The Regular

There was no panacea for a bad day like a glass of cold beer and a few slices of hot pizza.

With the frequency of Mazey's bad days she had become a regular at Joe's, which was populated by men coming off a twelve hour shift at the refinery and a few haggard, anemic looking college students looking for cheap food on the cheaper side of town.

Her usual brew was waiting in her usual seat at the counter where she could both literally and metaphorically turn her back to the world behind her.

She didn't like the way most of the working men eyed her. The girl in her late twenties who moved around the refinery like a ghost. Touching nothing but changing seemingly pointless processes in their jobs.

She took a long swallow of beer and loosed the tortoise shell clip that kept her hair up. The fall of smooth brown that stumbled over her white t-shirt looked more unnatural to her than the ink well black she kept it before landing this respectable job.

Soon the E.P.A would be all over this “respectable” refinery. With the dozens of briefs and studies she'd done in the past year, the hammer was bound to drop soon. Maybe this week.

She smiled, impish, into her cup. Her boss thought that threatening her career was enough to keep her silent, and the hush money sat collecting dust in a separate account. They'd all be fairly surprised to find that not everyone could be bought.

Some people just wanted to fuck with the men who thought they were immune.

Her pizza steaming in front of her, she didn't notice the man sliding into the empty seat to her right. Or the way his eyes read her face, understood the verse hidden there, the strange, blind desire to hurt and heal.

“Can I get you anything?” Joe asked without looking up. He only had two hands but used them with the efficiency of an octopus with fingers.

“Jus' a beer.” His voice carried, like a splash of yellow in a black room.

His hand rested on the counter, a few inches from her elbow. That was the first part of him she fell in love with. Fine fingers, like fleshy bones, delicate the way they drummed on the counter top to a tune that she recognized as older her mother.

“Hows the pizza?” the man asked while Joe was away wrangling beer from a schizophrenic tap.

His face was like cold water that turned to steam indoors, with eyes pale gray as dawn and lips so red they seemed to have just been soundly kissed.

“It's...delicious.”

(448 Words)

First Night Home

Clay staggered into the kitchen. Even though all the clocks in the house said it was two a.m., his body was still convinced it was noon, and lunch time to boot.

He paused in the doorway of the kitchen and stared at the scene before him. Bob was quite literally elbow-deep in a massive tub of ice cream, and Dave’s face was smeared with sherbert, the rainbow kind.

They froze at the same time and looked at him with matching guilty expressions. Then Bob said,

“There’s Rocky Road in the freezer behind the turkey.”

Clay nodded and headed over to the pantry where Shelley’s giant freezer was. He figured it was just bad luck on her part, to marry into a family where all four boys were teenagers at precisely the same time. They couldn’t help it, though - they were growing, and they needed fuel.

Clay plopped down at the table next to Bob and dug into the tub of ice cream. The cool chocolate hit his tongue and he smiled, pleased.

All three triplets froze when they heard footsteps on the stairs. Dad was a nutcase about staying in shape and healthy, and it usually took wheedling and a good dose of Shelley-persuasion before they could eat ice cream at all. Dan reached for the lid for the sherbert, and then Scott stood in the doorway.

His hair stuck up in all directions, and he looked disgruntled. He wagged a finger at Clay. “You’d better not have eaten the Black Forest.”

Clay waved his sticky spoon. “All yours, man.”

Scott grunted and shuffled into the pantry.

The first night home was always the longest.

(278 words)

Making a Mess

David looked around the kitchen, surveying the disaster from the door. Every surface was covered in a fine white powder, egg dripped from one counter and there were pots and pans everywhere. Standing in the middle of a pile of flour, David saw Mark and Bryan holding spatulas. Joe was hiding off to one side covered in flour, and Steve stood looking guiltier than the other three put together, smears of chocolate stained his otherwise spotless white t-shirt.

"What's going on in here?" David asked.

All three of the younger agents started to talk at once, trying to explain, trying to diffuse their commanders ire. Steve motioned them to silence, and like the good soldiers that they were, fell silent at the command.

"We got the munchies sir," Steve said, "and then we got a little silly," he finished, looking down.

David stepped into the room, looking around. He ran one hand over a counter, his palm coming away coated in flour. "And what did you make?" David asked.

"Brownies!" Joe piped up. Realizing he had drawn attention to himself as David glanced his way, he clamped one hand over his mouth and backed up a step.

"David stepped over to the oven and opened the door. The scent of warm chocolate drifted out of the opening. David grabbed an oven mitt and pulled out the tray of brownies that were just done.

Holding it, he turned to his men, "clean this place up. I want it spotless in thirty minutes. Report when you are finished."

"Yes Sir!" his men snapped off a smart salute and began to clean.

David turned and carried the brownies away.

Joe and the twins whimpered as they watched it go. Steve called them back to work as he started to wipe down the counters.

Within 25 minutes they were finished and cleaned up, and they presented themselves outside of their commanders office. Steve raised his hand and knocked.

"Enter," David called.

Steve opened the door and stepped inside, followed by the younger men. "Finished Sir," Steve reported, saluting.

"Good. Now, come and eat this," David said, gesturing at the pan of brownies and a container of vanilla ice cream.

Joe and the Twins cheered and hurried over, Steve following them. They all sat at the table as David dished up the treat. They all dug in, grinning at the wonderful sensation of the icy treat and the warm chocolate.

"Just remember men," David said, "Next time, let's not make a mess."

"Yes Sir!" they chorused.

Project #38

Like most living humans I like absorbing calories. The process of making consuming and acquiring food have preoccupied people for the greater part of our history. So it follows that food has the ability to play a pretty big role in how characters interact with one another.

Your word max. word count is 500, and your mission? Write six scenes with cooking, eating, or even spearing a boar for a feast.

Have at it.

Overview #37: Four Seasons

I honestly had no clue what to do with this prompt, since there are six days in a Master & Madness writing week and there are only four seasons. About halfway through, I realized that I'd stumbled onto a pattern and a way to make things come full circle, and a structure emerged. There was some inconsistency as far as style, as Scott and Dave had no dialogue at all, and then Carolyn's final post was almost completely dialogue. Also, the timeline is pretty inconsistent from post to post, too, since Dan's post actually comes after all of the others.

But a structure emerged, and I'm pretty pleased with myself. The arc went from winter to winter, starting with Scott and ending with Carolyn. There was parallelism for Dan and Carolyn. Dan was finishing school in the spring and ready to start a new life; Carolyn was starting school in the fall and starting her new life, too, albeit in a very different way from Dan. Summer was the center and the crux and ran with the identical triplets (I honestly cannot figure out what to call them when they're not with Dan, because between the two of them they're twins, but if I call them twins then Dan, the third triplet, is all left out), in the same season on two ends of the world. I was happy, but not ecstatic about what I managed to do. I know different people have favourite seasons and associate different seasons with different things, and I tried to stay away from too many clichés about warm seasons=happy and cold seasons=sad.

Also, a modly welcome to Awed Awake, who will join us fully when her computer is up and running.

Go On Forever

Ariana was glad it was summer. The warm star filled night, and the long sunny afternoons suited her perfectly. It always seemed like summer would go on and on.

Ariana inhaled the air with her eyes closed, taking in all the scents around her. Smiling she poked her head out of the tent. There was a huge bonfire in the meadow clearing, wood smoke drifting lazily in blue clouds, rising on the slight breeze. Twilight was beginning to fall on their campsite, and Ariana was excited. It was the last night of their annual camping trip. Every year since she could remember her family had gone on a week long camping trips in the summer, high in the mountains where the air was still clear.

"Hey Dad! Is it time for s’ mores yet?" Ariana called, she was trying to slip her boots on while at the same time tying back her long hair.

"Almost honey, almost," her dad called back with a grin. "Get David. He won't want to miss what's next."

"Okay Dad," Ariana said as she finally managed to get her boots on. Pulling a sweater on she walked off toward the creek where David and her brother John were fishing. Her parents had relented and let her bring David as long as John and David shared a tent.

"Come on you two, it's almost time," Ariana called to them as she approached the river bank.

"All right!" John said, and began to reel in his line, "Let's go Dave!"

"Go where?" David asked in confusion as he began to roll in his line.

"To the fire," Ariana said, giving him a quick kiss, "trust me, you'll like this."

A few minutes later Ariana and David approached the fire, walking hand in hand and calling out greetings. David jumped back as a long column of flames erupted from the heart of the fire, shooting thirty feet into the air. Ariana laughed as his expression, "It's just gasoline in a bottle. Watch." Ariana grabbed a bottle that was capped and wrapped in duct tape. David could hear it sloshing with liquid. Ariana walked up to the fire and dropped the bottle into the middle of the flames as scooted away. Returning to David's side she took his hand and said, "now we wait."

It was about a minute later when the flames erupted from the fire again. David smiled and gave Ariana's hand a little squeeze. The others were gathering closer to the fire, all armed with long sticks and uncoiled coat hangers, tipped with marshmallows.

Ariana leaned over to David as he put a marshmallow on his hanger, "do you know what the best part of summer is?" she asked.

"What's that?" David asked.

"It feels like it can go on forever," she said.

Never Really Warm

“Can you believe it? It’s our last Christmas as law students.” Melanie’s voice was always bright and bubbly, and Carolyn couldn’t help but smile.

She shivered and blew on her hands, phone cradled against her shoulder. “I know - time has gone so fast.”

“I know the break is going to go so fast, and --” Melanie broke off, and then Carolyn heard her squeal.

She hadn’t realized humans could hear that pitch.

“Are you all right?”

“Pierce, you are not going to believe this.”

“Believe what?” At least Melanie was all right. She’d submitted to self-defense lessons easily enough, but she’d never developed the necessary aggression to actually win a fight.

“Four Times Summer is getting back together for the annual CTV Christmas concert! I know you love them too, right?” School-girl giggles erupted on the other end of the line.

Carolyn sank down on the window seat, stared down at the snowy street. Her breath misted on the glass. “Yeah, I love their music a lot.”

“Oh, wow, this is like the best Christmas present ever. You have got to catch this on the Internet.”

“I will.” Carolyn felt her chest constrict, and suddenly it was hard to breathe. Then she heard the beep of a call waiting, and she stared down at her phone, at the international number. “Hey, I gotta go - my brother’s on the phone.”

“All right - enjoy your Christmas, and have fun with your family!” Melanie’s voice vanished.

Carolyn had never told Melanie that the only family she’d ever had was a motley crew of roadies, musicians, and government operatives. She switched lines, and then John said,

“You know what the worst part of winter is?”

“The Christmas cheer you so despise and the children who offer you candy canes?”

“Frickin’ Siberia.”

Carolyn could hear his teeth chattering. “What a lame place to be stationed.”

“Yeah, that’s real sympathetic from the girl who’s already retired.”

“Semi-retired,” Carolyn reminded him. “Else I wouldn’t be talking to you, would I?”

“Who else would you be talking to on Christmas Eve?”

He hadn’t meant it to be as cutting as it was, but Carolyn felt the blow land anyway. “As always, Mr. Ianevski, you make a fine point.”

“...I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know.” Carolyn closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the icy glass. “You know what the worst part about winter is?”

“What?”

“How you can never really get warm.”

John’s breath hitched behind the chattering of his teeth. “It’s been three years. He’s forgotten all about you.”

“Merry Christmas to you, too.”

“I’ll be back in time for New Year’s, all right? We can go to the Officers’ Ball together.”

Carolyn had to smile at his enthusiasm. “Sure. I’ll dust off my dancing shoes.”

“All right, I have some double agents to kill.”

“Be careful.”

“I will. Merry Christmas.”

“Good night.”

Summer and Not Summer

The others had always teased Steve that there were only two seasons in Nevada. Summer and not summer. Steve found it interesting that this mirrored his life during certain periods of time. Happy, and unhappy. Happy; long days on the road, a new book, good music, and now the team. Fighting with the men that he respected and had come to call family. Unhappy; the loss of his father, his mother, his sister going away to school. The loss of his own family. With his stoic attitude, the others never knew, they never guessed, never understood. Steve was winter and summer all in one soul.

Hot and cold, summer and winter. Changing like the seasons.



(Sorry it's short. I am trying to beat my muse into submission, but it's not working...)

Two Autumns Ago, to the Day

Fall in Cedarville was lovely, because the leaves on the trees actually turned colors besides green and the air first thing in the morning was crisp and cool, fresh. As Carolyn crossed campus, textbooks hugged to her chest, she enjoyed the sound of dried leaves crackling beneath her feet.

Fall on the road was Sheila fretting how much the boys had grown and marching them into town to take advantage of back-to-school sales even though the four of them weren’t going back to school. Fall at the Center was five a.m. wake-ups, wading through frigid water, and then hitting the gym for PT while still only half-conscious.

Carolyn had taken advantage of orientation to form a mental map of the law school and the surrounding buildings, and before school had started she’d accessed the city planner’s archives to study actual blueprints of the halls that would be her home for the next three years. This far into her first semester, her feet knew the path to her locker by heart. Sometimes, while she was opening the blue metal door, she was thrown back in time to fall semesters previous when her locker was lined with firearms and knives. She liked the neat stack of books in her locker now, and she occasionally she found herself smiling at them for no good reason.

She had to smile about something these days.

“Hey, Pierce, you coming to the big homecoming kick-off tonight? There’s gonna be booze and fun.” Lola smiled brightly and tossed her hair.

On the other side of her, Suzy rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on. Remember that Pierce here is a super-prodigy and is barely old enough to vote, let alone drink with us.”

Lola giggled, and her sympathy was blatantly insincere. “My bad! I forgot that while the rest of us were learning how to be human beings you were memorizing back editions of the UCC.”

Carolyn shrugged.

“It’s the first official day of autumn,” she said. “I was going to make homemade cider and listen to the game on the radio.”

Suzy scoffed. “You’re so boring.”

Carolyn shrugged again. “Maybe. I have my fun.” She had every intention of listening to the game and enjoying an autumn evening. At two a.m. Four Times Summers was playing a concert in Taipei, and if she stayed up she’d be able to stream it live on her laptop. Two autumns ago, to the day, was the first time Robert Summers kissed her. She was the only one who’d be celebrating.

(428 words)

Remembering Summer

Bob wasn’t quite sure why he was sitting on a beach, alone, in Thailand, in the middle of summer, other than the fact that Thailand was a country where he was pretty much guaranteed to never hear the name Carolyn again.

The last time he’d been on a beach in summer was...in Hawaii. With his brothers. Surfing during the day and staying up all night writing songs and laying down tracks.

Bob lifted the bottle of amaretto to his lips and discovered that it was half empty. He blinked but sipped some anyway, enjoyed the slow burn. He’d been the last one to take up alcohol once he and the other two had been old enough to drink, and he’d never liked the way Scott came home rip-roaring drunk, but...he understood the draw of the drink, at least.

Bob leaned back against the trunk of the palm tree and watched the white-capped waves beat a steady rhythm against the sand. He was one Moleskine notebook, shotgun, and rainstorm away from being Hemingway.

Despite the breeze, the air was still warm, so Bob shrugged out of his jacket and settled back against the tree. Halfway around the world, Clay was spending his summer on the beach, too. Bob hoped he was having fun.

Bob remembered warm summer nights in the basement in Victoria with his brothers, the four of them crammed into one bed and staring longingly out the window at the lightning bugs they were never allowed to go catch. Scott always gave in first, slid over Clay’s legs and knelt up on Dan’s ribs to open the window and hoist it open, climb out.

Summer nights on the road were a combination of exhaustion and the comforting rhythm of the blacktop rolling beneath the van. One summer night was all three triplets pawing Scott awake and demanding to crawl into bed with him so Dan could get all cried out before Dad pulled back the curtain and sat down to tell them that they wouldn’t be living with Mom anymore. Summer nights on the road were lying awake hoping Carolyn came tapping at his hotel room window and knowing that she’d completed her mission and was off to live her real life.

Summer nights were lying awake on a beach in a foreign country while a group of college kids partied heartily beside a bonfire and he lingered in the shadows.

“Hey there, handsome, should you be drinking alone?”

Bob opened his eyes. One of the college girls stood over him, weaving drunkenly.

“Probably not, but I am.”

“Mind if I join you?”

“I don’t own this beach.”

She knelt down beside him. “Hi. My name’s Carolyn.”

Bob closed his eyes, took a long pull from the bottle. “Of course it is.”

(471 words)

Winter in the Soul

Winters in Seattle could be harsh. Bitter winds from the north seem to pierce the body; leaving the very marrow of the bones frozen. Warm breaths puff in front of the people who brave the city streets, looking for Christmas bargains. The enticing aroma of warm hot chocolate and coffee drift from a half dozen shops on the street, beckoning cold and weary shoppers.

David didn't feel the cold. He couldn't remember the cool of spring, the heat of summer; and least of all, the seasons changing from one to the next. Autumn had passed in a hazy orange blur; and summer had been the same, only in shades of green. Nothing much registered anymore. David mechanically put food in his mouth when his body demanded it, slept when he could hardly keep from collapsing, and thought as little as possible. Thinking brought pain.

Winter is a time of hibernation, of dormancy. I think the natural world has it right. Winter is for not thinking. Just survival.

David did not realize when he stopped in the middle of the sidewalk; didn't see people shoot him dirty looks before scooting around him. David wore only a thin jacket to ward off the biting wind, and knew in the back of his mind that he was cold; probably close to hypothermia, but he couldn't muster up enough self preservation to care. I should just let the winter take me. I've heard that freezing to death is not so terrible a way to go. You just fall asleep, and that is that. No more pain, no more thought, no more memories.

"Why young man, you look chilled to the bone," a voice said from beside him.

David summoned up just enough curiosity to look around. The voice belonged to an older woman. David thought she was what a grandmother should look like; a bright smile, powdery white hair.

"Aren't you cold?" she asked, looking him up and down through dark eyes.

David shrugged, his thin shoulders rising and falling without any emotion to the gesture.

The woman pursed her lips in dissatisfaction. "Young people these days, no common sense, no thought for taking care of themselves," she muttered, peering into David's face, and drew in a sharp breath when David finally met her eye.

"Come with me boy," She ordered, taking him by the hand. David allowed himself to be lead away; he didn't care where he went, so going with her was no big deal. He let her guide him into one of the shops, let her order him something warm to drink, and let her rub and chaff feeling back into his hands and arms. David's cup rattled against the saucer as his body began to thaw out, a staccato rhythm that echoed his chattering teeth.

"Boy, you have winter in your soul," the woman said gravely, looking him up and down, 'I can see it in your eyes. You've stopped caring, and it will kill you if you let it."

"You're right, I don't care anymore," David's response was choppy from the spastic jerking of his body, responding at last to the warmth of the room.

"Well you should care. I am sure there are people who care for you," she said.

"Not the one that matters. She's gone. She can't come back. And anyway, why should you care?" David said.

"Does a person need a reason to care about another? I want to help you. Help your heart to heal and spring to come again," she said, looking him in the eye.

David blinked and looked away, sipping at his cup of hot chocolate. "You can try," He said finally.

The woman smiled, "My name is Mae."

"David."

Summer of 2005

Joe stepped out of the cool, dim building and into the bright oven that waited beyond the tinted doors. Joe glared up at the sun, irritated by the heat that was radiating both from the celestial body, and from the pavement beneath his feet, rising in shimmering waves. Joe wore the least amount of clothes that was acceptable in the world of the military. Joe slid a pair of sunglasses on and crossed the parking lot to his car, switching on the cooler to full blast as soon as he was settled. He growled under his breath, waiting for the first icy fingers to tickle the sweat rolling down his neck.


Joe hated Summer. The long hot days and muggy, bug filled nights. Hated Summer for the memories. Alec had died during the Summer of '89. Joe had spent that Summer in a daze, mindlessly walking from place to place, no brother for company; he felt hollow, incomplete without him. He caught himself turning to ask Alec a question, only to realize that he wasn't there, and never would be again.

Joe was glad that he was finally off base, he had put in for two weeks leave, and since there appeared to be no pending minor wars that his team would inevitably be shipped off to, his request was granted. Joe slipped an old CD from the visor above his head; it was faded and had many scratches. Joe slid it into the player and cranked up the volume. Music blasted into the cabin of his car, numbing his body from the vibrations, and numbing his mind, from the sheer volume. It was a CD that he and Alec had listened to, the only one he had kept.

Joe pulled onto the interstate after a brief stop at his apartment to pick up his bag, he was headed to Montana for two weeks. A place to relax, remember, and make peace with himself once again. He was heading home.

Summer Brothers

Being off road in the summer wasn't what Clay remembered, but then the last time they'd been off road in the summer he'd been – what, ten years old? And even then, they'd been in Tennessee. None of the boys had been old enough to drive the last time they were in California, so Clay really didn't know his way around. Clay was pretty sure that no one was going to recognize him since this was America, and on the off-chance someone might, it’d be difficult, given that Clay didn’t have any of his brothers with him. He didn't want to feed a cliché, but he and Bob were twins, and despite Dan being a fraternal triplet, he and Bob were Clay-and-Bob, and Clay felt a little…hollow and exposed without his other half.

That was probably how he ended up sitting alone on the edge of the sand at Venice Beach, doing his best to ignore the bikini-clad girls who zoomed by on rollerblades and the muscle-bound oafs pumping iron beneath the sun. Clay had a beat-up old guitar across his knees and was trying to figure out the chords to some of the songs he used to sing with his brothers. Music was comfortable, familiar, and if he closed his eyes while he sang, he could pretend Bob was with him.

The sun on his face was warm, tingled on his skin, and he wondered idly if he’d end up with a tan. He remembered surfing in Hawaii with his brothers while they laid down tracks for their final album, and suddenly he itched to go into the water. Summer was about laughing and dunking Dan off his board, teasing Scott while he tried to flirt with hula dancers at bonfires on the beach in the evenings, daring Bob to shin up a palm tree and bring down coconuts.

Summer was brothers.

Clay opened his eyes and fished his cell phone out of his pocket. Then he dialed.

“Hello?” Bob sounded sleepy.

“Hey, Bobby.”

“What’s up, man, are you all right?”

“Yeah. Just...wanna help me write a song?”

He could practically hear Bob’s smile. “Yeah, yeah. I’d love to.”

Summer was sitting on the beach in a circle, Bob tapping rhythms on his knees, Dan keeping the harmony, while Clay and Scott squabbled over the guitar hook.

It’s just another phase that I’ll go through. This time I’m sure I’ll lose you.

(410 words - lyrics a blatant snatch from "Submodalities")

Autumn Pleasures

Mark zipped up his jacket against the chill air as he stepped outside the apartment he shared with his twin. The air smelled crisp, as if you could bite into it like a perfectly ripe apple. There was a clean quality to the light, as if undiffused by any atmosphere. The leaves on the old maple in the yard were turning red, and others along the street were various shades of orange and yellow. At the end of the block, the street dead-ended into a corn field, half of the stalks still stood tall, burdened with the heavy ears, the other half of the field was stubble, large machined rumbling up and down the rows, sheering off the corn at the base.

Mark whistled random tunes as he walked down the street, heading toward the military base. It was a good five miles away, but he didn't mind. Autumn was the perfect time of year, and he was going to enjoy every second he could.

Springtime in Calgary

Springtime in Calgary was sharply cold first thing in the morning, and Dan could see puffs of his own breath in the air as he jogged down the icy sidewalk. The snow melted periodically, and then refroze into its own deathtrap, the last vestiges of winter clinging to the ankles of humanity and trying to throw people into the gutter.

Dan tilted his head up as he jogged and smiled when he saw new small green leaves slowly uncurling on the boughs overhead. He couldn’t wait until the blossoms arrived, because then he could pause by the wayside and gather wildflowers to take home to Joey. Joey, who was still asleep, curled around Dan’s pillow and snoring like a freight train.

These days Dan liked to get up early and run, get his homework done before he headed down to the police station for his shift as morning dispatcher. Joey preferred the laziness of summer, but somehow Dan had grown into the chipperness of spring, and besides, this spring meant spring semester, his final one before he was a proud purveyor of a criminal justice degree and could apply at the police academy.

Dan hummed along to the tune of a bird’s song, automatically kicking his voice into a harmony as he headed toward the end of the block. Scott, drunk off his rocker, had laughed himself senseless when Dan called to tell him of his master plan to become a police officer, to protect and serve, but Bob, winter-pale and frail in his hospital bed had been smiling and supportive of, well, everything.

Dan paused at the corner to wait for the light to change and tipped his head back, felt the first real warmth of the spring sun on his face. He liked spring because everything was new, and this year, he was going to be a new man. On campus, no one looked twice at him anymore, and in his spiffy dispatcher’s uniform no one thought he might be the keyboard player from Four Times Summer. He was just Dan Summers, student and part-time dispatcher, and he loved it.

(354 words - I've actually never been to Calgary and have no idea what it's like in spring, but in my head, Canada is abominably cold compared to where I've lived in the States)

Spring Run

Bryan like spring the best. All through the Winter he always felt lethargic. He knew it was jut in his mind, but when the days started getting longer, he couldn't help feeling lighter, more active.

Bryan stepped outside, it was early morning, a chill nip in the air lingering until the sun came fully over the horizon. Yawning, he rubbed his arms briskly, and started stretching. Left, right, forward, he limbered up his limbs, shaking the fatigue from his body. Popping his neck and swinging his arms in front of him, Bryan began to jog down the street, setting a steady pace, breathing slow and constant, heart pumping out a regular rhythm.

Bryan's shoes echoed softly, the quiet thump-thump-thump of his pace almost drowned out by the call of the morning birds, the gentle warming breeze rustling the trees.

The air was saturated with the smell of tulips and other spring time flowers as Bryan slowed, cresting a hill. Looking down into a softly sloping valley Bryan could see the new growth on the trees, it was one of his favorite spots.

Bryan walked slowly down the hill, enjoying everything and welcoming life back to the world.

Winterscape

It hadn’t been an easy decision to call it quits. Scott could still see Dan’s broken-hearted expression whenever he closed his eyes, but it had to be done. Dad still wasn’t talking to Dan, and Clay was helping Dan sneak his stuff out in the middle of the night so Dan could move in with Joey.

The answer was to escape. Escape long and hard. White Horse was the obvious answer, an endless winterscape where he could hide from the sun. Scott moved out just after Christmas - which hadn’t been much of a Christmas, with Bob in the hospital and half of the family not talking to each other.

Scott couldn’t remember White Horse at all, just knew that he’d been born there. He had a plan, and it was a solid one, and it involved being as drunk as possible for as long as possible. A season - he’d give himself one season, and then it would be done.

The house was small and ramshackle and in desperate need of fixing up, but Scott didn’t care. He had a week’s worth of clothes and a lumpy old mattress and his guitar, and he surfaced one day a week to do laundry and clean while he was hung over. Sometimes there were girls, sometimes the girls were just in his dreams.

He woke up half-frozen on the porch more than a couple of times, tear-tracks frozen on his skin and his vodka pleasantly icy.

After the first month he started finding scraps of paper and bottle labels with lyrics and chords scribbled on them, songs he didn’t remember but that resonated pleasantly in the back of his skull when he tried them out.

By the second month he was sober during what few daylight hours glinted off the pale snow, writing feverishly. He cobbled together an old laptop and some recording equipment. A message posted on a board online netted him sound samples and random instruments, but he still spent his moonlight hours wasted, in the arms of the green fairy.

By the end of the third month, the days were getting longer, and his hangovers were jump-started by the cheerful chirping of a bird.

His season was up.

Overview #36: On Death and Dying

This challenge was fun. And I'll admit - it was also sort of an excuse to work a decent plot-line on Bob. There were honestly a couple of different ways I could go with this, since I could've gone for grieving Carolyn, but I didn't think a break-up really warranted the stages of grief. I wasn't sure that, given how shiny and treatable leukemia is these days, Bob's situation really warranted all the stages of grief, but I also remember being a teenager and blowing things out of proportion, and also, treatable or not, there are no guarantees with something like cancer. Also, I needed a good reason for Bob to put Carolyn on the back burner despite how much he loves her.

Still, it was interesting, focusing on a specific emotion and doing what I could with it, and it gave me a chance to explore characters further, and not just Bob's.

Project # 37: Changing of the Seasons

Take your characters through a change of seasons. It could be that Bob has always loved winter because he can cuddle with Carolyn more, or Scott likes summer because he can go about without a shirt on. You can use this to represent a change in the character themselves, the changing of one season to the next. It could be simply an observed process, or maybe one of your characters has spring allergies.


Have fun.

Overview #36: On Death and Dying

Okay. I did get them all written this week. Most of them were weak, but I got my word count in. I figured that Joe needed some love. he kinds gets left out a lot. But when I do use him, he gets abused.

I did like Nagi's suggestion of him turning warrior to priest even though this bit takes place long before he joins the military.

I think I found it tougher to write some of the stages of grief, because I don't grieve myself in that manner. But it was a good exercise in that I had to deal with a character that would pass through those stages.

Goodbyes

"You know Alec, we always had such a great time together. I wish it could have gone on forever," Joe leaned over the edge of his brothers bed, holding his hand. "I'm not sure what I'll do without you Superman. I guess now is the time to find out. I don't know if you are still here, if you can here or understand what I am saying to you; but I don't want you chained to a body that would be dead without these machines. I guess it's time to let you go. Time to stand on my own two feet. Will you be with me Alec? Will you look after me in whatever form you are in now?" Joe ignored the people who were coming in and out of the room.

Joe stood up eventually, he had said all he needed to, given his last goodbye. He could feel Jen somewhere in the room, but ignored her as well. Joe turned one last time at the door, taking in his brother, remembering him as he really was, not swathed in medical equipment, but the free, laughing, smiling youth. The boy-man with the bright green eyes, and dark hair. The one riding down the street on his motorcycle, the one doing magic tricks, the one teaching Joe to fight.

"I love you Alec."

460,000

"Joseph?" came the hesitant voice of Jen from the doorway.

"Go away," Joe said. He sounded tired, miserable.

"Joe, is there anything I can do for you?" Jen asked, edging into the room. Joe was defiantly calmer than he was before.

"Not unless you can wake him up. Not unless you can undo what has been done," Joe said, not bothering to look up. He felt rather than saw her shake her head.

Joe drew in a shuddering breath, "I guess it doesn't really matter. I guess in my heart of hearts, I knew it could never last. Alec was the best brother anyone could have asked for. And he is slipping away. Nothing I can do could bring him back, so why bother. I am sure you have other patients to see to, other people you can help. It makes no sense for you to waste your time on us," Joe finished quietly. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes.

He felt Jen still hovering in the door. Watching him. "You know, I have counted four hundred and sixty thousand breaths that that machine has pumped into his body. Nothing helps. I have seen those fluid bags changed fifty times. Nothing helps," Joe said.

"Nothing."

Back On My Feet

“I have to say, this was really a treat, and not just because I was once a screaming sixteen-year-old girl.” The reporter smiled and brandished her tape recorder.

Scott shrugged. “It’s Christmas, the concert is for a good cause, and the four of us were all in the country at the same time.”

“Well, you guys sound better than ever. Any plans for a new album?” the reporter asked.

The four of them exchanged looks, and then Clay said, “Probably not. I mean, we’ll always make music with each other, but at this point our tastes and styles are pretty divergent. Scott has a good thing going with the grassroots vibe, and I don’t think he wants us crawling all over his studio.”

“You got that right,” Scott said, and punched Clay in the shoulder lightly.

The reporter’s eyes gleamed. “So, are the rumors true?”


“No, I’m not secretly an undercover agent for the Mounties,” Scott said promptly, and the other three laughed.

“There was a rumor going around a couple of years ago that you split because Dan came out to your father,” the reporter said.

The mirth faded, and the brothers looked at each other. Something silent passed between them, and then Bob spoke.

“Dad wasn’t too happy about Dan and Joey, but that’s not why we stopped touring and recording. It was my fault, actually.”

Clay flinched. “Man, don’t say that.”

The reporter leaned in closer; she could smell a good story.

“Remember when I cut my hair midway through the Just Another Phase promo stuff?” Bob asked.

The reporter nodded. “Definitely. The fans were devastated.”

“Well, I cut my hair because I was starting chemotherapy.”

The reporter’s expression was priceless.

“I wasn’t sure if I was going to lose my hair, and I figured if I buzzed it and then just shaved it all off, no one would notice. I had leukemia - it’s in remission now, and Clay donated some bone marrow for the cause, but once the chemo hit I just didn’t have the energy to tour.” Bob shrugged. “That’s the truth of it, I guess.”

“Leukemia?” The reporter searched for words. “Why didn’t you tell the fans?”

Bob laughed, a little self-consciously. “Well, I was miserable company for a while there. I mean, I was surprised that the fans hadn’t noticed I barely said a word during interviews and barely smiled. Given how horrible I was to my brothers, I felt no need to spread the misery, and besides, the doctors said I had a really good chance of beating it, especially with Clay hanging around, so I didn’t want to make more of a fuss than necessary.”

“But you’re all better now?”

“Yeah. It’s been in remission for a while now, and I’m getting back on my feet.” Bob smiled, and around him, his brothers smiled as well.

Someone’s cellphone buzzed, and Scott jumped. “Sorry - sounds like they want us on the next stage.”

The reporter nodded, still looked dazed.

Make It Through Together

Shelley screamed.

Dan leapt up from his keyboard and dashed up the stairs. He skidded to a halt on the landing in a solid fighting stance. Seconds later, Scott and Clay flanked him, ready to fend off an intruder.

“Uh...hey. Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.” Bob knelt down and began to pick up the laundry that had fallen when Shelley dropped her laundry basket.

“Bob, what did you do?” Shelley cried.

“Shelley, are you all right?” Dan stepped around Shelley to help Bob, and then he recoiled. “Whoa.”

“Whoa what?” Clay peered around Shelley, and then he went still.

“Guys, you’re freaking me out.” Scott joined the huddle around Bob, and his jaw went slack. “Bobby. You - your hair. Why did you cut your hair?”

It was a fairly neat job, buzzed short, shorter than even Clay had worn it during his Wild At Heart days.

Bob straightened up and handed Shelley the refilled laundry basket. “It’s been six weeks of the medicine. I start chemo this week. I figured if I cut it short and I started to lose hair, well...it wouldn’t be so weird.”

Dan blinked. “Oh. You - you’re gonna go forward with the chemo?”

“Yeah.” Bob shoved his hands into his pockets. “I, uh, I know I’ve been...kind of a monster these past few weeks, and - I’m sorry. You all have been really, really great, and I’m sorry I’ve been so self-absorbed.”

“Bob, you’re seventeen years old. All seventeen-year-olds are self-absorbed.” Shelley’s smile was watery.

Bob reached out and pulled her into a hug. “Thanks, Shelley.”

“Dude,” Scott said, “she just insulted you.”

Clay reached out, put a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “So, you’re finally taking me up on my offer?”

“Yeah.” Bob stepped back from Shelley. He ran a hand over his buzzed hair absently. “I am lucky, and not just because we’re twins. I’m lucky because I have all of you. I can make it through this because you’re here with me.”

Clay dragged Bob into a hug. “We are going to make it through this together.”

Dan threw his arms around Bob from the other side.

He laughed. “Hey, guys, I can’t breathe.”



Shelley was openly crying now, and she threw herself into the hug.

Scott said, “I’m not hugging you all.”

Dan caught Scott’s shirt and dragged him forward. “Get in here.”

Beyond Help

“Well, you certainly look happier.”

Clay blinked. “Pardon?”

A girl smiled at him. “I saw you a little while ago. You looked...sad.” It was her turn to blink at him. “And your hair was longer. I guess a haircut cheered you up.”

Success. “You saw me? With longer hair? Which way was I headed?”

That earned him a raised eyebrow. “Shouldn’t you remember?”

Clay winced. “The person you met - not me. My brother. I’ve been looking for him. Which way?”

“Your brother? I could have sworn it was --”

“Identical,” Clay said. He knew he was being rude and impatient, but he had to find Bob. “Please. It’s important.”

The girl’s smile faded. “Oh. Sorry. I - the harbor. Inner Harbor.”

“Thanks.”

Clay didn’t know what he’d find when he finally got his hands on Bob, but it would involve a good shaking, maybe a punch, and possibly a few choice swear words. For three weeks Bob had drifted through the house, a silent ghost, barely leaving his room, and now - now he was out prowling the town. Whatever had driven him from the safety of his mourning room had to be big.

Clay skittered down the boardwalk, ignoring the lure of the bright wares in the curious stalls. He drew to a halt at the bridge. On the other side, Bob stood overlooking the water. Half a dozen rugby players from the local high school had him circled, and - he had his head bowed, shoulders hunched. Perfect prey posture.

Clay groaned. He really couldn’t afford to get into a fight - and neither could Bob. He approached slowly, quietly, trying to gauge the situation.

“You some kinda junkie, kid?” one of the rugby players asked. “Or are you one of those wannabe vampire kids who never sees the light of day?”

Bob just stared at the water, hands in his pockets.

“You deaf, freak?” Another rugby player shoved at Bob’s shoulder.

He swayed dangerously on his feet, but he wasn’t so far gone that he’d let his own balance fail. Then he lifted his head. “Are you going to hit me?”

The first rugby player laughed. “I dunno. Are you any fun to hit?”

“Maybe.” Bob shrugged carelessly. “Although, since I’m dying, I think that would take some of the fun out of it.”

The rugby player froze, fist cocked to punch. “What?”

Bob tilted his head to one side, expression quizzical. “Whatever you do to me probably won’t hurt nearly as much as what my body’s doing to itself, so...if you want to hit me, go ahead. It’s not like I matter anymore.”

The group of boys exchanged uneasy looks. “Hey, man, we were just kidding around.”

Again with that careless shrug. “I know. But I don’t mind - I’m good at taking pain. What’s a little more, after all this? You might as well have your fun.”

The boys began to back away. “Dude, you need help,” one of them said.

Bob’s smile was almost angelic. “I’m beyond help.”

Pleading

Joe retreated to the old chapel that he had been going to for years. It was small and probably built in the last century. The wood was old, the pews dark wood, lined with moth eaten silk cushions. It was time for the evensong, the young choir boys filing in quietly, their voices lifted in song as they lined up. Joe remembered back to the time when he and Alec had been alter boys.

Joe felt a hand rest on his shoulder. Joe knew without looking that it was a withered and spotted with age. "Hey Father," Joe said without looking up.

"Joseph. What has you here at this time of day? Is there anything that I can help you with?" Father John asked.

"No. You can's help me. Only He can help me," Joe said, looking up at the crucifix.

"Yes. He helps all who ask," Father John said. He patted Joe on the shoulder, and shuffled down the aisle towards the alter, ready to give the evening mass.

God. Joe was not sure what to say. Please save him. I'll do anything. I'll join the priesthood, bring souls back to you. I'll go to mass, confession. I'll go to Rome and dedicate my life to you. I'll give you anything you ask. Anything.

The choir boys were pitch perfect this evening, their clear voices rising in the stillness of the chapel. Joe continued his silent pleading.

Exhausted, Joe sat back, running his prayer beads through his fingers, black and white beads. Alec's were blue and green.

Joe stood up and crossed himself, walking back down the aisle and out into the night.

Busting It Up

Joe stood up from where he had collapsed into the hard plastic hospital chair, hands clenching and unclenching, pacing back and forth.

It wasn't supposed to happen this way. They were supposed to grow old together, as close as any two brothers could be.

It's my fault. I should have been with him. I should have been there. Why did I say I would go out with her? She doesn't even mean anything to me. It's my fault. If I had been with him like I was supposed to be, this might not have happened. What happened anyway? It doesn't even matter. What matters is that it's my fault.

It's my fault!

JOe spun around and slammed his fist into the unyielding wall. He didn't care about the pain, he welcomed it. Looking at the wall, Joe hit it again, and again, leaving red streaks on the clinical whiteness.

"Sir?" a small voice said from behind him.

Joe spun around, fist raised. Before him stood a small nurse. She couldn't have been much older than Joe himself. Joe lowered his fist slowly, "Sorry."

The nurse approached him and took his broken and bleeding hand in her gentle grip, "Let me fix this up," she said.

Joe jerked his hand out of hers, "can you fix him?" his tone bordered on nasty.

The nurse looked up at him, "We are going to do our very best."

"But what if it's not enough?" Joe asked, his voice rising, anger seeping out to lash at this young woman. He stepped back as she approached him again, holding his hand out of reach.

"I promise you sir, I will give it all I have got, and not a bit less," she said.

Joe looked down at his mangled hand. Blood was dripping from his fingertips, and the skin was torn over the knuckles. He was pretty sure that the bones were fractured as well.

The nurse held out her hand to him and Joe reluctantly placed his injured hand in hers. She gently cleaned up the gore and applied bandages. "My name's Jen, by the way," she said.

"Joseph," Joe said; his eyes still burning with anger.

Giving It Up

Bob couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in a church for anything besides tourist curiosity. Until his parents divorced, he and his brothers had had a fairly strict Irish Catholic upbringing, but since the divorce, the brothers four had been footloose and fancy free when it came to Sunday worship. Bob wasn’t sure why he’d decided to come to the cathedral instead of one of the more modern, friendly places up the street, but this was what he knew.

He was hesitant to even touch the holy water, but he genuflected anyway and slid into one of the pews. Then he bowed his head and began to pray.

"Admhaim do Dhia uilechumhachtach,
agus daoibhse, a bráithe,
gur pheacaigh mé go trom
le smaoineamh agus le briathar,
le ghiomh,
agus le faillí --"

“You still pray in Latin, child?”

Bob lifted his head and saw a priest standing over him. “Hello, Father. I - no. Our mother was raised Irish Catholic. She taught us to pray in...Irish.”

The priest studied him for a long moment. “I haven’t seen you before, my child.”

Bob ducked his head. “It’s been a long time for me, Father.”

“And yet you are so young.” The priest studied him some more. “You look familiar. Have you lived in this parish a long time?”

“On and off, over the years.” Bob wasn’t sure how much longer he was going to feel brave, and he needed to get this out in the open before he chickened out, but there was no way he could say any of what he wanted in front of the priest.

“Perhaps that’s why I remember you. I hope St. Mary’s brings you peace. Know that I am here to listen to anything you should wish to tell me.” And the priest drifted away in a whispering of cassocks and robes.

Bob felt guilty for the relief that washed over him, but he bowed his head, finished the prayer. Then he began to whisper, feeling foolish but too desperate to care.

“If you’re listening, I’m here to make a deal. I’ll be the best Catholic boy you could ever ask for - I’ll go to catechism and confirmation classes, get confirmed and everything. I’ll give up all my vices and be nicer to my brothers and step-mother and father and --” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “I’ll do anything. I’ll give up music forever, or even give up --” Carolyn. No. He couldn’t. “Give up rhythm. My voice. Please - just let me live. Make the disease go away.” He closed his eyes and prayed, Our Father, three languages. Then he opened his eyes and was out of the church before the priest could come back.

***

At three a.m., when he was hanging over the bathroom sink spitting out blood, he closed his eyes and prayed for the last time.

Please. I’ll give her up. If that’s what it takes.

***

It was months before Shelley noticed that all of his pictures of Carolyn were gone.

Even If

“Is he all right?” Shelley asked.

Clay arched an eyebrow and jerked his head in the direction of the stairs. “Does he sound all right?”

Shelley winced. Bob only played Rush when he was in a particularly foul mood. He’d played YYZ for a week straight after Carolyn left.

“Should I go talk to him?” Shelley asked.

Clay shook his head. “We got it.” He headed up the stairs, pushed open Bob’s bedroom door. He winced at the onslaught of cymbals and waited for his brother to notice him.

He wondered why he hadn’t noticed how thin Bob had become.

“Hey Bob, what’s going on?”

The spin on around-the-world only got louder.

Clay sighed. “Oy, brother, conas atá tú?”

Bob caught the ride cymbal mid-strike and spun around. His expression was frighteningly blank. “Did you come here just to bother me with stupid questions?”

Clay flinched at the viciousness in his brother’s tone. “Bobby, we know you’re upset --”

“I don’t think upset begins to cover it, the way drunk doesn’t really cover it when Scott comes home caoch oltá these days.”

“So maybe he’s taking Carolyn’s absence harder than expected --”

Bob sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “Why is this happening to me? First Carolyn leaves me, and now - this. What did I ever do to deserve any of this?”

Clay reached out, settled a hand on Bob’s shoulder. He was glad when Bob didn’t automatically shake him off. “You didn’t do anything. Sometimes this just - happens. And you have me, right? Automatic, perfectly-matched bone marrow donor.”

Bob lunged to his feet and began pacing back and forth, hands tapping a nervous rhythm on his thighs. His arms and wrists were bruised, the weals from his cymbals rebounding on him when he wasn’t quick enough. Bob looked like an abused child. Clay had to swallow a sudden lump in his throat.

“This isn’t fair!” Bob flung his hands up. “Seriously - my life is some sort of sick joke. First Dad, then Carolyn, and now this. I’m pretty sure it can’t get worse, but if it can, it will.”

Clay’s brow furrowed. “What about Dad?”

Bob shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.” His hands curled into fists, and he eyed a spot on the wall with too much fixedness for Clay’s liking. Dan had the best punch by far, and Bob was more likely to kick while sparring, but he wasn’t above punching something when he was in a mood.

“What did I do, Clay? I had to have done something.” Bob’s voice was low, venomous. “Do you know how much it hurts, the ringing in my head? Or when someone touches me and I bruise and it aches for days? Some nights I wake up choking on my own blood.”

Clay bit his lip again.

Bob’s eyes glittered manically. “I’d better have done something to deserve this, because if I didn’t someone is going to pay. Even if I have to die to face him.”

(500 words; Rush is a Canadian band with a fantastic, wicked-fast drummer)

Second Opinion

Bob stared up at Dr. Hamilton in disbelief. Then he scrubbed a hand over the bruises on his arm self-consciously. “What? No - the tests are probably wrong. These bruises - my brothers and I all do karate, and we rough-house a lot. I’ve just been tired, and with all the flying we do, changes in elevation often lead to nosebleeds --”

Dr. Hamilton smiled gently and placed a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “Everything will be all right - this form of leukemia is entirely treatable, and you have the advantage of a twin brother for a bone marrow transplant. Some of the treatments might be painful, but there’s no reason you can’t live a full and energetic life. You’ll be able to make music for years --”

Bob shrugged the doctor’s hand aside and backed toward the door. “No. You’re wrong. I’m fine. I’m completely and utterly fine. Shelley’s just being overly-protective. Sometimes I think she overcompensates because she’s not our real mom.” He attempted to smile, but the expression turned bitter midway through. “I’m going now.”

Dr. Hamilton caught Bob’s wrist before he could touch the doorknob. “Robert, I’ve known you since you were two years old. I didn’t want to believe it either, but I ran the tests myself. Twice. And you have leukemia.”

Bob jerked free and whirled around. His dark eyes sparked with fury. “Stop saying that! Why are you lying to me? I am completely and utterly one-hundred-percent as healthy as a horse.”

“Bob, you’re in denial, it’s the first stage of grief --”

“Grief? Who said anything about grief? Nobody died. And I’m certainly not going to die.” Bob tugged the door open. “Thanks for everything, Dr. Hamilton, but I’d like to get a second opinion.”



Dr. Hamilton’s expression was pained. “Bob, please --”

The world went white. Just before Bob hit the floor, it occurred to him that maybe Dr. Hamilton was right.

(319 words)

Superman

Joe was on a date when he got the call from his aunt. Alec had been in an accident. He was being rushed to Mercy General Hospital across town. From the tone in his aunts voice and his Uncle crying in the background, he knew that it was serious.

"I have to go Tam. Alec's been hurt," Joe said, snapping shut the phone. Tammy nodded her head and got into the car, not asking any questions.

Joe peeled away from Tammy's house five minutes later, intent on getting to the hospital as fast as he could. Joe dodged through traffic and ran lights, urging his old car to go faster.

Joe jumped from the car as soon as he slid into a spot at the hospital; tires squealing in protest. Running for the entrance, Joe found himself stopped up by a man in a white coat.

"Wait, you can't go in there," the man shouted, trying to block Joe's way.

"My brother is in there," Joe said flatly, staring down the shorter man.

"That well may be, but you can't just come barging in here like this," the officious little man said, his tone snide.

"Either move out of my way, or you will end up a patient here as well," Joe's statement was unfriendly, and carried a promise.

The Doctor finally decided that it was wiser to move out of the way. Joe jogged down the hall to the nurses station; gave his brothers name and was directed to a room a short way down the hall.

Joe walked slowly into the room, stunned to find his brother already hooked up to machines that were beeping and pumping air and various fluids.

Joe hoped that hearing his voice would bring Alec out of it. "Hey Alec, wake up man. Alec, time to get up. Alec, If you don't get up, I'm going to take your new car out for a spin," Joe was sure that that one would get him to respond.

Nothing.

"Come on Alec. It's not supposed to be like this, it can't happen like this. We're supposed to go to college together, you are supposed to teach me to ride a motorcycle," Joe whispered, squeezing his brothers hand. "Alec. You can't leave, there is so much left for us to do. You're superman, nothing can hurt you," Joe felt tears gathering in his eyes, but blinked them back.

"It can't end this way."

Mazey - ER Tango

Monday

I lost count of IV drips and began to dose. The nurse moved like a veiled thing, taking things away, putting them back, piercing and piercing and piercing.

I think at some point Eddy came by, his voice was paper burning in my ear. Gone before I could read it, but his hands, his cold palms, I knew he was there until he couldn’t be.

This wasn’t happening; I’m too young to die in a hospital bed.

Tuesday

Eddy didn’t come; I was inconsolable. I wanted my mother, my fathers rich voice, my little sisters questions. No one would say where my family had gone.

My cordial attempts turned dour, then frantic, and finally I managed to knock the needled nurse to the ground. I’ll never forget, vials of every color breaking around her. Even with bare feet I got off the bed to finish the job.

I probably would have, if I had been more than a broken mass of bones. It must have been the pain meds, I don’t recall feeling much after that seething.

Wednesday

A new nurse came, more my age with sympathy in her processed hair and skin. She was polite enough to leave when Eddy came in.

It hurt to smile, what’s wrong with my face, I kept asking. He skirted the question, an old hand at deception.

“Your still pretty, my rough diamond”, He went to kiss me, it burned, reminded me of glass, everything sharp I’d ever touched.

“Hey, Eddy Teddy, I know what you’re thinking. Don’t you dare, you bastard.” It was deadly, the urge in his eyes, but I had to smile. I loved to verbally abuse him, he took it so well.

“It’s already in the cards, peach.” His voice, was like an old record, preserved perfectly from the Jazz Age.

“One more, one more sunset? One more day on the pier?”, he answered by leaving, quiet as night fall.

Thursday

When I was myself, they broke the news.

I was an orphan, thanks to a drunk driver.

Food seemed to rot in front of me, people looked like corpses, I saw nothing but the dead and the dying. They waited an hour before they told me about the clot in my brain, the sever head injury, the miracle of life.

I wasn’t a miracle. I was a gibbering mass of sobs all day. It went by quickly, eclipse by a fitful sleep.

Eddy knew better than to come around.

Friday

The nurses were changing shifts, ten minutes to midnight when I hear the door open. Even his footsteps were guilty; at least he let me hear them this time.

I refused to look up, just laid there, waiting for a coffin, or a kiss.

He climbed onto the bed, his weight sank the mattress in and I felt like I would fall away from him, go to the place that matched the blooming peace in my chest.

“It was always going to end this way, baby,” he crooned and lifted my chin. My neck became a riot of pain. He kissed the artery he loved, and then it was just a pinch, and nothing.

Project #36: On Death and Dying

So each of us has a pretty steady set of characters to work with. This week, we're going to have fun with those characters, and by "have fun" I mean put them through the five stages of grief. You have between 100 and 500 words to show how your character deals. Either day one or day six can be pre-dealing or post-healing; that's up to you. Let the character torture begin!

Overview #35: Nothing More Than Feelings

The title of this week's assignment reminded me, oddly enough of a song by The Offspring. I was mildly amused to note that I was the writer who started this assignment late and ended up having to backtrack and backdate a post to get all my poems in, but by the end of the week I was the Horatio of us all. I think my poetry was pretty decent this week - once in a while I caught myself falling back into the previous poetry assignment, but when I put my mind into it I realized that I could wring emotion out of the ordinary moments in my life, and I was pretty happy with that.

Overview #35 - Nothing More Than Feeling

So this week was an exercise in futility for me. And failure. Failure to post. Every time I sat down to write, the dreaded writers block descended from above and crushed my thoughts. Even now, I am pushing against it to no avail. Sigh. hopefully next week will be better.

Just A Dream

The best dream
Is where I wake up
With someone in my arms,
A warm body pressed against mine,
Heartbeat to heartbeat,
Cool breath on my skin.

The worst dream
Is where I wake up
And realize it’s just a dream.

(41 words)

Friday Night

Friday night laundry
Is tinted with the scent of
Aches and pains chamomile salt
And post-ninjitsu tiger balm.

Friday night supper is
Handfuls of cheerios
Between staccato bursts of typing,
Fingertips on flat silver keys.

Friday night romance is
Harvesting memories from YouTube,
Liquid crystal music and lyrics and
Two boys with guitars.

(54 words)

Mal a la Tête

Lightning in the temples
And storm-clouds in the brain-stem -
The imperfect end to an otherwise
Normal day.

Hammers on the cranium,
Tap-dancing on the occipital bone,
Sharp flashes of sunlight
On bare optic nerves.

Darkness is the answer,
The skeleton key in a rusty lock
Of a treasure chest overflowing
With moonstone and dreams.

A blanket over the face,
A shroud over the corpse.

It’ll be gone in the morning.

(73 words)

Hiding From

There are so many places to go,

but today I’ll hide in a song.

Let the lyrics be blood

rushing through each vein,

ringing true in both my head

and my heart.

Let the beat slide neatly into

place, a pulse to push me

on.

I’ll move to the melody,

animate my lifeless corpse,

nerves twitching with delight.

My soul knows that

tomorrow

I may not be able to breathe

deep in harmonies and chords.

But today I hide here.

I pretend that life is as simple

as a solitary song.

(91 words)

Forgetting

One weary step following another,
Pressing forward day after day.
Rest on one hand, toil on the other,
Restless feet, I can not stay.

Something drives me forward,
My joy left far behind.
Ignored.
As I journey in my mind.

Deprivation

It’s lead in my bones that
Creep, creep, creeps up my limbs
To press its fingertips against my eyelids
And push them closed.

It’s the whisper of dreams in my ear,
Of castles on clouds and knights
Advancing on ranks of shambling zombies.

It’s the gentle, easy slide
Of Morpheus’s arms around my waist
To ease me down, down, down
To fall asleep.

On my laptop.
While my palms press random letters
Across the screen of my survey report.

It’s the groan of malcontent when
The rest of my brain reminds me I’m at work and
It’s my own fault for staying out so late last night.

(107 words)

Stream

Every part of me is

breaking

and the words refuse

to come out right

or wrong

or none at all

I wish I could fix it

I wish I could tell her

how stupid she is

for giving up a gift

that I sometimes wished

for

but that is not what he

needs

what she needs

I am a force caught

in

between

fighting a losing battle

with no way out

but to listen

and offer precarious

words of wisdom

that I do not know

if I even believe

so bury my heart

next to his

because sympathy

is all I have to give.

(104 words)

Childhood

In my heart of hearts,
When I was a child,
I too believed in love.

When I was a child,
I believed in the kind of things
that just don't exist.

Dragons and Unicorns hiding;
just over the hill.
And a knight in armor to save me.

When I was a child,
I believed in the fairytale.


(Again, not what I really wanted, but it's just not flowing today.)

Afternoon Contentment

Afternoon contentment is
The warmth of a laptop against my thighs
While the screen flashes
Arena lights
And crystalline guitar notes
Spill from the tiny speakers,
Rock’n’roll thrum and the teenage angst of
I don’t want you to want me.

Afternoon contentment is
The slick slide of needle between fingers
And coloured cotton against fingertips
A string of knots to form flowers and suns,
Stars and a smile.

Afternoon contentment is
The clacking of keyboard keys
And rhymes coming alive
Black on white,
Stark and bright.

Afternoon contentment is
The city skyline against a periwinkle sky
Peeking through blue curtains
And sunlight shining on
A day’s work done.

Never Fully Bloom

It unfurls in my chest,
A shaking, shivering
Blossom,
Blue petals curled and
Heavy,
Wet from the spring of new life.
It sighs in a breeze of
Want,
Sudden and unexpected
As a ray of sunlight between storm clouds.

I water it with smiles exchanged and
The subtle warmth of his elbow
Against mine,
A chance glance into blue eyes and a casual
I’ll walk you to your car.

But it will never fully bloom,
Will linger, withered and bent
Beneath the weight of
Pages and words,
Statutes and precedents.

Beneath a shower of velvet-striped robes and
Flying caps
It will breathe its first - or last.

(107 words)

The Ghost

Ethereal, floating

on the wind,

nothing could touch you.

Nothing to feel.

And nothing would hurt you.

A ghost,

you slip past existence.

Pushing through,

passing on.

With no one to say your name.

Keener senses

cannot lie.

A muffled cry,

and whispers in the dark.

I can still feel you.

You search for something

as I, unable to fill that wanting

void,

stumble quietly through grief.

Do not despair, you will say.

For I am neither living, nor dead.

Just a ghost.

(83 words)

Uncertain

How to express all that I feel;
to make myself understood.
Would you understand,
if I just came out and said it?
A delicate waltz of hints that
protect a fragile soul.
Faltering steps, drawing near and pulling away.
Shifting like a tower of Jenga;
one false move will send it to the ground.




(I'm not sure what is expected from this challenge exactly, so I am expecting the first few days to be a bit rough before I fall into the swing of it.)

Project Assignment #35 - Nothing More Than Feelings

Let's dive back into my element once again... poetry.

We should each write a poem every day conveying a different emotion. I seem to get stuck in a rut of only writing poems that are sad or confusing, etc. So let's branch out. Let's write some happy stuff, some angry stuff... you know what I'm trying to say.

Let's cap the word limit at 200 words. It can be shorter though if you want. Some of the best poems are only a few lines long.

Sorry for my constant disappearing act...

Overview #34: Hands

This week's assignment was hard. I think I did learn from last week's assignment, because I resisted the urge to go crazy detailed on a set of hands. I returned to the Carolyn-verse even though, in sudden retrospect, it would have been much easier to go mainline Dagaz because I have more than enough characters to fill up a week. By the time I got to the end of this week, I realized the problem with having six days in a writing week and only five main characters, so I had to take a quick readers' poll (thanks to Jade for deciding that Clay needed some love) and write the final piece.

I learned how to focus a very short, tight plot around a single image without (hopefully) letting the image override the plot. I took this as a chance to explore the brothers Summers in their lives now that they're no longer Four Times Summer (although any helpful hints for a more decent band names are welcome). It was fun to explore what they do, even though it would seem that none of them are really all that happy. (I do have a problem with that sort of thing, don't I?) I surprised myself with some of the hand uses I came up with. I honestly think I liked Scott's the best this week, but then I have been listening to Allegory of the City all week, so I probably had a better grip on him as a character (I really can't find anything from Lights Out Love to use for Dan. >.<)

We'll see what happens in the coming week.

Anymore

“Thanks for the new phone, man. It got here pretty fast.” Clay cradled the shiny new gadget between his ear and shoulder while he attempted to chop the chicken. Bob was better with a knife - probably that whole rhythmic drummer thing. Clay swore when he almost took off part of his finger, and Scott laughed in his ear.

“Is Betty Crocker Clay on the loose again?”

“Bob’s not here, all right? I have to cook for myself.” Clay sighed and set down the knife, stared at his hands. He remembered pretending to stare at his cuticles lots of times as a teenager, the only way he could really show disdain for his father without risking what Bob risked.

“You let Bobby-O cook you food? And you’re still alive?”

“Apparently Bob’s pretty handy with foreign cuisine,” Clay said. He stared - really stared - at his hands and remembered a crazy fan had latched onto him, crying with joy and hysteria, and told him his hands were magic. He and his brothers had been adolescent long enough to have a good laugh about it later, but his hands were just - hands. His fingernails were always chipped because he played his bass without a pick, and his fingertips were heavily callused. As an experiment, he dug a fingernail into one of his fingertips and felt...nothing. Huh. He had that much dead skin in one spot? But it was a good thing - making music didn’t hurt. At least, not physically.

“Any word from your taller half?”

“Not one. If you hear from him, tell him to come home - I’m terrible with kids. Have I mentioned Bob’s also handy to have around when kids start to cry?”

More laughter from Scott. “Is there anything you’re better than Bob at?”

“Picking up chicks,” Clay said automatically, and then he sighed. Sure, he was good at picking girls up at bars, but of the brothers four, the only one who was in a steady relationship was Dan. He and Joey had been together for four years.

“That’s what you think. Actually, uh, I have heard from Bob.”

Clay raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”

“He’s still on his way to see her. He, uh, he wrote a song.”

“He did what?” Clay glanced toward the corner of the main room, but his guitar was still there - he’d used it earlier that day, after all.

“Yeah. It was a pretty good song, too.” Something in Scott’s voice was oddly muted. “You know what I realized today?”

“What?” Clay wondered what sort of song Bob could have written, remembered the steady bitterness of Two Beats and remorseful resignation of Love Isn’t.

“I don’t have guitar calluses anymore,” Scott said.

Clay rubbed his fingertips together and realized he couldn’t feel anymore. “That’s too bad,” he said. “I really liked Perilously Here.”

“I did, too.”

(oddly enough, all of the song titles referenced in this piece are actual songs; I cannot guarantee that you'll find them on YouTube)

And The Boss Was Back

Carolyn drummed her fingertips on the desk and listened to Donna witter on about the wonderful date she’d had the night before. They were supposed to be talking about partnership agreements and sliding-scale contingent fees, but the senior partner had stepped out, and the harpies were on the loose.

“And then he gave me this new bracelet. See?” Donna cocked her wrist to show off a glitter of diamonds. She had long, thin hands, her fingers almost bony to the point of being sharp. If she gestured any more broadly than usual, she’d likely put out her neighbor’s eye.

Carolyn glanced down at her own hands, weapon-scarred and devoid of real fingerprints. After several moments, she realized the rhythm she was drumming was one Bob had taught her. The nearest handy distraction was a pen. Carolyn scooped it up and set a-twirling. She’d learnt several interesting pen-flips in her time. In fact, she was fully capable of shooting a pen across a room like a small spear. She’d almost blinded her weapons master once that way.

“So you think he’ll propose?” Suzy asked.

Donna tossed her head. “Oh, please. I’ll be done with him and onto the next man before he knows what hit him. This time I’m thinking...a guy with a Maserati.”

Carolyn bit the inside of her cheek to keep from blurting out a comment. Donna was about to get a pen through the eye.

“What about you, Carolyn? Any new men in your life?” Lola’s sudden question jolted Carolyn out of her pen-flipping rhythm, and the pen launched itself across the table. Toward Donna.

Carolyn squeaked and lunged, closed a fist over the pen mid-air. The other women went silent and stared at Carolyn’s hand.

“Um...nice catch,” Lola said faintly.

Carolyn lowered her hand slowly, set the pen down beside her notepad. Then she curled her hands demurely in her lap. “No man in my life. You know me - it’s all about billing hours.”

The admission earned precisely the frosty, dismissive look Carolyn had been hoping for, and then it was Amanda’s turn to brag about her latest fling. Carolyn stared down at her hands, two weapons curled around each other, and remembered candle-lit nights in foreign hotel rooms. She remembered laughter and pillow fights and curling up in her own corner of the bed, Bob’s arms wrapped around her, both of them watching as Scott and Clay squabbled over which channel to watch while Dan picked a movie and settled in. Bob would twine his fingers with hers and tease her gently about how small her hands were. She’d have to remind him that, in karate lessons, she had a much better punch, and he would kiss the argument away, and then Dan would fling a handful of popcorn at them, and --

“So, have we decided on new contingent fees?”

And the boss was back.

My Own Hands

My own hands were once unscared. Once, the hands of a writter, a crafter, smooth. Of course they were not always as strong as they are now.

Deft and concise movments now are the strange grace to my hands. The smooth movements of the blade in my hands, rapidly dicing food into neat and even pieces, the same hands that can filet a salmon, can carve a cantalope into a flower, can pipe a rose out of icing for a cake.

They are perpetually brown from the heat in the kitchens. Always a new cut, a new scar. Burns turning smooth flesh puckered and angry red; burns that fade into grayish brown lines forever engraved into my skin, another story. Skin so dry from constant scrubbing, I could itch my face with the backs of my hands. It's strange, so brown, yet an ashy pallor from the lack of moisture in the air.

Torn and bleading fingers, scraped by a grater, singed on the grill, slammed in the washer. I don't want my hands touched by others; hands so harsh. Hands perpetually scented with garlic and onion, so much that I don't notice it anymore.



(Lame I know, but I was stuck for something to write. I know it's really bad, but c'est la vie. Can't have a great one every day, especially when I am on vacation.)

Tiny Spiders

She was crying, and Clay didn’t know what to do. He would be the first to admit that Bob was by far the better teacher. It was Bob who’d fled to Thailand first, and his tales of glorious beaches and days in the sun had lured Clay away from California and his quixotic ideas about making it on the silver screen. At least twice a day, Clay wondered why he was still here when it was pretty obvious Bob didn’t need him to help teach.

Only Bob was gone, chasing something that was either a hoax, a dream, or a cruel joke, and now Clay was staring down at a crying five-year-old and wondering what the hell he should do. Bob usually handled things like this. Clay knelt so he was eye-level with the girl.

“Hey,” he said, doing his best to mimic Bob’s comforting tone. “He didn’t mean to hurt you - you just bonked heads. He said he’s sorry. Are you going to stop crying now?”

That just made her cry more.

Clay winced. He held out one hand. “Hey, you...want to come help Teacher Clay play his guitar while everyone eats lunch?”

Her tears subsided for a moment, and she stared at his hand. Clay had every urge to tug it back and let it fall to his side, and then she put her hand in his. For a moment, Clay could only stare. Her hand was tiny compared to his. Her entire hand, palm and chubby splayed fingers at all, fit onto the palm of his hand. He’d always had spidery hands for being the skinniest of the brothers Summers, but then he’d always joked he’d needed it for his bass - after all, his instrument was almost too much music for one man.

“Where Teacher Bob?” the girl asked.

“You mean where is Teacher Bob? He had to go to America, but he’ll be back.” I hope. Clay closed his hand carefully around hers, starkly aware of how tiny and fragile her bones were, how soft her skin was. “Now, you want to learn to play a song?”

Her eyes lit up at the word “play”, and Clay supposed he should have been glad that this wasn’t one of his good guitars, just a cheap acoustic he’d picked up at a pawn shop.

It took a bit of maneuvering, but then Clay had the girl on his lap and the guitar semi-perched on her knees even though he was supporting most of its weight. He let her explore the strings and the neck, the fretboard, the body and the pegs - although he turned the strings as soon as she was done poking at them. Her tiny hands were like little spiders alive with curiosity, and her eyes were wide with wonder, and Clay wondered when he’d stopped looking at music like that, when it became a shield and a retreat and the only way he knew how to be human once more.

Not Your Fault

“Don’t touch me!” The woman screamed and kicked out when Ellis tried to approach. He grunted when her heel connected with his thigh, and he staggered back.

Scott froze in the doorway. The woman’s face was bruised and swollen on one side, and she had thick scratches on her throat. Her shirt was torn and exposed more bruising on her ribs, scratches and bruises on her hips. After one horrified moment, Scott knew.

His hands curled into fists, and he felt his fingernails bite into his palms.

“Ma’am,” Ellis said. He reached for her.

She shrieked and tossed her head wildly, sank back against the closet door. Her chest heaved, and Scott realized she was crying.

“Ellis,” he said, “get back.”

“Summers, she’s obviously high --”

“Get back, moron.” Scott set down his emergency bag and raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “My name is Scott Summers and I’m an EMT. We’re here to help. Officers will be here as soon as possible to secure the scene, but we need to take you to a hospital to get you checked over --”

“Stay back, monster!” She threw one of her shoes at him.

Scott ducked instinctively, then lowered himself to his knees. “We’re not going to hurt you. I promise.”

She twitched like a rabid animal when he extended one hand, palm up.

“I promise.” Scott caught her gaze and held it.

She lunged at him and sank her teeth into his hand. Scott bit back a curse and took the pain, felt the burn in his palm and let it wash through him, calm him down. He remembered sitting in his room with his beat-up old acoustic and playing till his fingers bled, playing louder and angrier so he didn’t have to hear Bob’s quiet sobs in the next room. Scott knew there was something wrong with him, that physical pain calmed his fury, but he took it.

After a moment, the woman pulled back. She was trembling. Scott instinctively curled his fingers over the wound and was surprised to realize that his calluses from playing the guitar were gone. Had it been that long?

“I’m sorry,” the woman whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry --”

Scott reached out to her once more. “Shhh,” he whispered. “We’re here to help. Come on with us.”

The woman reached out and curled her hand tightly around his. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Scott wished he’d been able to say these words to his brother back when he needed them. “It’s not your fault.”

Her grip on his hand tightened, but he ignored the pain, just stared at the convergence of fingers and skin where her hand clutched his. He studied the contrast in light and shadow, the delicate shadows between her knuckles and the thickness of his fingers compared to hers. Her fingers were almost as long as his, but more slender, and they curled like claws against his skin while she cried.

Which Wire

"Okay, now locate the primary and the secondary switches and trace them back to the source," David's voice sounded loud and clear in his ear.

Steve's quick hands sifted through the wires attached to the bomb that he was practicing on. "Okay, this is the primary, but it looks like there is a third redundancy down here," Steve's long fingers traced a blue wire gently as it twisted back on itself and into the core of the device.

"Now the real question," David said, "is which wire do you cut? Bear in mind that you only have three more minutes before it goes off."

Steve grasped a small pair of wire cutters in his left hand, looking at the bomb. He looked again at the bundle of wires. Smiling, he grasped the green wire gently and cut it with a quick motion.

Steve couldn't help his cry of surprise when the little bomb went off in a shower of confetti.

Picking the colored paper out of his hair, Steve scowled in frustration. "I though I had it right for sure that time," Steve said as David came into the practice room.

"Don't worry about it, You'll get it eventually," David said, patting Steve on the shoulder. "Lets just hope it's before you have to disarm am bomb for real."

Used To Play Piano

Dan could only stare at his hands, white-knuckled and trembling, as they curled around his gun. The shot was still ringing in his ears, and all he could think was, I used to play piano with these hands.

He remembered being fifteen years old and sitting at a grand piano in a hotel restaurant, smiling at a camera and showing a stranger how his brothers’ rock’n’roll could be converted into a slow, poignant melody.

He’d always had the prettiest hands of the lot - whenever they rewatched old videos of themselves hosting the Juno awards, Clay would make fun of how girly his hands were for the Celine Dion joke. Dan always defended himself - he was the piano player. His hands were supposed to be graceful.

“Summers, I need you to let go of the gun.”

Dan blinked. Officer Henry was standing beside him, trying to ease the gun out of his hands. Dan’s hands tightened reflexively, and hell, when had his hands become so pale?

“Officer, the gun. It’s safe now.” Henry smiled weakly.

Dan took a deep breath. “Just give me a moment to unclench, okay?” He could remember twelve-hour-days in the basement in the house in Nashville, how swollen and cramped his hands were after rehearsals. His pretty little hands would curl into tight claws because he’d been playing so hard and so long, and he usually had to soak them in hot water and get Bob to rub them before he could even move them again.

Not even Bob would help now.

“Is he dead?” Dan asked.

Henry glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah.” He swallowed hard. “You’re lucky - he has a piece on him.”

Boy With the Beat

“Do you even know how to play a guitar?” Sonny asked. He hovered over Bob and watched while Bob fumbled with the chords.

Bob dragged a hand through his hair and stared down at the crumpled napkin where he’d scribbled hasty lyrics and a dash of chords, then set the guitar aside for a moment.

“You done with it?” Sonny asked. His breath was rancid and he definitely had several old meals in his beard, but Bob didn’t care.

“No, not yet. It’s just --”

“Can you even write a song?” Sonny asked.

“Yes! I’ve been writing songs since I was seven. It’s just -- I was the drummer, all right? Clay tried to teach me how to play the guitar, but my hands just weren’t made for that.”

Sonny blinked. “Breathe, kid. It’s just a song.”

Just a song. Bob wanted to laugh. He did take a deep breath, and then he stared down at his hands. For twelve years now he’d pretended that all that mattered was dexterity, the quick rhythm of palms and knuckles, from brushes and sticks to bare hands on a box. Clay had longer fingers, more graceful hands, but then he had the smaller, thinner frame. Somehow, despite the fact that they were twins, he was prettier.

“Going to try again?” Sonny reached for the guitar.

“My fifty bucks isn’t up yet,” Bob said. “I just - need a minute.” He closed his eyes and set his hands on his knees. Then he curled his hands into fists and began to play. It was the first beat, the easy beat, the oldest beat from their oldest song, and it evolved from one song to the next, one album to another. When he opened his eyes, his palms were red and tingling, his knuckles swollen. He stared down at his hands once more. He had blunt-fingered, broad hands, like a carpenter or a construction worker, not a musician.

“That was...you’re crazy,” Sonny said.

Bob scooped up the guitar and tried the chord sequence once more. He was surprised at how steady his hands were this time, and he smiled.

“That sounds pretty good, actually,” Sonny said.

“Thanks.” Bob’s smile widened. “Now, on to the second verse.”

He barely noticed when a crowd began to gather around the edges of his vision.

“Every step along the way is part of who we are today...”

Pictures and Memories

David pulled a scrap of a photo out of his pocket, it was torn and creased. DAvid studied the people in the picture, Arianna and himself. They were holding hands and smiling at the camera. David closed his eyes, he could remember that day as if it were yesterday. They had gone to the fair, Arianna had beaten him in the carnival games. They had ridden the Farris wheel, and cuddled under the stars. One of the carnival workers had agreed to take their picture.

David looked at his hands in the picture; looked at them now. In the picture they had been smooth, strong, yet cleans, unblemished and innocent. David placed the picture in his lap, and spread his hands to see them clearly. Palm, down, his hands were browner now than they were then, fine lines crossed the backs of his hands. Long fingers ended in blunt tips, fingers made leaner by a hard life. Turning his hands over and looking at the palms, David noted the deep red scars running across his fingers; fingers that were also thick with callouses from years of fighting and weapons training. Hands that were broken with years of hard use.

Looking at the photo again David shook his head. He could wish for clean and gentle hands again. He could wish for a lot of things that couldn't be or he couldn't have. Soft hands belong to the her, to the past, he mused. Slipping the picture back into his pocket he looked at his hands once more.

This was his life, his fate. The hands of a warrior.

Project Assignment # 34 - Hands

This week should focus on hands in the story. Is it an old ladies gnarled and wrinkled hands, a babies smooth perfect skin? Does Vince have strong hands? what kind of Hands does the wordsmith have? Hands can tell a lot about a character. Rough, smooth, calloused, manicured. Do their hands have a nervous twitch?

Have fun with your descriptions.

I promise I will do my overview later today.

Overview #33: World-Building

Ugh, I am so terrible at making myself write everyday. That, and I am quite scatterbrained in general, so I tend to just... forget. I know, terrible of me to forget M&M! What's wrong with me?!

Anyhow, the two entries I did write this week were... alright I suppose. I didn't really like the bowling alley one, but I wanted to describe a local haunt kind of thing, a place where pretty much everyone hangs out at one time or another. And I wrote about Sam's apartment complex because I feel like all you really get of Sam most of the time is her angsting over Vince. So I wanted to do something that was strictly Sam, for Sam.

Well... I promise I will try harder to write everyday. Not just for M&M, but also for myself. Thanks you guys.

Overview #33: World-Building

I essentially failed at this exercise. But whatever. I think switching to random characters for this week might have done me in, but there are worse things I could do. I'll fully admit to pretty much describing the different places I go to in Omaha, and I definitely caricatured them up a bit, but part of that was for Kyle's character as I made him up. The cheapness of literally calling places North Omaha, South Omaha, and West Omaha (there is no East Omaha - that is downtown) gave the world a more coherent feel than it really had, to me. It isn't easy to balance having characters and building a world, but Jade was right - a world comes alive because of the characters who inhabit it and interact with it, who observe it and comment on it and try to change it.

This exercise mostly brought home my utter inability to spatially process places alone in my head without visibly seeing what I'm describing. I think I improved as the week went, coming up with a lame if coherent story line and developing a fairly solid character for Kyle, who shall go the way of the dodo with whatever the impending challenge may be. In looking back, my sense of description improved, because in considering what I'd write for the day I'd watch the world around me and try to categorize the little visual details that fed into my overall impression of the place. (South Omaha has houses crammed closer together than in North Omaha, but North Omaha somehow feels more ghetto and unsettling than South Omaha.)

Well, better luck next week. At least I got my daily words, right?