station. Those last two points were not really important to the picnickers just yet. Sister William and Brother Chauncey found them quite interesting indeed. The police would find both locations highly informative later on.

Little Kira had just reached the top of the slide when several things happened. First, two LCD monitors changed from reading "Status: Hold" to "Status: Go". Second, two fingers pulled triggers. Third, Kira somersaulted in two different directions off the slide and landed with a squelch on the playground's hard-packed dirt. Immediately following these events, and as kids screamed and various adults converged on Kira's broken and unmoving body, a rental van pulled away from the dump station and a small Bass boat left the fishing pier and headed back toward the marina. No one noticed the two splashes that occurred at the dump station and in the lake, respectively.

#

American Airlines Flight 905 from Dallas to Miami, was boarding. Brother Chauncey paid no attention to the Nun in the wheelchair being helped aboard, he was already looking forward to the short flight in First Class, and then the Varig flight to Rio, also First Class. He could afford that now.

#
D.J.'s computer audio was turned on again, and he was listening in to the tower chatter from Dallas. American FLT905, a Boeing 777, had taken off only five minutes late, and was just being transferred off of the Dallas control net, when his secondary monitor flashed from "Status: Hold" to "Status: Go". He typed the Boeing's transponder number into the target window displayed on his primary monitor and pressed "Enter". The audio feed went silent, then picked up in urgency as controllers tried calling the airliner that had suddenly vanished from their scopes. He shut down his tap into the DoD, and turned his attention back to his X-Box. He was bored, bored, bored. Maybe he could download some pre-release code from Japan ...

Paint

06-22-2005, 01:27 AM

Cecilia watched the spider twirl the fly into a tidy package. Soon the little package was stored in the center of the web, waiting for the day the spider was hungry. The spider web was on Cecilia’s gas meter. The same meter Cecilia never knew how she was going to pay. How did such a small trailer run up such big bills?

Well, Cecilia was hungry now, and she had no food and no money. She thought maybe if she was careful, she could get a package of Twinkies out of the Seven-Eleven before the clerk at the counter caught her. She would just put it in her big droopy pocket and get out. Surely, the clerk would not suspect an elderly woman. Her blue duster was baggy anyway, nice pockets for loading up.

The street was busy and she had a hard time getting across it. She could not walk fast with her bad knees. Cars blared their horns at her, in their usual hurry. Cecilia waved them away with an obscene gesture. By the time she reached the other side she was panting for air. She rested a moment on the bus stop bench. It was hot for April and she had worked up a sweat. It would not do to look sweaty and nervous. That would attract the clerk’s attention. Finally, she was cooler and could breathe easily again.

Cecilia was shuffling now; six lanes of traffic had worn her out. She wondered why those cross lights were only good for two lanes.

Roshee, the girl at the counter was in rare form today. Her usual “Goth-look” was applied heavily, with chains and lots of eye kohl. Black lipstick topped it off; some had smeared on her teeth making them look decayed. Her lip piercing added to the charm, decorated with a Moon Goddess charm that wobbled when she talked. Talking was a chore too; her tongue was pierced also with a pea-sized gold stud. Cecilia sighed, where were the pretty girls of the forties?

Cecilia pretended to be looking at the carryout pizza sign until Roshee looked busy. Reaching over, she slipped the Twinkies in her side pocket, and shuffled to the door. Impending victory made her move faster.

Suddenly Roshee yelled at her. “Thethilia, you need to pay for that Tinkie!” Busted! Cecilia started to apologize. Roshee just looked at her.

“Thethilia, do you have any money?” Roshee asked.

“Not until my Social Security check comes on Friday.”

“The Tinkie is on me. She said. Grab some pitha too.”

Munching her pizza and ambling along the street, Cecilia started wondering about that Moon Goddess charm. Did Roshee really think it would protect her? It was very nice of her to give Cecilia the food. The pizza would last two days.

Cecilia thought about how simple her life was now, so different from when she was younger. Life had been all about the money then. Cecilia had given up having children and a marriage for a career. Then she had lost all the money on bad investments. She walked along slowly, watching the ground for change as she went.

Really, her life was not that bad, she was broke most of the time, but she had her nice little trailer and she was comfortable. She did not feel sorry for herself. Heck, some days she got to go to the dog track. Besides, there were nice girls like the whacky Roshee to make life bearable.

Shots blasted through the air like a bad TV show. Cecilia ducked into the bushes and tried to find the source of all the noise.

Cecilia realized with a sharp pain to the heart that it was coming from the mini-mart. Oh no! Not Roshee! Cecilia headed back that way, hoping she could help. Dang these old knees! She was hurrying as much as she could, and it still seemed to take forever to get there.

Just as she got around the corner, two men came tearing out of the mart. One was carrying a gun. They were mean looking with ski masks on.

“Hey! What’s going on here sonny?” Cecilia yelled.

A blast tore through the air and Cecil went down, wounded.

“What kind of a stupid old bat am I, anyway?” She asked herself. She saw blood dripping from a hole in her stomach. It was starting to pool on the sidewalk. She seemed far above it all, looking down on herself. This must be how it feels to die, she thought. At least her knees did not hurt any longer.

Strangely, she thought of the spider, saving for another day. The spider might be wrong. The thing to do might be to live for today.

Kim Gogo

06-22-2005, 01:45 AM

Etta eased herself into a wing-back chair in the living room, away from the noise and clatter in the backyard. The air conditioning was refreshing. No amount of lemonade could cut through the humidity of the day.

She looked around the room at the pictures that her daughter-in-law had hung on the walls. Above the fireplace, a family portrait of she with Daniel and Etta's two grandchildren when they were only one and three. They have grown so fast. Etta looked at the eyes of Megan and Christopher. Those eyes had promised excitement and adventure right from the start. On either side of the picture window, graduation portraits of the children from high school.

Etta held her gaze on Megan's portrait. She had turned into a beautiful, young lady. And now, a mother of three. The twins squealed as they ran through the sprinkler in the backyard and Etta smiled at the window. Though she couldn't see them, she could picture them and their older brother as if they were standing right before her.

Etta's gaze shifted to Christopher's portrait and when her eyes met his, she could feel the familiar tightness in her chest. Christopher had dreamed of being a policeman since he had broken his arm when he was eleven. He had fallen off of his bike in busy traffic and an officer had helped Christopher into his cruiser, and stored the bike in his trunk, and took Christopher to the Civic. The pain of the injury had been lost to the thrill of riding in the cruiser, especially when the officer had blasted the siren purely for Christopher's pleasure.

Etta's eyes moistened and she pulled a crumpled tissue from her sleeve and dabbed at the tears. Christopher had graduated from the Academy at the head of his class; the graduation portrait long since moved to Daniel's bedroom wall. He was nearing his ninth year on the force last Fall when he and his partner had responded to a domestic call. The coroner had said that he had felt no pain.

Etta closed her eyes in an attempt to quell the rise of emotion. The anniversary of Christopher's death was a month away. She had no interest in celebrating her ninetieth birthday, but Sandra had insisted and Daniel supported his wife.

Megan slid the patio door open and Etta turned at the noise.

"Hi Grandma. Are you okay?" She asked, kneeling beside Etta's chair and touching her grandmother's frail arm with her hand.

"I am, dear. Thank you."

Megan smiled at her grandmother as Etta patted her hand with her other hand, that was still clutching the moist tissue.

"I love you, Grandma." Tears rose in Megan's eyes.

"I love you, too, dear."

Megan turned her head to the portrait of Christopher, and a tear slid down her cheek.

"I miss him so much." Her voice cracked and her lip quivered as she spoke.

"I do, too." Etta looked at the portrait and then back at Megan. "But he isn't far, Megan. He's with us all of the time. In here."

Etta pressed her tissued hand to her breast and Megan rested her head on Etta's arm. Etta reached out and stroked Megan's long, black hair. She could feel Megan's tears as they slid across her arm.

Megan wept silently and Etta never stopped stroking her granddaughter's hair.

"Mommy, I have to pee." Brayden pushed through the door and rushed toward the washroom, dripping wet.

Megan laughed as she stood. Her eyes and nose were red from crying, but at the sound of her four year old, she dabbed her face with a tissue from the box next to the chair and smiled at Etta.

"I better go make sure he flushes." Megan kissed Etta's forehead.

"I'll see you later, dear." Etta called to her.

The tightness in Etta's chest had gripped her stronger, with Megan's sadness. She always felt pain when her children and grandchildren were in pain. She squeezed at her blouse and took a deep breath, in search of composure, but the pain only increased. Etta closed her eyes and envisioned Megan and Christopher at the cottage, splashing in the lake and chasing each other with buckets of water. Every summer, the family gathered at Etta and William's cottage. Though William had departed when the grandkids were still in diapers, Daniel brought Etta every June and spent weekends with her until September, when he would return her to her senior's apartment. After Christopher's passing, Daniel and Sandra stopped going to the cottage, though Megan and Tom continued to take Brayden, Ashley and Kaley. And every Monday, Megan would email Etta the pictures of the children playing on the beach. She looked forward to each Monday, in anticipation of the pictures.

Etta took another deep breath. The visions in her mind changed to Christopher's graduation from high school. He had looked so handsome in his gown and cap. Megan and Tom had been dating through high school and Tom had taken a picture of Etta with Daniel, Sandra, Megan and Christopher. That photo still sat in its wooden frame beside Etta's bed and every night, it was the last picture that Etta looked at before turning off the lamp.

The vision changed to Christopher standing in his uniform in front of Etta's apartment. On his first day on the force, he had arrived at her apartment and shown her his assigned car. He had taken his cap off as she stepped outside and he smiled at her with a broad grin that had sent a shiver through Etta. She had been so proud of him, she couldn't find words. She had clasped her hands in front of her mouth and he had kissed her on the cheek.

"Grandma, I wanted you to be the first person to see me in full uniform today."

The pride she felt that day could only be matched by the fear she felt. But there was no other choice for Christopher. This is what he wanted to be.

"Grandma?" Etta gasped at his voice, but her eyes remained closed.

"Grandma, I've missed you." Christopher stood before Etta, with his hand outstretched.

Etta reached up and took it and he helped her to her feet. The pain in her chest was gone.

"Christopher." She whispered.

He took her in his strong arms and held her tightly, the way he had before that terrible night. She felt no more pain at remembering that night. It was no match to the joy she felt at being in her grandson's arms once more.

robeiae

06-22-2005, 04:55 AM

On William's theme for week seven:

The Surprise Party

Fumbling in her purse, she finally found her keys. It was dusk; there was just enough light left to find the right key and slide it into the lock. With an easy twist of her hand, the bolt slide open. She turned the knob and stepped inside her small home...

Surprise Granny! Happy Birhtday!

"Oh, my! I...aack!" She crumpled to the floor, not a yard from the still open door.

The End

William Haskins

06-22-2005, 05:32 AM

goddammit!

/deletes document and starts over.

aadams73

06-22-2005, 05:41 AM

Can I join in?

----------------------

Happy Birthday to Me

I was a hot tomato. That's what they used to call me way back when. Back before we joined the second Great War. Back before times changed and skirts grew short and hair inched its way past the collar of a man's shirt. Back before I brought three children into this world and their offspring along with them

In the days when I was a hot tomato, the mention of illegal liquor titillated me. I'd sip rough whiskey made by Lord knows who, and hoist up my skirts kicking my heels in the air to the scratchy sound of a gramophone. Yes, we have no bananas; no, we have no sugar, at least not until next month. One never grew used to that.

I'd throw my head back and laugh gaily at my latest escort, pretending that I didn't care that any minutes the authorities could come in and ruin our jolly time.

Time passed, I ceased being a hot tomato. I evolved into a darling, a dear, a sweet heart. I traded the Charleston for a dishrag and a broom. I traded frisky men for just one who called me his own dear heart. I traded me for we. I traded whiskey for the sugar that became plentiful again.

The years of the second Great War were harsh. Three children. My husband was gone fighting another race. I worked like a man to make our frayed ends meet. During the Second World War, I became a man, working for women's pay.

When my husband, my beloved, returned from war, he left behind the man he had been in a strange land, and came home with another soul occupying his body. His new self, like the others of his kind, forced all of us who became men in their absence to become women again. And not just women; they wanted us to be less so they could become more. So they could regain what they had once been. Reluctantly, and only out of love, I yielded my new self to make way for the old.

War came and passed. More families were cloven in two. We women gained power in the kitchen under the guise of T.V. dinners, and birth control. By then my time had passed, I no longer needed that kind of control. It was my daughter's time to grasp the changing world and bend it to her will.

I evolved again from darling, dear and sweetheart, to Grandma my favorite endearment so far. All they joy I missed while I was out being a man and making a living for my family was mine again when I felt the hugs of my grandbabies arms around my neck. The sweet baby smell healed old wounds.

Corruption in politics pushed the world into war again. This time the loss was mine; a son, my only was gone forever, leaving tears and grief in his wake. No comfort could be had. He died for nothing. No single individual won freedom from his fight. I mourned and my age which had thus far been creeping along suddenly tackled me and held me hostage in its grasp.

Great-grandmother. Nana. A name which commanded respect and received none. My husband gone, I became an anchor in my family's lives. An obligation. I did the proper thing and released them from their duty. They held on to me, and called me granny-hot tomato. I came full circle. It took a lifetime to achieve.

Today, they are celebrating my birthday. Ninety, they tell me. The table is laden, my cake is chocolate--my favorite and nine candles flicker above the gooey frosting. My entire family--minus the casualties--is in attendance, to celebrate my life. I love them for it.

My youngest great-grand daughter, just seven years old, blows out my candles for me.

"I wish Nana was here to eat some cake," she said.

From my perch above, I wished for it too.

mommie4a

06-23-2005, 06:41 AM

He looked hopefully at the buttons on her blouse and imagined the pleasure of undoing them and exposing her lean torso and inviting breasts, which he had missed for so long.

He’d listed the pros and cons a thousand times.

DO IT BECAUSE:

-it could improve the rest of my sex life.

-it could provide me with unique artistic insights and ideas.

-I'll go to church more often, or at least pray more often, because of the guilt.

-it could prolong my life. He wasn’t sure how, but being sexually satisfied, even illicitly, must be connected to good health, even if the stress and anxiety brought on by the illicit nature of the act might compromise the good health.

-it will increase my appreciation for everything I have in life that's good.

-the guilt I’ll feel afterwards will keep me from pursuing other illicit behaviors - the same ones or of a different type, at least for some amount of time.

-just the idea that it could happen will keep me in good shape because I wouldn't want to disappoint.

-I’ll have less time to drink heavily.

-There are cardiovascular benefits of heavy breathing.

DON’T DO IT BECAUSE:

-I’ll have a heart attack in the middle of the act and die.

-I’ll get mugged and die on my way to work; the autopsy will show that I just had sex.

-My wife finds out and divorces me.

-Her husband finds out and has me killed.

-There's another 9/11 and my family die.

-I become unemployable and end up drinking Woollite in the gutter.

-Each of these events involves authorities uncovering every orgasm or erection-inducing word of lust I thought I’d destroyed.

Thoughts like these helped him rationalize what a rat he really was. At 40 years old, he still believed that he could be the head cheese and manage at least one arcade game hangout. The parent company, after all, had given him a chance, and not many sex offenders could say that.

But after eighteen months of reporting to his probation officer, filing forms every time he moved and counseling with his family, he could still do no better for a job than be a singing, dancing rodent for everyone from eight year old boys to 90 year old grandmothers. At least the rat’s buck teeth and beady eyes hid his tendencies toward every hostess and teenage mother that looked like a fine piece of cheese.

And until he could be trusted to no longer have those tendencies, he’d have to live off other people's party scraps. Maybe forever.

William Haskins

06-23-2005, 06:23 PM

disturbingly beautiful, jill. you've surprised me.

mommie4a

06-23-2005, 07:21 PM

disturbingly beautiful, jill. you've surprised me.

Thank you, William. I take that as extremely high praise and affirmation that I achieved something worthy. (I love when I feel compelled to re-examine my expectations of something or someone.) Just because I write about moms, motherhood, kids and spouses all the time, doesn't mean I don't want to write about anything else. I just need to shake that "writes what she knows" bug and get over my insecurities about doing so.

I appreciate the boost.

mdmkay

06-25-2005, 07:05 AM

I don't know what I'm going to do when the Idol contest is over. I think I'm becoming addicting to not only reading JFF and the finalist threads but posting for each theme. Until I got to doing this I had never written fiction for adults or any short fiction at all. I love it so much I may actually try and find an outlet for it........if I ever get any good at it that is. Well here goes for this week......

“Another year, another birthday,” thought Abigail as she tried to straighten the collar on the new dress one of her daughters had given her to wear for the celebration of Abigail’s ninetieth birthday. Giving the collar one last tug with swollen misshapen knuckles from years of arthritis Abigail looked into the mirror barely recognizing the old woman staring back at her. “When did I become so old?”

“You’re only as old as you think Miss Abigail,” the answer came from the young aide whom she despised for being so damn perky and calling her that stupid name. After having spent over 50 years married to the love her life, bearing him five children, and grieving his death for the last 20 years the least she earned was the respect of being called Mrs. Peltson. She couldn’t count the times she had reminded the twit of those facts, but every day she continued to chirp Miss Abigail like a broken record.

“I didn’t realize I’d spoken out loud Angie. Please quit fussing with the bed. I made it myself this morning. My daughter and grand daughter will be here to pick me up soon. I’d like to have few minutes alone to prepare myself if you don’t mind.”

“Naw Miss Abigail, I don’t mind at all. You look just fine. Just make sure you go pee before they come and take a fresh pair of panties with ya…..ya know…just in case…” her voice trailed off as she walked out of the room and down the hall of the nursing home.

“Take me now Lord. Take me now.” Abigail muttered trying to calm her rising temper. “Since when have I needed toilet training instructions…James, If you don’t come and take me away from here to join you soon, I swear I’m going to kill her one of these days,” she huffed throwing things from her regular purse into the purse that she had decided to use that day.

~~

“How have you been mom?” Jessie asked as they drove away from the nursing home where her mother had lived for the last ten years.

“I think you already know the answer to that Jessie. I hate living in that place. I miss my home. I miss my gardens. Does that pretty much cover it?” Abigail threw back. This was the same argument that began every time she and Jessie talked since Jessie and her husband had committed her to living in that horrible place. “I may be ninety but I’m still perfectly capable of taking care of myself, just as I have ever since your father died.”

“Mom, please let’s not have this discussion again. I know you weren’t ready for the nursing home but you couldn’t keep living on the farm either. It was too isolated for you to live there alone. Dad never did put in a decent heating system or even indoor plumbing. It was one thing to live there in the summer but what were you going to do in the dead of winter? Without Raymond there to keep an eye on the animals and do chores there was no longer any choice but to move you. Remember it was you who vetoed the idea of hiring another live-in farmhand. You said, and I repeat, that you could not bear the thought of sharing James house with a stranger,” Jessie repeated the same old reasons she always gave her mom. She was as tired of this argument as her mom was. “If there had been any openings at the retirement villa, which there weren’t at the time, we would have tried to get you in there. Losing your temper and taking a swing at Ralph didn’t help any. The hospital bills for the hip surgery you had after you swung and missed pretty well put paid to what savings you had. The nursing home was the only option.”

“Mom, Grandma, please don’t fight. It’s Grandma’s birthday today. How often do you get to celebrate your ninetieth birthday? It’s going to be a beautiful day and everyone is going to be there today,” a pleading voice came from the backseat.

“Abby’s right. It’s too beautiful of day to be fighting mom. We should be celebrating,” Jessie said echoing her young daughter’s sentiments while looking at Abby lovingly in the rear view mirror. Abigail could never refuse a request from her young namesake. She had been so proud when Jessie had laid the beautiful baby girl in her arms twelve years ago and told her that they had named the baby Abigail after her. Abby was kind, compassionate, and showed wisdom well beyond her years already. An easy silence filled the car for the rest of the ride to the nearby recreation area.

It always amazed Abigail through the years how the humble family she and James started grew by leaps and bounds until the park was now crowded by at least sixty family members gathered around to celebrate her birthday. As she looked around at the smiling faces each bearing some characteristic resemblance to one standing next to them that shouted out to any one interested enough to look, that they were indeed of the same family tree; Abigail’s heart once again swelled with pride. Abigail loved her family and normally loved life and believed in living each day fully. Lately though she had begun to feel tired. She felt as if there were more than just this decaying body she inhabited and day by day she felt the tug of something…..something she couldn’t quite define…but she knew she had lived without James for too long. She missed having control over her own destiny even her own daily schedule. She had never been afraid of dying. She had always believed in an after life….of something much better then what she had now, but until recently she had always felt the needs of others anchoring her to this plane. Looking around her now she realized that her time of being needed here was over, but not knowing how to get to the other side, all she felt now was a sense of waiting…..waiting and wanting to start anew. Mentally shaking her head to rid herself of such nonsense she began to greet her family members trying to keep as many names straight as she could. It was bad enough to face the physical indignity of getting old but she would be damned if she would allow her memory to go the way of her young joints and nimble fingers.

Later escaping the eagle eye of her daughter, Jessie, Abigail decided to take herself for a short walk down to the shoreline. Feeling the breeze fluttering the hem of her dress and through her hair Abigail felt a peace she had not felt for a very long time. Out of earshot of the continuing party Abigail succumbed to the rhythmic lapping of the waves, losing track of time and distance as she walked. Long after she would have normally tired and had to have stopped to rest, Abigail saw a lone figure on the beach up ahead. The beat of her heart began to speed up as the distance between her and the now familiar man closed. A giddy laugh escaped her lips as they both broke into a run to meet. He held her body close as he lifted her off her feet swinging her around in a half circle before sliding her down his body for a long awaited kiss.

“James,” she sighed.

“Abigail,” he said as he smiled down at her.

“I’ve been waiting so long for you to come for me,” she said breathless with love and the desire she had not felt since she was young.

“I’m here now. Happy Birthday darling.”

jdkiggins

06-25-2005, 07:13 AM

OMG, Jill, excellent. You really aren't going back to Chucky Cheese for another birthday party, are you? :ROFL:

Cassie88

06-25-2005, 07:44 AM

Kay, I really enjoyed your piece this week. Good job, girl!

jdkiggins

06-25-2005, 07:59 AM

aadams and Kay, great stories!

Sarita

06-26-2005, 06:35 AM

Just throwing this out there.... (40 y/o man... 700 words) Indeed, just for fun.

Forget the Fatty

The giggling girls streamed into PJ Harrigan's with an enthusiasm that seemed to come from years of friendship. Jeff looked down at his feet and wondered what he the hell was doing there. Miranda elbowed him.

"Jeff, sweetie. Don't be so shy! They're going to like you. Besides it's my birthday, you promised to mingle!"

"Right, I know." The girls were taking their seats, now. He wondered how long it would take for him to hit on the hot one at the end. Those tight jeans were killing him. He found a seat between Miranda and one of the cute girls. This was going to be an awful night.

"Thanks so much for coming, girls," Miranda gushed, "You only turn 25 once and I'm really happy that you're all here with me as I slide down the back side of my twenties." Twitch, she said backside. "And I wanted you all to meet my guy. Everyone, this is Jeff. Jeff this is everyone. Amy, Cassie, Sally, Char, Jen, Rachel, Laura, the other Jen, and Shannon." Was he supposed to remember all that?

"Come on, Miranda! There's no way he'll remember all that." It was hot pants. "I'm sure we'll talk later, I'm Rachel." She raised her brow on the sure and let her gaze linger a second too long.

Jeff shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He turned his attention to Miranda, her hand was suddenly on his leg.

"Let's order! I'm starving." she said. Diversionary tactic, Jeff made a mental note to keep his eye on Rachel. She must be a threat. He liked threats.

"Hiya Everyone! I'm Hannah, I'll be your server tonight. Can we start down on this end and work our way around? What would you like to drink, hon?" Hannah was not on his list of things to do tonight.

"She'll have a margarita and I'll have a Bud Light."

Hannah progressed around the table, taking orders for various type of frozen fruity drinks and smiling cheerfully. She was really getting in Jeff's way, blocking the view with her huge a ss. She seemed to be unusually chatty for a waitress.

"I'll be back in a minute to take your order. Does anyone have any questions? No? Okay, I'll be right back." Her teeth seemed to pop out of her mouth when she smiled. Did she work at the Uni-Mart, too? No, that wasn't it. This would bother him all night and hot pants was giving him the eye again. Forget the fatty.

"Excuse me," Rachel said as she stood from the table. "Bathroom. Be right back." A backward glance invited him to come along. Perfect timing, too. Miranda was looking the other way. Jeff waited for as long as he could, which amounted to about 15 seconds and exclaimed his sudden need for urinal relief.

He tried to appear normal as he took the path toward the ladies room. As he rounded the corner near the bar, he ran, smack, into Smiley Hannah. She didn't have her drinks yet, praise the gods of horny 40 year olds. Her smile looked a bit strained, she giggled.

"Mr. Crafton, Jeff...I was hoping to talk to you, without all the company."

"Sure, what's up?" Who was this?

"Well, I was hoping we could have a repeat of the other night. You know, I had a really good time at Roxanne's. I never go clubbing, but wow was I glad I went that night." She was giggling again.

"Right, right. I'm sort of in the middle of a thing right now, but why don't you give me your number," what am I doing? "and I'll give you a call this weekend."

"This weekend isn't really good for me, but here's my number. Give me a call next week. Maybe we can," giggles "have a repeat session sometime during the week." She put her hand to her mouth as if she were embarrassed, but this girl was incorrigible.

Jeff nodded and turned to go back to the table, kicking himself for running into the waitress. No chance with hot pants in the bathroom. Rounding the corner he ran, smack, into Miranda. Were people waiting at these corners just to run into him?

Oh. No. He looked back at Hannah.

"Happy Birthday, Miranda."

"Thanks, sis." S hit.

maestrowork

06-26-2005, 08:22 AM

...

maestrowork

06-26-2005, 08:39 AM

You guys are giving the contestants a run for their money! I can't/won't crit. But I'd say I'm glad to see people posting here... and maybe this fever would spill over to SYW.

Jill -- I love the twisted mind of yours
Kay -- I got a mention in your story! ;) A bitter sweet story you have there.
Sara -- really cute. I love the ending -- so succinct.

mommie4a

06-27-2005, 04:47 AM

Hey Kay - what a neat ending. Nice transition into something that could've been corny.

Sara - reading yours made me realize that I rarely write young. I need to think about that. I really liked how with it and with the 20somethings your dialogue and setting seemed to be. Makes me think about having to get out of my midlife rut. Thanks!

rhymegirl

06-27-2005, 06:58 AM

I know I'm late with this, but.....

Here's my JFF story about a birthday party.

The “Surprise” Party

Gertrude didn’t want to take her medicine. She shoved it away. “Get that outta my face.”

Donna, the little volunteer who was hired just for the summer, jumped back, dropping the pills on the floor. She quickly got down on her knees to scoop them up.

“Is Gert giving you problems, honey?” It was Norma, the wide-hipped RN who didn’t take any bull from anyone.

“She…”

“Don’t answer for me, you little twit. I don’t want those pills, they take away my libido.”

Norma shook her head and chuckled. “Okay, Gertrude. Real funny. You’re 90 years old, hon. Don’t think you need to worry about that stuff anymore.”

The elderly nursing home patient glared at her. “What would you know? Bet you haven’t had a date since…well since never.”

Norma’s smile vanished. “You need to take your pills, Gertrude. Now stop making such a fuss. Poor Donna was just trying to do her job.”

The old woman clamped her mouth shut and turned away in her chair. When she got like this there was no reasoning with her.

“Come on, hon, let’s go check on the others.” Norma gestured to Donna to follow her down the hall.

“But what about her meds?”

Norma whispered, “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of her,” and the two of them disappeared down the hallway.

Now alone in her chair in her bedroom, Gertrude smiled. Tonight was the night when that fine-looking janitor they called Donnie was on duty. Oh, that curly hair, those dimpled cheeks, those muscular arms drove Gertrude quite insane. He so reminded her of her late husband Walter, gone now for the past twenty years. She’d outlived him, outtalked him, outsmarted him, maybe even outloved him. In fact, it was that last wild tempestuous burst of lovemaking that did him in. He died happy though, with a big smile on his face. Gertrude always figured if you had to die, that’s the best way to go. She didn’t want to go quietly in her sleep, but noisily and happily.

The first dilemma would be getting rid of that nosy, loudmouthed, whip cracking Norma. Gert needed a plan of action. One of her attributes at 90 was a sharp mind that helped her out of many a pickle. Most of these nursing assistants and RNs were no match for Gertrude. She had outsmarted many of them. But Norma—Norma was another matter. Nothing got past her. Gertrude did some fast thinking and came up with a scheme that would put Norma out of her way. But first, she needed a patsy.

Padding over to her doorway, Gertrude peered out and scanned the hallway. Where was that dipsy little redheaded newbie? She’d be perfect for this plan. Ah! Before too long, Gertrude had her spotted. Patting her hair a bit, she got into position. Now for the kill.

“Oh, oh, my heart!” With a thud, Gertrude hit the ground.

Helpful little Donna came running right on cue. “Oh my goodness, Mrs. Gordon, are you okay?” Donna knelt over Gertrude, taking her pulse, assessing her condition. “Oh no. This is all my fault.”

Gertrude opened her eyes. Feigning weakness, she said, “Oh, no it’s not, young lady. Just be a good girl and go and get that…go and get Norma.”

Donna smiled, nodded, and hurried off to fetch Norma. Gertrude closed her eyes and lay on the floor in wait.

Both women came rushing into her room within minutes.

“Gertrude! Can you hear me?” Norma’s booming voice drilled through Gertrude’s head. “GERTRUDE!”

Fluttering her eyelids, Gertrude played along. “My pills. Need my pills. Water.”

Norma sent Donna to fetch the pills and a glass of water. Then, when she leaned close, Gertrude made her move. Knowing the nurse kept a syringe filled with sedative in her right pocket, Gertrude pulled it out and jabbed it into the nurse’s arm. “Wha?” was all Norma could muster, flailing a bit before she konked out on the floor. It was quite difficult for a woman her age, but since she was so determined, Gertrude managed to push the nurse aside after she’d sat up, then slowly, little by little she crawled her way over to the bed and used the bedpost to pull herself up. That young one would be back soon with the pills so Gert would have to act fast. Hmm. What to use? She was a skinny little thing so knocking her out wouldn’t be too hard. Or maybe just…yes, that would do it. A little time-out in the closet would be just the thing.

Donna came scurrying back with the pills as Gertrude hid behind the open door.

“Mrs. Gordon?” the young woman called, just as she spotted the nurse on the floor. Very swiftly, Gertrude pushed the door shut with one hand and grabbed Donna by the hair with the other. She dragged her over to the closet and shoved her inside. Luckily, there was a latch and lock on the door, so Gertrude used them both for good measure.

While the girl pounded on the door and yelled, Gertrude said, “See ya, sweetie,” and turned around to make her exit.

****

Meanwhile, Donnie, the night janitor was just coming on duty. As some of the exiting nurses and nursing assistants who had just finished their shifts walked past him they said, “Happy Birthday, Donnie!” He nodded, smiled, then walked over to sign in at the desk. A heavy black woman stationed there looked him up and down.

“Umm, umm, looking good, Donnie boy. How old are you again today?”

The janitor, looking uncomfortable, mumbled, “Forty, Alice. Don’t remind me.”

Alice let out a huge laugh. “Oh, what are you saying? You’re just a baby. Why, you don’t look more than twenty-five.”

Donnie smiled, nodded, said goodbye after signing in, and headed to the janitor’s closet to retrieve his floorwashing equipment. While he was busy setting things up, the other nightshift employees were busily huddling together in the kitchen preparing for a birthday party. Donnie had no idea they were throwing him a party, and if he had, he would have balked at the idea. All he cared about was doing his job, getting it over with, then maybe heading out to the bars when he was off-duty. He hadn’t had a date in months after his last relationship went sour, and he couldn’t stand to wait much longer for some much-needed relief.

Adjusting his headphones, Donnie turned his attention to the floor in front of him. What a sticky mess! Looked like some old-timer dropped some pudding or custard or God knows what all over the place and he just had to…

Someone was touching him in a very private place.

“Ooh, I just loooove you!” Gertrude kissed Donnie on the cheek while simultaneously groping his inner thigh.

“What the …?” Donnie squirmed to get away from Gertrude’s clutches, but she was all over him.

“Did I hear somebody say it’s your birthday today? What would you like for your birthday?” Gertrude’s laugh was the most hideous laugh Donnie had ever heard in his life. He struggled to push her away without breaking any of her bones or touching her in any of the wrong places. But Gertrude was a determined, horny old woman who wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

“Help!” Donnie yelled to an empty corridor. “Is anybody there!”

“Nobody’s here,” cooed Gertrude. “Now quit talking and pucker up.”

Fifteen minutes later, the night crew came rushing out into the corridor with a big cake, singing, “Happy Birthday to you,” to Donnie. Finding him on the floor with Gertrude on top of him, they all burst out laughing.

“Damn, Donnie,” said one of them. “I knew you were desperate, but this just takes the cake.”

mommie4a

06-27-2005, 07:10 AM

That was more satisfying than the best birthday cake I've ever tasted!! Thanks, Kathy. Great, great reading. Fun.

mommie4a

07-02-2005, 12:16 AM

maestrowork

07-02-2005, 04:33 AM

I think we should just pick any one (or two) of the four prompts and run with them. Should be fun.

(Make sure you state which prompt to which you're writing)

Duncan J Macdonald

07-02-2005, 07:01 AM

Not sure how JFF entrants want to handle the final assignment. I'm thinking that I will pick one of the four prompts, between Sarah's and William's choices, and then one prompt from all the others suggested.I'm a masochist. I'll be doing all four of the finalists' choices. I set the tone for myself last week when I did all three assignments rolled into one story.
Remember, the masochist says "Hurt me!" and the sadist says "No!"

Paint

07-02-2005, 07:00 PM

I'm with Maestrowork...one or two of the posts selected and you state it at the beginning.

DJP

07-02-2005, 07:36 PM

Yeah Jill, I like that idea. I think I'll pick one from the four prompts and then one from all the others.

mommie4a

07-02-2005, 07:46 PM

I think folks have enjoyed whatever's posted here, whether it's one story, two stories, or several prompts combined. Good exercise, good reading, good writing (we hope!).

rhymegirl

07-02-2005, 08:26 PM

I think folks have enjoyed whatever's posted here, whether it's one story, two stories, or several prompts combined. Good exercise, good reading, good writing (we hope!).

I think you are right! :)

mommie4a

07-02-2005, 09:17 PM

http://hosted.ap.org/dynamic/stories/I/IDAHO_MISSING_CHILDREN?SITE=NYNYP&SECTION=HOME&TEMPLATE=DEFAULT

mommie4a

07-03-2005, 09:28 PM

I've never written anything (purposefully) in this style before. But I couldn't stop myself with this one.

Stars and Stings Forever

Tears streaming groaning grunting eyes squinting tight. Backhanded wrists wiping swiping leave drying streaks. Sniffles sighs and breaths. Glasses on crooked on the bridge of my nose. Sharp knife plunging cutting slicing sight unseen. Uneven. Near fingers? Peeking, can’t look. Feeling wet hard cold cool. Cup and toss and walk away. Damn. Red onion pasta salad. The picnic better be good.

SRHowen

07-04-2005, 06:33 AM

OK--where are the choices?? I may be dumb or something but I can't find them.

rhymegirl

07-04-2005, 07:14 AM

Shawn,

If you go to the Absolute Write Idol thread: Sticky: The Voters Choice! Come on Over. Post#93 (Sarah's choices) and #97 (William's choices)
Sarah has to pick one of Will's choices and one of hers; and vice versa.

Paint

07-06-2005, 08:47 PM

Short story
439 words

“Okay now you have got to be kidding! She kisses a what and they live where?” I couldn't beleive my frozen ears.

“Happily Ever After” Mr. Grimm said, shaking his long grey hair at me. He was trying to keep the snow brushed off his long dark coat, with a tri-corne hat.

“That’s not how I would have written it. I am Stephen Bing, master of suspense and horror. There’s no twist, no thrill, no sense of ‘get up and lock the door.’ I know what people want to read.”

“My tales are written for small, larky children.” Mr. Grimm replied with great distain. “They are written to read around the fireside. Not to scare them so they throw up their porridge.”

“Larky? Larky? What do they learn in your stories? How a girl must have a prince to make her life ‘happily ever after?’ My audience is young people (and older, I added to myself proudly) who can challenge me with video games. They keep me running to keep up with them mentally with theories of quantum discoveries. Larky?” I ridiculed, but to no avail, the elusive Mr. Grimm only snorted.

Trying a new tact, I remarked casually, “I have a hat just like that. I found it up in my attic. It was lodged behind a door. Cleaned up nice.” I showed it to him.

Mr. Grimm stared at me with the most unusual of looks. Suspicious even. I began to feel distinctly uneasy.

“What? I was just making conversation.” I seemed to be making the gentleman angry, and I had not the slightest idea why. “Let me see your hat again.”

“No!” He replied quite emphatically. What was up? I wondered. Grimm tried to hide the hat behind his back, but not before I saw the hole. I drew in my breath sharply. My hat had a hole in it too! The landscape tilted. All of a sudden the snow seemed to turn pink. I think all the blood rushed to my head.

“Mr. Grimm, do you wear that hat when you write stories?” I asked him very quietly.

“Well, yes it is my splendid tale hat.”

“Mr. Grimm, it is my lucky hat. I write my best stories when I am wearing it”

We stared at each other, the truth too much to understand.

I gulped quite noisily. The stories… the stories, from my mind to his. Through a hole in a hat. It couldn’t be. I cleared my throat. It felt like all the dirt of the earth was lodged there.

“She kissed a frog, and then you say…”

Ddama

07-08-2005, 09:47 AM

'lo, all. Been wrapped up in the dreaded moving... missed out on last week's entry, because it's on the computer that hasn't been unpacked yet. Brilliant move on my part... anyway, a touch of the old stream of consciousness for your troubles. however many words it comes out to.

hit by a car. i was alone in algeria when my son died at fifteen hit by a car driven by a drunk frat boy to kill them all i wanted to hurt so bad every drunk driver and make them all relive those final seconds I wasn't there suffering crushed me, folded, mutilated, spindled.
outside poverty rape war, civil and other.
inside five stars a drunk man pressed me against the wall of the elevator tired scared too tired and scared and scarred to scream his heavy moustache reeking of vodka at nine AM tout le juif he said pointing his finger in my face tout le juif vivent a new york drunk please God don't hurt me stay calm and breathe.
the door opened in the lobby they pointed and whispered
killed
ashqarah
pied noir
wearing mourning like a veil
pressed up against the wall breathe.
breathe dark-skinned honeysuckle jinbad the concierge madame he says your car is here your luggage is packed we are so sorry for your loss please visit us again.
your car tout le juif he drunk cried i wasn't there for him in algeria. hit by a car.

DJP

07-11-2005, 08:37 AM

Okay, Mkcbunny prompted for a children's story, so here's mine. I would love any feedback anyone could give me, here or by pm or email. I really want to see this one published one day, so I'm open to honesty. Thanks.

HEARTPRINTS

by
Darla Paskell

Every day, Daddy comes home and calls, “Where’s my little angel?” Giggles and little footfalls disappear down the hall. “Daddy’s coming for a kiss!” he STOMP, STOMP, STOMPS down the hall. “What’s this? Angel footprints for me to follow!” The giggles grow louder, and soon Daddy has his little angel bouncing in his arms.

“Again Daddy, again!” she squirms down and races to another room.

“Daddy’s coming for a kiss!” he calls, STOMP, STOMP, STOMP. “Following angel footprints…”

Some time passes, and Daddy still comes home every day and calls, “Where’s my little angel?” Giggles come from somewhere in the house, and Daddy STOMP, STOMP, STOMPS to them. “Daddy’s coming for a kiss! Oh look, angel footprints for me to follow.” The giggles grow louder, and soon Daddy has his little angel snuggling in his arms.

“Again Daddy, again!” she shuffles to another room, and he soon follows, looking for his kiss.

Some more time passes, and Daddy still comes home every day and calls, “Where’s my little angel?” Giggles come from the nest on the couch, and Daddy STOMP, STOMP, STOMPS to them. “Daddy’s coming for a kiss, following an angel’s footprints.” He kisses the tip of her nose, and she giggles softly.

“Again Daddy, again,” she whispers. He carries her to another room, and STOMP, STOMP, STOMPS with her in his arms.

“Daddy’s coming for a kiss!” he calls, and cuddles her close.

Even more time passes, and Daddy still comes home every day and calls, “Where’s my little angel?” He STOMP, STOMP, STOMPS to her bedroom, breaking the silence with his warning, “Daddy’s coming for a kiss! Following my angel’s footprints.” He finds his little angel nestled in her bed, and kisses her gently.

“Again Daddy,” she murmurs. He goes back to the front door, and pretends he’s just getting home from work.

“Daddy’s coming for a kiss! Following my angel’s footprints.” She giggles from her room.

Even more time passes, and Daddy doesn’t come home calling for his angel. Instead, he visits her in the hospital, and asks every day, “Where’s my little angel?” He sits beside her bed and holds her tiny hand. “Following angel footprints to get my kiss.” He softly kisses her wrist, and feels the faint pulse on his lips, da dum… da dum… da dum…

One day, Daddy comes calling “Where’s my little angel?” He’s shocked to hear a giggle, and see her sitting up in her bed. “Daddy’s coming for a kiss,” he whispers, “following angel footprints.”

“No Daddy,” she says, “angel’s don’t leave footprints.” She places his hand on her chest, where he feels the strong beat, DA DUM, DA DUM, DA DUM. “They leave heartprints.”

A little more time passes, and Daddy comes home with his angel. “Here we are, my little angel.” He sets her down.

“But Daddy, I can’t be an angel. I leave footprints, see?” she points to the prints on the ground.

“Yes, you do,” he whispers, and holds her tight. “Yes… you do.”

Duncan J Macdonald

07-13-2005, 09:50 PM

Okay Sports Fans! Time to play "Shred Your Entry"!

No, honestly, I aimed for all four, and fell halfway through. I know it's late, but I'll chalk that up to the Board's Database Problems and my being on travel for business reasons. (Don't ask. If da Boss wanted yiz to know, he woulda told yiz.)

Anyway, two for your dining and dancing pleasure, as weak as they are.

Seven Years After
by
Duncan J Macdonald

Queen Snow White stalked down the hallways of her familial castle, fuming over King Charming's latest slight. Wise servitors rapidly found other places to be, while those of lesser wit were left to step quickly out of her way or be rudely knocked aside. The older ones shook their heads sadly after the Queen had passed, remembering the quieter, calmer days just after the wedding and the dancing death of the Queen's Mother.

Reaching her chambers, the Queen stormed inside and slammed the door behind her. "God damned lecherous, pig-ugly, drooling, rat-faced, brainless arsehole of a man!" She picked up a rare lead-crystal vase and hurled it across the room. The tinkling sound of shattering crystal as the bits of the once expensive vase struck the floor was somehow soothing to her nerves, and more items of delicate beauty followed in the vase's wake to end as ugly heaps of broken glass and china.

The destruction of the more easily thrown items satiated her anger enough for her to control it. She turned next to the Magic Mirror, waiting in its ornate stand near the window embrasure.

"Mirror, mirror, untouched and fine,

Where's that lying, cheating, man of mine?"

"He, my queen, doth cheat 'tis true,

I will not lie, at least, to you.

Your older husband, the present King,

With a prepubescent wench doth fling."

Snow White's eyes narrowed, and her rage grew again. It had been seven years since their grand wedding -- seven years of constantly lessening attention, paralleling in reverse her development as a woman. She had been seven years old when she'd woken up in that crystal coffin, and his desire had been a hot thing, wild and abandoned. She'd married him willingly, partially, it was true, to see vengeance done, but in the main she'd responded to the fire of his love.

She'd listened carefully to the chatter of her Ladies in Waiting when they thought she couldn't hear, and to the more forward chambermaids. They hadn't talked about anything that she hadn't already experienced, or done herself -- from persuading the Huntsman to let her go, to living with seven horny dwarfs, to being bedded by Prince Charming since before the wedding. It was the other things that she wanted eagerly to hear. The romance, the bringing of flowers, the growth of love. It was those things that her marriage to Charming had deprived her of. She had kept hoping that as she grew toward womanhood that he would love her more. But no! He had turned further from her instead. Today was just the icing on the cake. It was their seventh Wedding Anniversary, and she'd gotten up before dawn to let the hairdressers get an early start. Later, the dressmakers had arrived to almost literally pour her into her gown -- a gown designed to accentuate her bosom, her hips, the swell of her Mons Venus, her every feminine weapon. She had spent hours perfecting her skills as a coquette. She had gone into the banquet radiantly assured that this, this, would catch and hold her husband's flagging interest.

She started cursing. That ignorant swine of a King Charming had ignored her completely and spent his time making moon-eyes at the cook's youngest daughter, just turned eight, and serving at the high table for the first time.
"I'll show that god damned puking pedophile. Ignore me, will he? This is my Mother's castle, and I'm my Mother's daughter! Then she went into her most secret room -- no one else was allowed inside -- and she made a two poisoned, apples. From the outside they were red and beautiful, and anyone who saw them would want them. Then she disguised herself as a palace servant, went to the King's Chambers and knocked on the door.

The Cook's daughter peeped out and said, "I'm not allowed to let anyone in. The King has forbidden it most severely."

"I am just delivering these two apples," said the peasant woman. "One for you and one for the King."

"No, I can't accept anything. The King doesn't want me to." But her desire for it grew stronger, so she finally let the servant hand her the two apples. She went skipping gaily toward the King, and the servant entered the chambers quietly behind her. The little girl gave one apple to the King, lying nude in his bed, and kept the other for herself. They bit into them together, but they barely had the bite in their mouths when they fell dead.

Remembering how she had been woken from the spell, the Queen opened their mouths and shoved the apple bites further down their throats, beyond the chance that jostling the bodies could dislodge them. Then she returned to her chambers, smiling and happy.

After the Royal funeral, Queen Snow White reigned for many years, ably assisted by her Prince Consorts, and she lived Happily Ever After.

A Conversation in Time
by
Duncan J Macdonald

"So, now that you're here, lets get down to cases." I waved the gentleman standing on the threshold of my office to the chair waiting on the other side of my desk. "Please, sir, take a seat."

I watched carefully as he entered and sat as I had invited him to. He moved confidently, without any overt display of aggression, yet with an inner sense of assurance that was incredibly sexy. Careful now, I thought, it won't do to let those kinds of feelings influence me -- at least not until after dinner and a movie.

"Have y ou been well treated?"

"Yes," he replied, "Your staff have been the very souls of courtesy. I want for nothing."
That was strange. I had reports on my desk that showed that he'd tried several times to leave the University campus. Once during siesta, and twice in the middle of the night. I really wasn't shocked -- after all, this was the author of "The Prince".

Niccolò Machiavelli had been born in the year 1469 AD Old Style, in Florence, Italy -- or what is now Curciograd in the Southern Administrative District of the Soviet European Democratic Union. The fact that he was now sitting in my office at the University of Bogotá was due to a series of experiments conducted by the Applied Physics Department. They had been trying to see into the future -- to help the Army in their fight against the Cartels -- and had ended up reaching physically into the past. Luckily, one of the laboratory janitors was a refugee from the Consolidation of Europe, and could haltingly understand the archaic Florentine dialect. Verifying his bona fides had fallen to the Department of Comparative Literature, specifically to the Director of Antiquity, and practically, to me.

"Dottore Machiavelli, we have been able to satisfy ourselves that you are, in fact, who you say you are."

He nodded, a king accepting his due.

"Before I allow you free reign of the campus and the city, I would ask you to clear up a minor mystery, one which has kept scholars of Rennaissance Italian at loggerheads for centuries. One group claims that you wrote 'The Prince' as a true expression of your political philosophy. The other claims that you wrote it as an artifice to gain you credit with the Medici family and restore to you your eminence in politics. Which of them are correct?"

"Bella Dottora, I am distraught. I must answer that both sides are wrong and correct at the same time. While it is true that I wished to be reinstated to my diplomatic position in the city, I did not write the treatise as a mere bribe. I also did not write it as an expression of my political thoughts." He leaned forward and his face took on a thoughtful expression. "No, what I wrote was, what do you call them, a 'Techno-thriller'. Yes, that is the word. I wished to become like your historic Signore Clancey."