Some people are bothered by the sounds of traffic, especially out here. Not me. My apartment complex sat right by the interstate and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
The complex was made up of four buildings that stood straight and narrow, all alike, almost like giant bread boxes looming towards the sky. Of course, they weren’t very tall, with only a ground floor and one flight of stairs to speak of. Lights burned quietly between each set of apartments. The doors came in twos, with their numbers rusting away bold and black against the white paint.
The light was out near my apartment. It was the only one that didn’t shine. I didn’t care too much.
All that stood between me and that stretch of freeway was a small drain that bubbled along its way every time it rained, and a fence. If I could climb that fence, I’d be home free, thumbing my way to some other state, to some other city.
But I liked it here. I never heard many sirens, and I could always see the stars - lying on the hood of my beat up car, I could see everything, hear the noise, and at the same time drown it out.
(207 words)
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Home
The place that David had come to call home was austere. On the surface it was a small bunker, but underneath was a world of concrete and florescent lights. Corridors that stretched on forever were designated alphanumerically. The walls were stark, bare concrete, reinforced with re bar at their core. Pipes were exposed in the ceiling, color coded for identification. Blast doors, accessible only through a key card blocked much of the facility. Sound seemed dampened here, the air sterile, scrubbed a thousand times by the filtration system.
Barrack rooms were kept spotless. Fifty beds to a room for new recruits, five to ten beds for the team barracks. The common areas were even silent, as if holding a breath, waiting for a slight movement.
Strobe lights and sirens sat at junctions, waiting to go off. Weapons lockers and equipment storage were immaculately organized. Everything spoke of flawless military precision.
Barrack rooms were kept spotless. Fifty beds to a room for new recruits, five to ten beds for the team barracks. The common areas were even silent, as if holding a breath, waiting for a slight movement.
Strobe lights and sirens sat at junctions, waiting to go off. Weapons lockers and equipment storage were immaculately organized. Everything spoke of flawless military precision.
The Right Address
“We’re not doctors. Why are we making house calls?” Drew asked.
Kyle hitched his laptop bag higher and sighed. “Keep your chin up and walk a little faster. Then we won’t get mugged.”
“Mugged?” Drew squeaked.
Kyle rolled his eyes. “Don’t be such a wuss.”
“We’re in the ghetto, man. Two white guys in the ghetto - we’re walking targets.”
“We will be if you keep talking like that,” Kyle said. “And this isn’t a ghetto.” At least, North Omaha wasn’t like the ghettos people saw on TV. The streets followed the semi-organized grid-system that the rest of Omaha pretended to follow, but the further north of Dodge the streets got, the more broken-down they became. Kyle and Drew would have been driving if Drew hadn’t blown a tire on a pothole. The cracks in the broken sidewalk seemed to have been timed to match the potholes in the tar, and Drew had almost tripped over his own shoes five times now.
“You told the caller what a house visit costs?” Drew asked.
“It’s not like Holgren would let us out of the office if I hadn’t pinned the caller down to actual payment,” Kyle said. Drew’s skepticism was understandable, though. Most of the houses in these neighborhoods were from the sixties and seventies, and a good number of them hadn’t had paint jobs since then. Lawns were overgrown and choked with weeds, and the scent of grits that wafted from open windows. Drew looked guilty when his stomach growled. Kyle would have paused to admire one of the ma-an-pa corner stores a little longer if the group of teenagers pouting over soda pop bottles weren’t glaring quite so fiercely.
“...Are we still even in the city limits anymore?” Drew asked.
Kyle peered at the GPS on his cell phone, then looked up. They’d reached the end of Maple Street, which had dead-ended here even though it was a main street further west, and there was a single house, ramshackle and made of what looked suspiciously like bamboo. It stood in the middle of a single, grassy field, and Kyle was convinced that a gang of men would emerge, singing songs about picking cotton. The grassy field was huge and dotted with trees, and the rest of the neighborhood seemed to have vanished from around it.
“Well,” Kyle said at last. “It’s the right address.”
Kyle hitched his laptop bag higher and sighed. “Keep your chin up and walk a little faster. Then we won’t get mugged.”
“Mugged?” Drew squeaked.
Kyle rolled his eyes. “Don’t be such a wuss.”
“We’re in the ghetto, man. Two white guys in the ghetto - we’re walking targets.”
“We will be if you keep talking like that,” Kyle said. “And this isn’t a ghetto.” At least, North Omaha wasn’t like the ghettos people saw on TV. The streets followed the semi-organized grid-system that the rest of Omaha pretended to follow, but the further north of Dodge the streets got, the more broken-down they became. Kyle and Drew would have been driving if Drew hadn’t blown a tire on a pothole. The cracks in the broken sidewalk seemed to have been timed to match the potholes in the tar, and Drew had almost tripped over his own shoes five times now.
“You told the caller what a house visit costs?” Drew asked.
“It’s not like Holgren would let us out of the office if I hadn’t pinned the caller down to actual payment,” Kyle said. Drew’s skepticism was understandable, though. Most of the houses in these neighborhoods were from the sixties and seventies, and a good number of them hadn’t had paint jobs since then. Lawns were overgrown and choked with weeds, and the scent of grits that wafted from open windows. Drew looked guilty when his stomach growled. Kyle would have paused to admire one of the ma-an-pa corner stores a little longer if the group of teenagers pouting over soda pop bottles weren’t glaring quite so fiercely.
“...Are we still even in the city limits anymore?” Drew asked.
Kyle peered at the GPS on his cell phone, then looked up. They’d reached the end of Maple Street, which had dead-ended here even though it was a main street further west, and there was a single house, ramshackle and made of what looked suspiciously like bamboo. It stood in the middle of a single, grassy field, and Kyle was convinced that a gang of men would emerge, singing songs about picking cotton. The grassy field was huge and dotted with trees, and the rest of the neighborhood seemed to have vanished from around it.
“Well,” Kyle said at last. “It’s the right address.”
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Warren Buffett's Neighborhood
“I’m telling you, this is Warren Buffet’s neighborhood.” Drew gestured to the view beyond the windshield.
Kyle sat back and stared at the row of suburban houses and wondered where Omaha had gone. Sure, this wasn’t downtown, but this wasn’t really the suburbs either. If he glanced over his shoulder, he could see the rush and zoom of cars on Dodge, which was the city’s main artery, but when he looked forward, it was as if he were staring into a whole new world.
And a whole new world it was, with dozens of little gingerbread houses topping fairy-tale adorable lawns. Each lawn was perfectly manicured and dotted with patches of flowery color that resembled carelessly-strewn candy. There was something uncanny to the overly-sharp slope of the roofs and the too-bright flowers in the trees that made Kyle wonder if he’d stepped into Wonderland. The faux-tudor finish in the front was kitschy and unsettling, and any moment a little dwarf with a pointed cap and a shovel was going to come a-whistling out the front door to the tune of “hi-ho, it’s off to work we go.”
“If I ever pay off my student loans, I’d totally love to buy a house here,” Drew said. “And not just because super-man Buffett lives here. It’d be a great place to raise kids, right?”
Kyle cast Drew a glance askance. “To raise kids. Sure.”
Drew rolled his eyes. “Are you sure you’re not gay?”
The woman who’d crawled out of Kyle’s bed this morning before he woke was pretty sure.
“All right.” Drew revved the car. “C’mon, I’ll take you to the Dundee Dell - they’ve got great imports on tap as well as seriously good food. You’ll like Omaha - you’ll see.”
Kyle sat back and stared at the row of suburban houses and wondered where Omaha had gone. Sure, this wasn’t downtown, but this wasn’t really the suburbs either. If he glanced over his shoulder, he could see the rush and zoom of cars on Dodge, which was the city’s main artery, but when he looked forward, it was as if he were staring into a whole new world.
And a whole new world it was, with dozens of little gingerbread houses topping fairy-tale adorable lawns. Each lawn was perfectly manicured and dotted with patches of flowery color that resembled carelessly-strewn candy. There was something uncanny to the overly-sharp slope of the roofs and the too-bright flowers in the trees that made Kyle wonder if he’d stepped into Wonderland. The faux-tudor finish in the front was kitschy and unsettling, and any moment a little dwarf with a pointed cap and a shovel was going to come a-whistling out the front door to the tune of “hi-ho, it’s off to work we go.”
“If I ever pay off my student loans, I’d totally love to buy a house here,” Drew said. “And not just because super-man Buffett lives here. It’d be a great place to raise kids, right?”
Kyle cast Drew a glance askance. “To raise kids. Sure.”
Drew rolled his eyes. “Are you sure you’re not gay?”
The woman who’d crawled out of Kyle’s bed this morning before he woke was pretty sure.
“All right.” Drew revved the car. “C’mon, I’ll take you to the Dundee Dell - they’ve got great imports on tap as well as seriously good food. You’ll like Omaha - you’ll see.”
Remembrance
Dim light filtered into the alley; reflections from the windows across the street. Busy shops, full of people and prosperity, just around the corner from hell.
Refuse was strewn on the ground; the air stale and rank with urine and vomit from any number of homeless people who would squat there at night. There was an empty dumpster near the mouth of the alley, lidless and reeking, one wheel missing from the front. It looked like it hadn't been moved for an age. The rest of the alley was filled with broken bits of human life. A T.V. with a smashed in screen, a child's bike, the paint faded and the once bright silver rusted, newspapers dating back to the previous decade, empty beer bottles and copious amounts of glass. Spray paint covered the walls, gang tags, claiming territory hardly worth defending.
David stood from where he crouched among the rubbish, a breeze carrying the stink of the alley into his face; making him scrunch his nose in distaste. A bunch of Forget-me-not left on the ground. They would be dead and shriveled in a few hours. David turned from the alley and walked to his car.
Dead and as lifeless as his love.
Refuse was strewn on the ground; the air stale and rank with urine and vomit from any number of homeless people who would squat there at night. There was an empty dumpster near the mouth of the alley, lidless and reeking, one wheel missing from the front. It looked like it hadn't been moved for an age. The rest of the alley was filled with broken bits of human life. A T.V. with a smashed in screen, a child's bike, the paint faded and the once bright silver rusted, newspapers dating back to the previous decade, empty beer bottles and copious amounts of glass. Spray paint covered the walls, gang tags, claiming territory hardly worth defending.
David stood from where he crouched among the rubbish, a breeze carrying the stink of the alley into his face; making him scrunch his nose in distaste. A bunch of Forget-me-not left on the ground. They would be dead and shriveled in a few hours. David turned from the alley and walked to his car.
Dead and as lifeless as his love.
Monday, June 29, 2009
King Pin
There weren’t many places to hang out in Fayeville. Vince and I always seemed to wind up at the bar (yes, one bar in a town of drunks), or at the bowling alley. I liked the nights where we pulled into the bowling alley parking lot more, because I knew I would have fun, instead of getting drunk and pretending to have fun.
The parking lot was fairly big, simply because business was usually booming every single night for one reason or another. Even though it was big, it had few lights, so what it did light up seemed ghostly. It kind of freaked me out sometimes. I hated going out to my truck alone when it got late. I always made Vince walk out with me.
Inside, you get thrown back a few decades, but in a teeny tiny town like Fayeville, you got used to it. It was like that everywhere you went. The pool tables stuck out like sore thumbs because Brad has only gotten them a few months ago. That’s what Vince and I did. We were slowly but surely becoming pool sharks.
“So what’ll it be tonight, Sam? Eight? Nine? Trick shots?” Vince was gathering the pool balls and putting them in the rack. I was mildly distracted by the rumble of the lanes, the whirring of the ball machines, the distant clicks and clacks of the one pinball machine that stood in the corner, lonely and itching for a quarter.
“Sam?”
“Hmmm?”
“Sam, why are you always spacing out on me? I think you’re coming down with a case of EDD or something.”
“It’s ADD, Vince. I’ll go get us some cues.”
(278 words)
The parking lot was fairly big, simply because business was usually booming every single night for one reason or another. Even though it was big, it had few lights, so what it did light up seemed ghostly. It kind of freaked me out sometimes. I hated going out to my truck alone when it got late. I always made Vince walk out with me.
Inside, you get thrown back a few decades, but in a teeny tiny town like Fayeville, you got used to it. It was like that everywhere you went. The pool tables stuck out like sore thumbs because Brad has only gotten them a few months ago. That’s what Vince and I did. We were slowly but surely becoming pool sharks.
“So what’ll it be tonight, Sam? Eight? Nine? Trick shots?” Vince was gathering the pool balls and putting them in the rack. I was mildly distracted by the rumble of the lanes, the whirring of the ball machines, the distant clicks and clacks of the one pinball machine that stood in the corner, lonely and itching for a quarter.
“Sam?”
“Hmmm?”
“Sam, why are you always spacing out on me? I think you’re coming down with a case of EDD or something.”
“It’s ADD, Vince. I’ll go get us some cues.”
(278 words)
Old Park Bench
The scent of loamy earth rose on the damp air. The sun had set behind the city, painting it a vivid orange, and dusk was falling. The city lights were starting to come on, glowing pale in the misty night. Fog was gathering and drifting into the streets, flowing like river currents towards the center of the city. The moon was rising, bathing the night in silver light.
A bench, partly hidden by the drooping branches of an ancient Elm tree, was tucked away near the trunk. The gnarled branches cradling the bench and casting deeper shadows on Arianna and David as they sat on the old park bench, nestled at the top of a hill, just outside of the city to the East. The breeze was blowing gently from the south, cool and soft.
Arianna snuggled into David's side, her head against his shoulder. She shivered lightly under his leather jacket that was slung around her shoulders. David placed his arm around her shoulders, sighing in contentment. Right now, he thought, right now, I'm happy.
David tipped his head back to look up at the sky. The clouds were starting to thin out, and he could see the first spots of light in the distance.
Arianna watched David watching the stars and smiled, her hand resting on his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath her fingers. She leaned over and kissed his neck as his head was tilted back.
David's breath hitched, his skin goosebumping under her lips. He looked down at her, his eyes dark in the night. He brought his lips to hers and kissed her slowly and passionately.
"I love you Arianna," David said.
"I love you too."
It was the first time those words had been exchanged.
A bench, partly hidden by the drooping branches of an ancient Elm tree, was tucked away near the trunk. The gnarled branches cradling the bench and casting deeper shadows on Arianna and David as they sat on the old park bench, nestled at the top of a hill, just outside of the city to the East. The breeze was blowing gently from the south, cool and soft.
Arianna snuggled into David's side, her head against his shoulder. She shivered lightly under his leather jacket that was slung around her shoulders. David placed his arm around her shoulders, sighing in contentment. Right now, he thought, right now, I'm happy.
David tipped his head back to look up at the sky. The clouds were starting to thin out, and he could see the first spots of light in the distance.
Arianna watched David watching the stars and smiled, her hand resting on his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath her fingers. She leaned over and kissed his neck as his head was tilted back.
David's breath hitched, his skin goosebumping under her lips. He looked down at her, his eyes dark in the night. He brought his lips to hers and kissed her slowly and passionately.
"I love you Arianna," David said.
"I love you too."
It was the first time those words had been exchanged.
Downtown
It was almost romantic, standing beside the window in his darkened apartment, staring out at the city while soft piano music played in the background. Of course, the dim glow out of the corner of his eye came from his laptop instead of candlelight, and his neck was craned at an awkward angle so he could catch a glimpse of the fireworks hailing the end of the annual city arts festival, so it still wasn't quite romantic.
Downtown Omaha from the fringes from the north side of Dodge, on a night like this, looked like someone had carved a piece of Victorian London of the past and dumped it down in the middle of the plains. Then giant hands had rearranged it to form a semi-neat grid and smeared it in golden light. The rooftops were flat and even, punctuated in spots by the highrise buildings of the banks and law firms that corroded the downtown skyline. Most of the buildings were old brick with high, roman-arch windows. They were old factories and warehouses remodeled into stylish studio apartments with sky-high rent and starving students lounging on the stairwells, trading talk about Heidigger and the latest college world series game.
Some cities were modern halogen-bright, stark with blue-white light cutting into the dingy shadows that crept alongside decrepit buildings, but Omaha had older lights, golden and warmer, if a bit foggy on a humid Sunday night. Edges of buildings and billboards looked softer, almost dream-like.
If he squinted just right, he could see the sudden dip in the even rooftop world, like a black hole had clawed up through the bottom of the pseudo chimney-sweep universe and swept away the singing Dick Van Dykes. The county jail was over there, right in the middle of downtown next to the world-class performing arts center modeled after some fancy Viennese institution.
The fireworks echoed across the sky like gunshots, lit up the factory-ancient roofs, and for a moment, a dull city night was colorful.
Downtown Omaha from the fringes from the north side of Dodge, on a night like this, looked like someone had carved a piece of Victorian London of the past and dumped it down in the middle of the plains. Then giant hands had rearranged it to form a semi-neat grid and smeared it in golden light. The rooftops were flat and even, punctuated in spots by the highrise buildings of the banks and law firms that corroded the downtown skyline. Most of the buildings were old brick with high, roman-arch windows. They were old factories and warehouses remodeled into stylish studio apartments with sky-high rent and starving students lounging on the stairwells, trading talk about Heidigger and the latest college world series game.
Some cities were modern halogen-bright, stark with blue-white light cutting into the dingy shadows that crept alongside decrepit buildings, but Omaha had older lights, golden and warmer, if a bit foggy on a humid Sunday night. Edges of buildings and billboards looked softer, almost dream-like.
If he squinted just right, he could see the sudden dip in the even rooftop world, like a black hole had clawed up through the bottom of the pseudo chimney-sweep universe and swept away the singing Dick Van Dykes. The county jail was over there, right in the middle of downtown next to the world-class performing arts center modeled after some fancy Viennese institution.
The fireworks echoed across the sky like gunshots, lit up the factory-ancient roofs, and for a moment, a dull city night was colorful.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Overview #32: First Person POV
Ugh. First of all, I know I didn't write yesterday. Had a bunch of things going on, like party planning.
Anyway, I thought this challenge went pretty well for me. Once I got writing, I fell into a rhythm, and that hasn't happened for me in a long time. I also very much like my characters. While at first I was simply basing them on people I knew in real life, I felt like they finally took on their own personality and image as the week wore on.
I thought I wasn't too keen on the whole first person thing, but then I remembered that I wrote an entire novella in first person. So maybe I've just been out of practice. (And the novella also stopped me from writing prose for a very, very long time.)
On to the new assignment!
Anyway, I thought this challenge went pretty well for me. Once I got writing, I fell into a rhythm, and that hasn't happened for me in a long time. I also very much like my characters. While at first I was simply basing them on people I knew in real life, I felt like they finally took on their own personality and image as the week wore on.
I thought I wasn't too keen on the whole first person thing, but then I remembered that I wrote an entire novella in first person. So maybe I've just been out of practice. (And the novella also stopped me from writing prose for a very, very long time.)
On to the new assignment!
Overview #32: First Person POV
Okay, so while I don't think I totally suck at first person, I could definitely use some improvement. I noticed, and it was pointed out that I have inconsistencies in my characters. I think part of that is that they are still kind of new characters and so they don't have a set and definite personality and form yet. I liked the one from David's POV, and then I tried it from Arianna's. I found that as I was working with the others that they are to underdeveloped; I'm not really sure what they are prone to do at any given moment. I did enjoy viewing David from Arianna's perspective though. I am still having troubles with the technical aspect of writing, though I am slowly improving. It seems like it is good for a while, and then the misplaced modifiers of doom or some strange punctuation slips in. Perhaps those are the posts that I am hurrying to get written because the characters are not being cooperative. I will try this next week to be especially vigilant about that.
Project #33: World-building
I'll be the first to admit that this is something I shy away from and rarely relish in, even when I'm GMing, and it's the reason I avoid high fantasy and stick to urban fantasy - because there's no world-building. Or so I thought. And then I read this post by the lovely SRB and thought, well, maybe I do some of that after all. Even when you write urban fantasy or set your story in a place that really exists, you're building a world when you make that place a home for your reader. So, this week, build a world! Take us on a tour of your characters' home town - where do the rowdy kids hang out on a Friday night where Sam and Vince live? Was 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' out on the green at the local university or in a fancy theatre downtown for Ari and David?
Keep it no more than 400 words, no less than 100 words a day, and hopefully after six days we'll have worlds built. Happy writing!
Keep it no more than 400 words, no less than 100 words a day, and hopefully after six days we'll have worlds built. Happy writing!
Rules 2.2
Hi and hello from the Mod!
Feedback consistency: friends and fellow writers, let us attempt to be as consistent as possible with feedback. Sometimes we fall behind and it feels like a rush, to make up for back posts missed (click on the "post options" button so you can back-date posts) and catch up on the posts we haven't read, but this game is for the improvement of all, and improvement comes through constructive criticism. Do make a point to try to find posts you missed reading - it's only fair to the other writers.
First - constructive: be helpful. We're mature here, and so far the feedback here has been friendly and decent and full of camaraderie, and we do our best not to waste the pixels our comrades have to read. If someone points something out, pay attention to it. What may seem like nitpicking to you may be where someone at the bookstore closes your novel and sets it back on the shelf and never gets to that cool scene in the third chapter. Don't take things personally, either - just because you might have grammar/spelling/style issues doesn't mean you're a horrible person or we think you're horrible for mentioning them. Yes, writing comes from your soul, but just because we may not like something you wrote doesn't mean we dislike you as a person all of a sudden.
Second - criticism: try to have something useful to say. Sometimes all you can do is nitpick, but do it, because it's that fine-toothed comb that makes good writing better. We want to encourage each other and help each other keep up with this tasks, but we want to help each other improve, and gushing only love and puppies to each other (which we've all been guilty of) doesn't always help/isn't useful to the writer. Did you hate a particular sentence? Why? Tell the writer and let her know, and she will take your criticism under advisement.
Yes, under advisement. We have free agency, and we will listen to criticism with open minds, but don't be offended if someone doesn't take it. You might be annoyed, but try not to be offended. We love each other.
Remember that.
Feedback consistency: friends and fellow writers, let us attempt to be as consistent as possible with feedback. Sometimes we fall behind and it feels like a rush, to make up for back posts missed (click on the "post options" button so you can back-date posts) and catch up on the posts we haven't read, but this game is for the improvement of all, and improvement comes through constructive criticism. Do make a point to try to find posts you missed reading - it's only fair to the other writers.
First - constructive: be helpful. We're mature here, and so far the feedback here has been friendly and decent and full of camaraderie, and we do our best not to waste the pixels our comrades have to read. If someone points something out, pay attention to it. What may seem like nitpicking to you may be where someone at the bookstore closes your novel and sets it back on the shelf and never gets to that cool scene in the third chapter. Don't take things personally, either - just because you might have grammar/spelling/style issues doesn't mean you're a horrible person or we think you're horrible for mentioning them. Yes, writing comes from your soul, but just because we may not like something you wrote doesn't mean we dislike you as a person all of a sudden.
Second - criticism: try to have something useful to say. Sometimes all you can do is nitpick, but do it, because it's that fine-toothed comb that makes good writing better. We want to encourage each other and help each other keep up with this tasks, but we want to help each other improve, and gushing only love and puppies to each other (which we've all been guilty of) doesn't always help/isn't useful to the writer. Did you hate a particular sentence? Why? Tell the writer and let her know, and she will take your criticism under advisement.
Yes, under advisement. We have free agency, and we will listen to criticism with open minds, but don't be offended if someone doesn't take it. You might be annoyed, but try not to be offended. We love each other.
Remember that.
Overview #32: First Person POV
This was a good exercise for me to do, because, let's face it, I'm not so awesome at the first person POV. It could be an extension of my own interpersonal/trust issues, but that's neither here no there. I really needed the improvement, especially since an exercise in the first person is also an exercise in voice, and I've always been a bit iffy about how well individual characters have different voices in my writing. The First Person does tend to bring out someone's unique voice a bit more, and I feel a bit more free to take liberties or new angles with grammar and punctuation to find a voice. In the beginning, I was definitely writing third person limited with pronoun changes, which was pretty lame, and I was half-pleased, half-annoyed to discover that in the first piece Clay and Bob had more distinct voices even though the piece was in Dan's POV. As the week wore on, though, I found that I didn't know the characters like I thought I did. For some reason, Clay came easiest. Bob, who is probably my baby of the group, gave me hell as far as finding a voice, and every line was pulling teeth (although I was pretty pleased at being able to sneak in another 2BP song, especially one that had the grainy over-the-phone quality that fit the piece). Scott came fairly easily after that. I was surprised at just how much trouble Carolyn gave me, probably because in my head she's so inconsistent. As a character within herself she's inconsistent, and I had to fight to make her work without making her sound incoherent. Still, I applaud Jade's choice for this week's challenge and am glad to have improved, if only minimally.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Into The Breach
I set down the phone and stared at my hands for a long moment. Then I reached out and pulled open the bottom drawer of my desk, the drawer that most people would have kept locked but that I could leave unlocked based on sheer force of reputation. The hair I tugged over the clasp had been broken - someone had been in my drawer since my last perusal of its contents. Whoever the snoop was had been careful to replace the box containing my sidearm and ammunition just so, but I could see that the picture had been moved. I tugged the picture out from under the box and turned it over. It was no worse for wear beyond the fact that it was nine years old. I replaced the picture carefully and rose up, smoothed down the fabric of my suit.
Then I stepped out of my office. Jessica, the college intern, would hardly have been this canny, and besides, she wasn’t brave enough to paw through my desk. Laurie, on the other hand, was nosy. She thought she was my mother. Everyone in the office knew I’d been raised a foster kid, and Laurie must have taken pity on me.
I had to pause behind her desk - she never noticed me coming unless I wanted her to - and took a deep breath. Laurie was one of the few women in the office who was civil with me, and I didn’t want to upset her. Upsetting her would only be an unfortunate side-effect if, say, my address got out to other members of the Summers family besides Dan.
I cleared my throat. “Laurie, did you compile the list of police agencies for our survey sample?”
She paused the dictaphone she was working with and looked up at me. “What? Oh, yes.”
“Did you pick the Calgary Twenty-Seventh Police District on purpose?”
Laurie darted a glance at Jessica, who was arranging stacks of mail blithely. So she thought that she’d be able to intercept any incoming calls while she was on secretary duty instead of Jessica, did she?
“Miss Pierce,” Laurie began.
“I received a call from one Sergeant Daniel Summers just now.” It hadn’t been easy, playing cheerful like that. Oh, I had a cover story all set, a stack of letters sent that Kevin had undoubtedly hidden or destroyed, and I could feign innocent hurt with the best of them, but those letters were the back-up plan, not the primary engage switch. I leaned down and met Laurie’s gaze. “What possessed you to go through my desk?”
“Carolyn,” Laurie began.
Her motherly tone made me grit my teeth. “I’m sure you feel like you did something wonderful for me, but if one of the Summers brothers shows up on my doorstep --”
“Miss Pierce,” Jessica called. “A Vanya Ianevski is on line one for you.”
Vanya. John. I straightened up. “Thank you, Jessica.” I cast another look at Laurie. “I know you meant well, but the consequences of your action may have yet heretofore unseen unpleasantness. And I don’t mean professionally.”
I walked back into my office and closed the door loud enough to make a point, then picked up the phone. “Carolyn Pierce.”
“One Robert Summers just booked a flight from Bangkok to Los Angeles. What the hell happened?”
“I thought you vetted everyone at this office.” I disliked his tone and he knew it.
“You had a security breach?”
“A massive one,” I said.
(580 words)
Then I stepped out of my office. Jessica, the college intern, would hardly have been this canny, and besides, she wasn’t brave enough to paw through my desk. Laurie, on the other hand, was nosy. She thought she was my mother. Everyone in the office knew I’d been raised a foster kid, and Laurie must have taken pity on me.
I had to pause behind her desk - she never noticed me coming unless I wanted her to - and took a deep breath. Laurie was one of the few women in the office who was civil with me, and I didn’t want to upset her. Upsetting her would only be an unfortunate side-effect if, say, my address got out to other members of the Summers family besides Dan.
I cleared my throat. “Laurie, did you compile the list of police agencies for our survey sample?”
She paused the dictaphone she was working with and looked up at me. “What? Oh, yes.”
“Did you pick the Calgary Twenty-Seventh Police District on purpose?”
Laurie darted a glance at Jessica, who was arranging stacks of mail blithely. So she thought that she’d be able to intercept any incoming calls while she was on secretary duty instead of Jessica, did she?
“Miss Pierce,” Laurie began.
“I received a call from one Sergeant Daniel Summers just now.” It hadn’t been easy, playing cheerful like that. Oh, I had a cover story all set, a stack of letters sent that Kevin had undoubtedly hidden or destroyed, and I could feign innocent hurt with the best of them, but those letters were the back-up plan, not the primary engage switch. I leaned down and met Laurie’s gaze. “What possessed you to go through my desk?”
“Carolyn,” Laurie began.
Her motherly tone made me grit my teeth. “I’m sure you feel like you did something wonderful for me, but if one of the Summers brothers shows up on my doorstep --”
“Miss Pierce,” Jessica called. “A Vanya Ianevski is on line one for you.”
Vanya. John. I straightened up. “Thank you, Jessica.” I cast another look at Laurie. “I know you meant well, but the consequences of your action may have yet heretofore unseen unpleasantness. And I don’t mean professionally.”
I walked back into my office and closed the door loud enough to make a point, then picked up the phone. “Carolyn Pierce.”
“One Robert Summers just booked a flight from Bangkok to Los Angeles. What the hell happened?”
“I thought you vetted everyone at this office.” I disliked his tone and he knew it.
“You had a security breach?”
“A massive one,” I said.
(580 words)
Breaking
It was the middle of the night, and I was desperate. I needed a beer.
The night was cool. The smell of rain lifted from the sidewalk towards the sky and I inhaled deeply, smiled for the first time that day.
So much for a happy ending to a bad day. Some idiots, probably drunk, drove past me and threw a water balloon. All I wanted was a damn beer, a moment to think about all the bullshit that had gone on in the last twenty-four hour period.
I didn’t have my phone on me. Last thing I wanted was for Vince to call. I would answer, and do whatever he asked me to do. I needed a moment to myself, though truth be told, alone was probably the worst thing for me to be right now.
But the town was quiet as I approached the intersection, pressed the button on the traffic light to cross. It was a Sunday, so all the good God fearing people were at home reading their Bibles. All I wanted was a drink.
The bright neon lights made everything seem pale and sickly or drenched in red - it depended on if you were caught in the loud, red glow of the gas station sign. I walked in, grabbed a couple of six packs of fairly weak beer.
I had been concentrating on my goal since I walked through the door, so it wasn’t until I set the six packs down on the counter to pay for them that I noticed Corinn. Loud, stupid, fake redhead Corinn. And of course, she wanted to chat.
“Hey Samantha, going to a party?”
My expression must have told all because Corinn frowned and scanned the first six pack.
“You shouldn’t drink by yourself, you know. People will talk.”
In an instant, everything I had been holding back the entire day sparked and flamed and burst. I felt my eyes grow wide, my hands shake. My heartbeat thumped loudly in my ears.
“You know what Corinn? Maybe you should just shut your damn mouth! You’re half the reason people gossip in this town anyway!” I slammed a twenty on the counter, took my beer and stalked toward the door.
Corinn called after me, “Bitch!”
I didn’t bother to answer.
I knew Corinn didn’t smoke, so I was safe sitting by the pay phone to open up my first bottle of many for the night. I didn’t feel like walking home, didn’t feel like hearing drunk catcalls, hearing my phone ring, or worse, not ringing.
I was almost done with the first six pack when Vince showed up.
“What the hell, Sam? Corinn called Layla and she called me and told me you were down here drinkin’ and causin’ problems.” He was trying his best to not seem concerned. He’d become really good at it as of late.
“Yeah, well, maybe Corinn should stop being a gossiping whore and let me be.”
Vince rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Sam…”
I could feel him looking at me. I opened another bottle and swallowed half of its contents in seconds. He sat next to me and nudged me gently.
“Mind if I have one of those?”
“Here.” I gave him one, because eleven was just as good as twelve.
We drank in silence - a stale, distant silence.
Vince glanced my way, and I finally looked over. We said nothing, but it didn’t matter. We’d already forgiven each other.
(580 words)
The night was cool. The smell of rain lifted from the sidewalk towards the sky and I inhaled deeply, smiled for the first time that day.
So much for a happy ending to a bad day. Some idiots, probably drunk, drove past me and threw a water balloon. All I wanted was a damn beer, a moment to think about all the bullshit that had gone on in the last twenty-four hour period.
I didn’t have my phone on me. Last thing I wanted was for Vince to call. I would answer, and do whatever he asked me to do. I needed a moment to myself, though truth be told, alone was probably the worst thing for me to be right now.
But the town was quiet as I approached the intersection, pressed the button on the traffic light to cross. It was a Sunday, so all the good God fearing people were at home reading their Bibles. All I wanted was a drink.
The bright neon lights made everything seem pale and sickly or drenched in red - it depended on if you were caught in the loud, red glow of the gas station sign. I walked in, grabbed a couple of six packs of fairly weak beer.
I had been concentrating on my goal since I walked through the door, so it wasn’t until I set the six packs down on the counter to pay for them that I noticed Corinn. Loud, stupid, fake redhead Corinn. And of course, she wanted to chat.
“Hey Samantha, going to a party?”
My expression must have told all because Corinn frowned and scanned the first six pack.
“You shouldn’t drink by yourself, you know. People will talk.”
In an instant, everything I had been holding back the entire day sparked and flamed and burst. I felt my eyes grow wide, my hands shake. My heartbeat thumped loudly in my ears.
“You know what Corinn? Maybe you should just shut your damn mouth! You’re half the reason people gossip in this town anyway!” I slammed a twenty on the counter, took my beer and stalked toward the door.
Corinn called after me, “Bitch!”
I didn’t bother to answer.
I knew Corinn didn’t smoke, so I was safe sitting by the pay phone to open up my first bottle of many for the night. I didn’t feel like walking home, didn’t feel like hearing drunk catcalls, hearing my phone ring, or worse, not ringing.
I was almost done with the first six pack when Vince showed up.
“What the hell, Sam? Corinn called Layla and she called me and told me you were down here drinkin’ and causin’ problems.” He was trying his best to not seem concerned. He’d become really good at it as of late.
“Yeah, well, maybe Corinn should stop being a gossiping whore and let me be.”
Vince rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Sam…”
I could feel him looking at me. I opened another bottle and swallowed half of its contents in seconds. He sat next to me and nudged me gently.
“Mind if I have one of those?”
“Here.” I gave him one, because eleven was just as good as twelve.
We drank in silence - a stale, distant silence.
Vince glanced my way, and I finally looked over. We said nothing, but it didn’t matter. We’d already forgiven each other.
(580 words)
Finally In A Place
I sank down on the cot in the back room and flung my forearm across my eyes to block out the light. I was tempted to plug into my iPod and let some music carry me away, but then I’d miss it if my pager went off, which meant the other boys would bang down the door when a call came in, which meant I’d have to endure another month of “boy-band wannabe” jokes, and...most days, I wasn’t sure why I’d come back to White Horse, other than to escape Dad.
I’d considered calling Dad and ratting Bob out, telling Dad that little Bobby was running halfway around the world to essentially beat a dead horse. But calling Dad wouldn’t have been fair. If Bob wanted to chase down a wasted dream, that was his choice. I was done with dreams, anyway. Time to sleep.
Only maybe dreams weren’t done with me, because my phone was ringing. Clay had already busted up my shift, and I still had scratches all up my face and arms from the girl I’d been watching. White Horse was a boring enough town to induce suicide, but really. I groaned, heaved myself up, and scooped my cell phone up off the floor.
Bob was calling me back. He’d probably chickened out.
“Y’ello.”
“Dia duit. I need your opinion.” Bob sounded irritatingly cheerful, for someone who was about to grovel.
“Yes, you’re an idiot. Go back to Thailand before Clay freaks out and tells Dad, and yes, Carolyn is probably dead. Good-bye.”
“That’s not why I called, but at least I know you’re in an honest mood.” Bob actually laughed. Softly, but it was real laughter. When was the last time he’d laughed? “I’m going to put you on speaker, all right? Tell me what you think.”
What was going on? I sat up and rested my elbow on my knee, waited. I could hear a lot of noise in the background - Bob was somewhere crowded. The airport, maybe? And then I heard an old man, say,
“Shush! He’s playin’ fer his brother!”
Bob had never been the best guitarist. After me, Clay was the handiest with a guitar, but then he played the bass. Even Dan was good with a guitar with a pinch, but Bob...had been learning from Clay over in Thailand. Some of his transitions were sketchy, but his chords were solid.
“Well it took a little while to remember how to smile
It takes time to give it up when you love someone that much
But I’m finally in a place where I can think about your face
Without feeling the pain
Without missing you again...”
I blinked and sat up straighter, pressed the phone to my ear. In the main bunker, some of the other idiots were playing foosball, and loudly, so I pressed a hand to my other ear to block them out.
It sounded country, like we hadn’t sung since we were twelve, but - it was good. Immediately I felt ashamed for being surprised that my own brother was a decent songwriter, but I concentrated on the lyrics a little more.
The song ended, and cheers erupted in the background. I listened to Bob fumble with the phone, wondered what I could say.
“So...what are you going to say to Carolyn?”
“I don’t think it matters anymore,” Bob said.
I swallowed hard. “Are you and Clay coming home, then?”
“When this is done.”
Done. What did that mean? “It’s a good song, Bobby.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks. I’ll call.”
“Ghráim tú."
“Slán.”
(598 words; lyrics unabashedly snitched from Two Bullet Parade's "This One's For You")
I’d considered calling Dad and ratting Bob out, telling Dad that little Bobby was running halfway around the world to essentially beat a dead horse. But calling Dad wouldn’t have been fair. If Bob wanted to chase down a wasted dream, that was his choice. I was done with dreams, anyway. Time to sleep.
Only maybe dreams weren’t done with me, because my phone was ringing. Clay had already busted up my shift, and I still had scratches all up my face and arms from the girl I’d been watching. White Horse was a boring enough town to induce suicide, but really. I groaned, heaved myself up, and scooped my cell phone up off the floor.
Bob was calling me back. He’d probably chickened out.
“Y’ello.”
“Dia duit. I need your opinion.” Bob sounded irritatingly cheerful, for someone who was about to grovel.
“Yes, you’re an idiot. Go back to Thailand before Clay freaks out and tells Dad, and yes, Carolyn is probably dead. Good-bye.”
“That’s not why I called, but at least I know you’re in an honest mood.” Bob actually laughed. Softly, but it was real laughter. When was the last time he’d laughed? “I’m going to put you on speaker, all right? Tell me what you think.”
What was going on? I sat up and rested my elbow on my knee, waited. I could hear a lot of noise in the background - Bob was somewhere crowded. The airport, maybe? And then I heard an old man, say,
“Shush! He’s playin’ fer his brother!”
Bob had never been the best guitarist. After me, Clay was the handiest with a guitar, but then he played the bass. Even Dan was good with a guitar with a pinch, but Bob...had been learning from Clay over in Thailand. Some of his transitions were sketchy, but his chords were solid.
“Well it took a little while to remember how to smile
It takes time to give it up when you love someone that much
But I’m finally in a place where I can think about your face
Without feeling the pain
Without missing you again...”
I blinked and sat up straighter, pressed the phone to my ear. In the main bunker, some of the other idiots were playing foosball, and loudly, so I pressed a hand to my other ear to block them out.
It sounded country, like we hadn’t sung since we were twelve, but - it was good. Immediately I felt ashamed for being surprised that my own brother was a decent songwriter, but I concentrated on the lyrics a little more.
The song ended, and cheers erupted in the background. I listened to Bob fumble with the phone, wondered what I could say.
“So...what are you going to say to Carolyn?”
“I don’t think it matters anymore,” Bob said.
I swallowed hard. “Are you and Clay coming home, then?”
“When this is done.”
Done. What did that mean? “It’s a good song, Bobby.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks. I’ll call.”
“Ghráim tú."
“Slán.”
(598 words; lyrics unabashedly snitched from Two Bullet Parade's "This One's For You")
Friday, June 26, 2009
Squee
"So. What was it like Ari?" A voice said from behind me.
Startled I turned to see my best friend Jenna. "I'm sorry?" I asked a bit puzzled. But that was par for course when dealing with Jenna.
"Your date. You went out with David Cole. Did you really think that I wouldn't know about it?" She grinned, her eyes wide behind her sliver framed glasses. Her long brown hair fell into her face and she pushed it away impatiently.
"Spill the beans," She commanded me.
I shrugged one shoulder, trying to play it cool, "We went to a play. A Midsummer Nights Dream."
"Ari," Jenna whined my name, "You are so holding out on me." Jenna was practically bouncing up and down.
I ducked my head, blushing just a bit.
Jenna continued, "every girl in school would love to go out with David. He is so cute, and very polite, not to mention a mystery to every girl here. But," She held up a finger, "He never dates. All the girls choice dances, he manages to have plans or be out of town. If he is asked at any other time, he gives work or studying as his excuse. In fact, as far as I know, you are the first girl to date him since he moved here a year ago," Jenna drew in a breath, "I hope you know all the other girls are insanely jealous of you. I would be too, but I am just glad that he asked you, and not Shaylin."
I shook my head. Shaylin was undoubtedly the most popular girl in school. Very stereotypical, if I were aloud my opinion. Head cheerleader, Dance Captain, dating the quarterback, and resident school slut.
"Well, I guess we should be glad that David has better taste than to want that," I said.
"Don't think I haven't noticed you changed the subject," Jenna said. "I want to know everything. Did he kiss you?"
I shook my head, "No. I believe he is to much a gentleman to kiss on the first date."
"Ari!" Jenna whined again.
"Alright, alright," I said. "He did hold my hand after the first half of the play.
"So do you think you will go out again?" Jenna asked, lowering her voice as Shaylin passed, her expression one of disbelief as she looked at me.
"We have a date next weekend," I said.
Jenna squeed and wrapped her arms around me, crushing the air from my body. I patted her on the back and let her hold on a moment. Finally I said, "Come on, we'll be late for English."
Startled I turned to see my best friend Jenna. "I'm sorry?" I asked a bit puzzled. But that was par for course when dealing with Jenna.
"Your date. You went out with David Cole. Did you really think that I wouldn't know about it?" She grinned, her eyes wide behind her sliver framed glasses. Her long brown hair fell into her face and she pushed it away impatiently.
"Spill the beans," She commanded me.
I shrugged one shoulder, trying to play it cool, "We went to a play. A Midsummer Nights Dream."
"Ari," Jenna whined my name, "You are so holding out on me." Jenna was practically bouncing up and down.
I ducked my head, blushing just a bit.
Jenna continued, "every girl in school would love to go out with David. He is so cute, and very polite, not to mention a mystery to every girl here. But," She held up a finger, "He never dates. All the girls choice dances, he manages to have plans or be out of town. If he is asked at any other time, he gives work or studying as his excuse. In fact, as far as I know, you are the first girl to date him since he moved here a year ago," Jenna drew in a breath, "I hope you know all the other girls are insanely jealous of you. I would be too, but I am just glad that he asked you, and not Shaylin."
I shook my head. Shaylin was undoubtedly the most popular girl in school. Very stereotypical, if I were aloud my opinion. Head cheerleader, Dance Captain, dating the quarterback, and resident school slut.
"Well, I guess we should be glad that David has better taste than to want that," I said.
"Don't think I haven't noticed you changed the subject," Jenna said. "I want to know everything. Did he kiss you?"
I shook my head, "No. I believe he is to much a gentleman to kiss on the first date."
"Ari!" Jenna whined again.
"Alright, alright," I said. "He did hold my hand after the first half of the play.
"So do you think you will go out again?" Jenna asked, lowering her voice as Shaylin passed, her expression one of disbelief as she looked at me.
"We have a date next weekend," I said.
Jenna squeed and wrapped her arms around me, crushing the air from my body. I patted her on the back and let her hold on a moment. Finally I said, "Come on, we'll be late for English."
Thursday, June 25, 2009
The Same Dream
I know I’m dreaming.
He would never hover this close, never slip his arm around my waist. His presence is - what’s that word they use to describe ghosts? - ethereal.
His lips are moving, but his voice is nowhere to be found. It wouldn’t matter, anyway. I know every word he isn’t saying. I know that he’s lying.
Everything feels slow, like time is moving at half speed. Layla’s here, going in and out of focus, but then she disappears and I read his lips, the only time I’m able.
“It doesn’t matter.”
We’re close, close, so close, but I can’t see his face. If I didn’t know it was Vince, if my heart wasn’t already preparing to ache the minute my eyes open, it could be anyone. Any guy, any touch, any smile, any kiss. Any heartbeat.
His face is clear the second before my eyes open. Here it comes. Reality crashing its way down.
You don’t know me, you don’t know me at all, you don’t know me, you don’t know me at all.
He’s already calling.
This once, I’m refusing to answer.
(186 words, a shout out to the week I missed)
He would never hover this close, never slip his arm around my waist. His presence is - what’s that word they use to describe ghosts? - ethereal.
His lips are moving, but his voice is nowhere to be found. It wouldn’t matter, anyway. I know every word he isn’t saying. I know that he’s lying.
Everything feels slow, like time is moving at half speed. Layla’s here, going in and out of focus, but then she disappears and I read his lips, the only time I’m able.
“It doesn’t matter.”
We’re close, close, so close, but I can’t see his face. If I didn’t know it was Vince, if my heart wasn’t already preparing to ache the minute my eyes open, it could be anyone. Any guy, any touch, any smile, any kiss. Any heartbeat.
His face is clear the second before my eyes open. Here it comes. Reality crashing its way down.
You don’t know me, you don’t know me at all, you don’t know me, you don’t know me at all.
He’s already calling.
This once, I’m refusing to answer.
(186 words, a shout out to the week I missed)
My Friend, the Rock Star
I have some pictures of Vince on my cell phone. Most of them are pretty dumb. He’s usually just pulling a face or making some sort of joke or something. But there is one that I like in particular. One that I can’t seem to get out of my head.
“Sam,” his text message began, “I just got a great offer on a bass. I can afford it too. Should I do it?” I hated when he asked me questions like that. It was his money, why should my opinion count? Still, I answered.
I typed, “I don’t know. Is it in good condition?” He answered with a quick, “Yes!” I smiled.
Then I remembered a story Vince had told me long ago, about living in Texas and getting into trouble. He had a distinct knack for that. This particular story was about playing bass guitar in a band of twenty year olds when he was only thirteen, playing gigs, and loving it. Sometimes he would reminisce, especially after he found out that I had played the bass some in high school.
Thinking about the look in his eyes when the regret washed over him, I knew the answer I had to give him.
“I think you should do it. It might get you to play again.”
And so, impulsive boy that he was, he bought it from his friend in the next minute, and the minute after that, he sent me the picture.
It’s at kind of a weird angle. Most of the picture is taken up by the wall and carpet in the hallway of his apartment. His skinny, gangly body takes up the right of the picture, the black and white bass guitar slung around his body. He isn’t smiling. He’s got the rock star look perfectly.
My breath still catches a bit whenever he calls, and the picture flashes across the screen.
(316 words)
“Sam,” his text message began, “I just got a great offer on a bass. I can afford it too. Should I do it?” I hated when he asked me questions like that. It was his money, why should my opinion count? Still, I answered.
I typed, “I don’t know. Is it in good condition?” He answered with a quick, “Yes!” I smiled.
Then I remembered a story Vince had told me long ago, about living in Texas and getting into trouble. He had a distinct knack for that. This particular story was about playing bass guitar in a band of twenty year olds when he was only thirteen, playing gigs, and loving it. Sometimes he would reminisce, especially after he found out that I had played the bass some in high school.
Thinking about the look in his eyes when the regret washed over him, I knew the answer I had to give him.
“I think you should do it. It might get you to play again.”
And so, impulsive boy that he was, he bought it from his friend in the next minute, and the minute after that, he sent me the picture.
It’s at kind of a weird angle. Most of the picture is taken up by the wall and carpet in the hallway of his apartment. His skinny, gangly body takes up the right of the picture, the black and white bass guitar slung around his body. He isn’t smiling. He’s got the rock star look perfectly.
My breath still catches a bit whenever he calls, and the picture flashes across the screen.
(316 words)
Right Now
I love you.
I hate you.
Why did you leave me?
None of them adequately covered how pathetically I’d fallen apart for the past five years. I knew all of my brothers thought it. Dad had no clue - he just thought Carolyn had escaped from the “earthquake” in the hotel and that her foster parents decided they didn’t want her on the road anymore, and after that law school swept her away down the river of time. Of course, Dad rarely cared about what any of us felt, and he’d assumed that my love for Carolyn was purely adolescent.
Maybe it was adolescent, but I still loved her, damn me. I’d tried and tried with girls, but I’d failed and taken their dismissals with my head bowed. Carolyn had stolen my soul, and now - now maybe I’d be able to get it back from her.
But what could I possibly say?
I needed time to think about it. Time to figure out what, exactly, I still felt for Carolyn, even though every time I heard her name its syllables hollowed out a hole in my chest where my heart usually beat.
Jet-lag never got easier over the years, and I was half-asleep on my feet as I hauled myself across the arrivals terminal. I’d picked up a ticket at the airport in Bangkok and didn’t have a connecting flight to Las Vegas which, according to google map, was the closest airport to Cedarville, so I’d have to talk to a ticketing agent, and...
I halted mid-stride, tipped my head back, and closed my eyes.
What the hell was I doing? Why was I even here? Scott was right. I was an idiot. I should just go back to Thailand and help Clay finish out the teaching stint and then...maybe I’d finally go to college or do something normal with my life.
Right. Back to Thailand. Apologize to Clay. I opened my eyes and saw a sign for Greyhound Buses. A bus ride to Nevada or Cedarville had to be about ten hours from LA, right? Ten hours. On a bus. Just me. I could think of something to say by then, right?
But that was the voice of my resolve wavering. I’d decided to go back to Thailand and be productive, to put Carolyn behind me once and for all. Only how many times had I told myself that?
No. I couldn’t put her behind me until I’d seen her face to face and gotten my answers - about why she left, about whether or not she’d even ever loved me. There. I was resolved. I marched over to the Greyhound counter and asked for a ticket to Cedarville, Utah. The clerk was pretty and blonde but I didn’t care, although I thanked her when she told me to enjoy the Shakespearean Festival.
I found the bus depot easily enough and sank down on one of the cheap plastic seats. Maybe I could take a nap and get my head on straight for some serious thinking during the bus ride. My eyes were half-closed when a shadow fell over me, and I curled my hands into fists. Even now, Carolyn’s childhood-taught paranoia stuck with me.
“What can I do for you?”
“Care for a song, sonny?”
It was an old hobo with a beat-up guitar. I considered him for a long moment, then said,
“I’ll pay you fifty bucks if you let me borrow that.”
He considered. “What for?”
“To write a song,” I said.
He blinked. “Right now?”
I nodded. “Right now.”
I hate you.
Why did you leave me?
None of them adequately covered how pathetically I’d fallen apart for the past five years. I knew all of my brothers thought it. Dad had no clue - he just thought Carolyn had escaped from the “earthquake” in the hotel and that her foster parents decided they didn’t want her on the road anymore, and after that law school swept her away down the river of time. Of course, Dad rarely cared about what any of us felt, and he’d assumed that my love for Carolyn was purely adolescent.
Maybe it was adolescent, but I still loved her, damn me. I’d tried and tried with girls, but I’d failed and taken their dismissals with my head bowed. Carolyn had stolen my soul, and now - now maybe I’d be able to get it back from her.
But what could I possibly say?
I needed time to think about it. Time to figure out what, exactly, I still felt for Carolyn, even though every time I heard her name its syllables hollowed out a hole in my chest where my heart usually beat.
Jet-lag never got easier over the years, and I was half-asleep on my feet as I hauled myself across the arrivals terminal. I’d picked up a ticket at the airport in Bangkok and didn’t have a connecting flight to Las Vegas which, according to google map, was the closest airport to Cedarville, so I’d have to talk to a ticketing agent, and...
I halted mid-stride, tipped my head back, and closed my eyes.
What the hell was I doing? Why was I even here? Scott was right. I was an idiot. I should just go back to Thailand and help Clay finish out the teaching stint and then...maybe I’d finally go to college or do something normal with my life.
Right. Back to Thailand. Apologize to Clay. I opened my eyes and saw a sign for Greyhound Buses. A bus ride to Nevada or Cedarville had to be about ten hours from LA, right? Ten hours. On a bus. Just me. I could think of something to say by then, right?
But that was the voice of my resolve wavering. I’d decided to go back to Thailand and be productive, to put Carolyn behind me once and for all. Only how many times had I told myself that?
No. I couldn’t put her behind me until I’d seen her face to face and gotten my answers - about why she left, about whether or not she’d even ever loved me. There. I was resolved. I marched over to the Greyhound counter and asked for a ticket to Cedarville, Utah. The clerk was pretty and blonde but I didn’t care, although I thanked her when she told me to enjoy the Shakespearean Festival.
I found the bus depot easily enough and sank down on one of the cheap plastic seats. Maybe I could take a nap and get my head on straight for some serious thinking during the bus ride. My eyes were half-closed when a shadow fell over me, and I curled my hands into fists. Even now, Carolyn’s childhood-taught paranoia stuck with me.
“What can I do for you?”
“Care for a song, sonny?”
It was an old hobo with a beat-up guitar. I considered him for a long moment, then said,
“I’ll pay you fifty bucks if you let me borrow that.”
He considered. “What for?”
“To write a song,” I said.
He blinked. “Right now?”
I nodded. “Right now.”
A Night Out.
My fingers twitched nervously, and I glanced at the clock again. I wonder if he will remember. I glance in the mirror one last time, making sure that my hair is nice. He didn't say where we were going, only to look nice. I looked down at the simple blue skirt and black top I was wearing, I hoped it would be alright. Smiling, I thought back to how this all started.
"Arianna!" I heard my name being called from down the hallway. I didn't recognize the voice. Turning, I saw the boy with black hair and blue eyes that I had run into yesterday. David was his name. I had seen him around school, but yesterday was the first time I had spoken to him.
"David," I said smiling as he jogged up to me, "how are you today?"
"I'm fine. You?" David asked in return. I noticed that he looked a little nervous, fidgety almost. His smile was warm, if hesitant.
"I'm doing okay. My Calculus assignment is going to give me a headache though," I said. The student body was flowing around us.
David grimaced, "I never did like Calculus, but I am good at it. Would you like some help?"
I was a little surprised, but I couldn't help the grin from spreading over my face. "I would really like that," I said.
I looked away and then back at him. David was still watching me.
I bit my lip, suppressing a laugh. "Did you just want to know about my Calculus homework?" I asked.
David blinked, seeming to snap out of whatever thoughts had carried him away.
"No. Actually I wanted to know If you wanted to go out with me," David said, his voice was low, nervous.
I couldn't help the smile spreading across my face, little shivers running down my spine. "I would love to," I said, meeting his eye briefly before ducking my head.
"Great!" David said, sounding a bit relieved.
"When?" I asked.
"Tomorrow," he said.
"What are we going to do? Not homework hopefully," I said.
David's cheek dimpled when he grinned, "No. It's a surprise, but dress nice. I'll pick you up at seven."
"Seven it is," I said. I pulled out a sheet of paper and scribbled my address on it. "Here's my address."
David accepted the paper and smiled, "Well, I have to get to History. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," I said.
I was startled out of my thought when a knock sounded in the front hall. Opening the door I saw David on the front step, looking very nice in black slacks and a dark blue dress shirt and tie.
"Ready?" He asked.
I nodded. "Where are we going," I asked.
"Have you ever seen A Midsummer Nights Dream?" He asked as he opened the car door for me. I slid into the seat and bucked up, "No, I haven't."
"You'll love it."
"Arianna!" I heard my name being called from down the hallway. I didn't recognize the voice. Turning, I saw the boy with black hair and blue eyes that I had run into yesterday. David was his name. I had seen him around school, but yesterday was the first time I had spoken to him.
"David," I said smiling as he jogged up to me, "how are you today?"
"I'm fine. You?" David asked in return. I noticed that he looked a little nervous, fidgety almost. His smile was warm, if hesitant.
"I'm doing okay. My Calculus assignment is going to give me a headache though," I said. The student body was flowing around us.
David grimaced, "I never did like Calculus, but I am good at it. Would you like some help?"
I was a little surprised, but I couldn't help the grin from spreading over my face. "I would really like that," I said.
I looked away and then back at him. David was still watching me.
I bit my lip, suppressing a laugh. "Did you just want to know about my Calculus homework?" I asked.
David blinked, seeming to snap out of whatever thoughts had carried him away.
"No. Actually I wanted to know If you wanted to go out with me," David said, his voice was low, nervous.
I couldn't help the smile spreading across my face, little shivers running down my spine. "I would love to," I said, meeting his eye briefly before ducking my head.
"Great!" David said, sounding a bit relieved.
"When?" I asked.
"Tomorrow," he said.
"What are we going to do? Not homework hopefully," I said.
David's cheek dimpled when he grinned, "No. It's a surprise, but dress nice. I'll pick you up at seven."
"Seven it is," I said. I pulled out a sheet of paper and scribbled my address on it. "Here's my address."
David accepted the paper and smiled, "Well, I have to get to History. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," I said.
I was startled out of my thought when a knock sounded in the front hall. Opening the door I saw David on the front step, looking very nice in black slacks and a dark blue dress shirt and tie.
"Ready?" He asked.
I nodded. "Where are we going," I asked.
"Have you ever seen A Midsummer Nights Dream?" He asked as he opened the car door for me. I slid into the seat and bucked up, "No, I haven't."
"You'll love it."
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Dance
It's raining outside again. I love the rain. How it smells, makes the world look clean I love how it obscures the city; in a way it's protecting, it hides me. I don't understand how people can say they don't like the rain. If you don't like it, why live in Seattle.
Training my fingers down the glass, I sigh in contentment, watching the rain beat down on the window.
"Come on Ari; we have work to do," David said, tugging on my arm.
I shook my head in response. "Nope."
"But..."
I grabbed David's hand a pulled him along with me. I opened the front door and drew in a deep breath. The rain made a gentle hiss on the pavement.
I pulled David over to the lawn, and drew him close.
"Dance with me."
Training my fingers down the glass, I sigh in contentment, watching the rain beat down on the window.
"Come on Ari; we have work to do," David said, tugging on my arm.
I shook my head in response. "Nope."
"But..."
I grabbed David's hand a pulled him along with me. I opened the front door and drew in a deep breath. The rain made a gentle hiss on the pavement.
I pulled David over to the lawn, and drew him close.
"Dance with me."
Gone To Find C~~~
There were many times in my life when I was more than glad to wake up after a crazy late night and discover that the stranger who’d slept beside me was long gone.
I was less than glad, however, to wake up this morning and discover that the person who usually slept beside me in our pathetic one-room, one-bed hovel had taken half of our clothes and left little more notice than illegible scrawls on the back of a crumpled napkin.
I swallowed another mouthful of coffee and squinted at the note while I tried to pull on my jeans. Where the hell was Bob? We had to be at the school in half an hour, and my bleeding-heart twin had promised the wide-eyed kiddies fun and games today. According to his middle-of-the-night missive, however, he was gone to find C-squiggle. Really helpful.
I was halfway into my shirt when I remembered Dan’s ill-timed call. What had he told Bob that would make him just take off like that? I glanced at the phone, but hell if Bob hadn’t take it. He must’ve forgotten it was the only connection we had to the civilized world. I sighed and finished the rest of my coffee, snagged a slice of bread from the icebox, and toed on my shoes at the door.
I was assaulted on all sides by the little old ladies who lived on my street, so bowing and saying good morning made my haul to the bus stop twice as long as usual. The hunchbacked old man who ran the corner market at the bus stop peered at me.
“Teacher Clay. Where is Same Same?”
I really didn’t look that much like Bob. I mean, technically we were the twins, but honestly - we hadn’t looked the same since we were fourteen and Bob grew a few inches taller than he deserved, being the younger twin. “Same Same didn’t get enough oxygen in the womb and took off in the middle of the night with our cellphone. Can I use your phone?”
The man blinked at me, uncomprehending of my English-speaking rant. I made a phone call motion with one hand. He nodded, grinned toothlessly, and waved me behind the counter. There was only one number I’d memorized, so I shoved a few coins into the rickety machine and dialed.
“Y’ello.” Scott sounded drowsy. I heard a woman murmur in the background. I’d be the first to admit I didn’t know what time it was in Canada.
“This isn’t a conversation I want to have with the lady du jour. Boot her.” I flashed a smile at the old man.
“I’m at work, brat. Suicide watch. Get to the point quickly, before she tries to -- hey! Knock it off. Don’t make me tie you down again.”
I waited a beat. Sometimes I forgot that Scott was no longer a drunken philanderer, that he’d wandered back to White Horse and was now a semi-respectable EMT.
“What’s your point, Clay?”
“My point is that Bob took off in the middle of the night with our cellphone. I need you to send me a new phone and find out where he went.”
“Did he leave a note?”
“His handwriting sucks. It said ‘Gone to find C-squiggle.’ I don’t know anyone whose name begins with C, let alone who’d make Bob pull a Houdini.”
“...Carolyn.”
I swore under my breath. “I thought she was dead.”
“So did I.” Scott sighed. “Hang tight, all right?”
“Right. Slán.”
“Slán.”
(597 words)
I was less than glad, however, to wake up this morning and discover that the person who usually slept beside me in our pathetic one-room, one-bed hovel had taken half of our clothes and left little more notice than illegible scrawls on the back of a crumpled napkin.
I swallowed another mouthful of coffee and squinted at the note while I tried to pull on my jeans. Where the hell was Bob? We had to be at the school in half an hour, and my bleeding-heart twin had promised the wide-eyed kiddies fun and games today. According to his middle-of-the-night missive, however, he was gone to find C-squiggle. Really helpful.
I was halfway into my shirt when I remembered Dan’s ill-timed call. What had he told Bob that would make him just take off like that? I glanced at the phone, but hell if Bob hadn’t take it. He must’ve forgotten it was the only connection we had to the civilized world. I sighed and finished the rest of my coffee, snagged a slice of bread from the icebox, and toed on my shoes at the door.
I was assaulted on all sides by the little old ladies who lived on my street, so bowing and saying good morning made my haul to the bus stop twice as long as usual. The hunchbacked old man who ran the corner market at the bus stop peered at me.
“Teacher Clay. Where is Same Same?”
I really didn’t look that much like Bob. I mean, technically we were the twins, but honestly - we hadn’t looked the same since we were fourteen and Bob grew a few inches taller than he deserved, being the younger twin. “Same Same didn’t get enough oxygen in the womb and took off in the middle of the night with our cellphone. Can I use your phone?”
The man blinked at me, uncomprehending of my English-speaking rant. I made a phone call motion with one hand. He nodded, grinned toothlessly, and waved me behind the counter. There was only one number I’d memorized, so I shoved a few coins into the rickety machine and dialed.
“Y’ello.” Scott sounded drowsy. I heard a woman murmur in the background. I’d be the first to admit I didn’t know what time it was in Canada.
“This isn’t a conversation I want to have with the lady du jour. Boot her.” I flashed a smile at the old man.
“I’m at work, brat. Suicide watch. Get to the point quickly, before she tries to -- hey! Knock it off. Don’t make me tie you down again.”
I waited a beat. Sometimes I forgot that Scott was no longer a drunken philanderer, that he’d wandered back to White Horse and was now a semi-respectable EMT.
“What’s your point, Clay?”
“My point is that Bob took off in the middle of the night with our cellphone. I need you to send me a new phone and find out where he went.”
“Did he leave a note?”
“His handwriting sucks. It said ‘Gone to find C-squiggle.’ I don’t know anyone whose name begins with C, let alone who’d make Bob pull a Houdini.”
“...Carolyn.”
I swore under my breath. “I thought she was dead.”
“So did I.” Scott sighed. “Hang tight, all right?”
“Right. Slán.”
“Slán.”
(597 words)
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Veritaserum
Vince was – what’s that word again? – oh yeah, an enigma at times.
Unfortunately, that enigma liked to unravel right before my eyes whenever we were drinking more than just a six pack between us. When the hard stuff was brought out, our defenses dropped like rocks.
I never went to a party without him. I felt safe with him, more at ease with the people surrounding us. Together, we were a strange group of people – kids who were holding on to dreams of the past and ignoring the hard truths of the present.
“Sam, you’re my best friend.” He had a goofy smile on his face, and I knew he was crossing the Sober-Drunk state line.
“Uh huh, right, Vince.” I said it nicely, but any person liquored up or stone cold sober could hear the cynicism in my voice. I always wanted to believe it, and for a few short minutes, I let myself. I let myself believe that Vince considered me his best friend. Once, he told me he didn’t believe in the concept of best friends.
It had hurt, but then, so did a lot of other things.
“No, really, Samantha—“
“Don’t call me Samantha. You know I hate that.” I tried to sound annoyed and started to walk away, but he was the only person I would let call me Samantha, if it came down to it. It always sounded right when he said it aloud.
“Sam, Sam, Sam, no, don’t, c’mere.” Vince grabbed a hold of my arm and I stopped, and I felt a stupid smile creeping across my face. I both hated and loved us together this way, drunker than skunks, honest, frightening, and free.
“What, Vince?”
“Sam, I really do mean it. You’re my best friend.”
I closed my eyes, and opened them again slowly. “What happened to the Vince who didn’t believe in best friends?”
He chuckled and tugged my arm over towards the liquor and the empty shot glasses, concentrating hard on pouring two of the shots half full with Everclear. Vince then motioned me to grab a hold of mine, because the shot was best taken right after the tonic water was poured. It was a stupid way to get drunk, but it was quick and after a while, painless. It was our way.
“You are my best friend, Sam.” His eyes met mine and we looked at each other – I mean, really looked at each other. The party raged around us, but for some reason, I couldn’t hear or see anything else except his slight smirk, his hand reaching for the bottle of tonic water.
“And I promise you, I’ll say it the next time we’re together. When I’m high and dry. And I’ll mean it.” He quickly poured enough tonic to fill the shots and we downed them. I did my usual Everclear spasm and he cleared his throat. “Alright, it’s time to break the seal. Don’t go anywhere.” Vince stumbled a bit as he walked towards the bathroom, and the party continued in it’s normal haphazard fashion.
I haven’t heard him say it since then.
(520 words)
Unfortunately, that enigma liked to unravel right before my eyes whenever we were drinking more than just a six pack between us. When the hard stuff was brought out, our defenses dropped like rocks.
I never went to a party without him. I felt safe with him, more at ease with the people surrounding us. Together, we were a strange group of people – kids who were holding on to dreams of the past and ignoring the hard truths of the present.
“Sam, you’re my best friend.” He had a goofy smile on his face, and I knew he was crossing the Sober-Drunk state line.
“Uh huh, right, Vince.” I said it nicely, but any person liquored up or stone cold sober could hear the cynicism in my voice. I always wanted to believe it, and for a few short minutes, I let myself. I let myself believe that Vince considered me his best friend. Once, he told me he didn’t believe in the concept of best friends.
It had hurt, but then, so did a lot of other things.
“No, really, Samantha—“
“Don’t call me Samantha. You know I hate that.” I tried to sound annoyed and started to walk away, but he was the only person I would let call me Samantha, if it came down to it. It always sounded right when he said it aloud.
“Sam, Sam, Sam, no, don’t, c’mere.” Vince grabbed a hold of my arm and I stopped, and I felt a stupid smile creeping across my face. I both hated and loved us together this way, drunker than skunks, honest, frightening, and free.
“What, Vince?”
“Sam, I really do mean it. You’re my best friend.”
I closed my eyes, and opened them again slowly. “What happened to the Vince who didn’t believe in best friends?”
He chuckled and tugged my arm over towards the liquor and the empty shot glasses, concentrating hard on pouring two of the shots half full with Everclear. Vince then motioned me to grab a hold of mine, because the shot was best taken right after the tonic water was poured. It was a stupid way to get drunk, but it was quick and after a while, painless. It was our way.
“You are my best friend, Sam.” His eyes met mine and we looked at each other – I mean, really looked at each other. The party raged around us, but for some reason, I couldn’t hear or see anything else except his slight smirk, his hand reaching for the bottle of tonic water.
“And I promise you, I’ll say it the next time we’re together. When I’m high and dry. And I’ll mean it.” He quickly poured enough tonic to fill the shots and we downed them. I did my usual Everclear spasm and he cleared his throat. “Alright, it’s time to break the seal. Don’t go anywhere.” Vince stumbled a bit as he walked towards the bathroom, and the party continued in it’s normal haphazard fashion.
I haven’t heard him say it since then.
(520 words)
A chance meeting turns into fate.
I have to admit it, at least to myself, I am completely in love.
Who would have imagined it. Me, Arianna, in love. And not just with anyone. He's the most perfect man I could have imagined. I had never thought to be so lucky in finding a man like David. Handsome, smart, brave and shy. He is an interesting paradox at times. So passionate, and yet so private. His eyes draw me in every time, depth-less blue. Silky hair, coal black.
Of course I had noticed him before, but I had never thought to have a chance. There are so many girls at school much prettier than I am. I suppose I could call it fate when he ran into me. Fate. A beautiful chance that may just turn into a lifetime of happiness.
(This one didn't really go as I wanted it to.)
Who would have imagined it. Me, Arianna, in love. And not just with anyone. He's the most perfect man I could have imagined. I had never thought to be so lucky in finding a man like David. Handsome, smart, brave and shy. He is an interesting paradox at times. So passionate, and yet so private. His eyes draw me in every time, depth-less blue. Silky hair, coal black.
Of course I had noticed him before, but I had never thought to have a chance. There are so many girls at school much prettier than I am. I suppose I could call it fate when he ran into me. Fate. A beautiful chance that may just turn into a lifetime of happiness.
(This one didn't really go as I wanted it to.)
Approval or Denial
The silence on the other end of the line was disconcerting. Finally, Bob said, “Thanks for telling me, Danny. I should sleep now - Clay and I have class first thing in the morning.”
I remembered that subdued tone, and I hated it. When had my brother become so divided, that he could be bright-eyed and humorous onstage and sound so broken with the people who knew him best? Of course, it had been five years since we’d given up the stage.
“How are classes going?” I cradled the phone against my shoulder and flipped open the nearest file in case the shift lieutenant came by and decided to yell at me.
“We got the good students, so it’s pretty all right. I just - Clay’s gonna hit me over the head with one of his shoes if I don’t shut up. Good night, Danny.”
“’Night, Bobby.”
And the line went dead.
For a long moment, I stared at my cellphone, wondered if I should call back and tell Bob it was probably just a coincidence, that Carolyn Pierce was a common name in America, and he should just put it out of his mind. Then I flattened the letter with one hand, flipped open my cellphone again, and dialed the number listed in the letterhead. For a second, I was confused - why hadn’t I given Bob the number as well? But I knew why. I dialed.
After several rings, someone picked up. An unfamiliar girl’s voice greeted me.
“Law office, how can I help you?”
I cleared my throat. Time to be authoritative. “This is Sergeant Summers from the Calgary Twenty-Seventh Police District. I’m calling regarding an academic survey request submitted by Carolyn Pierce?”
“One moment, please,” the girl said, and I was assaulted by elevator music.
I waited, phone canted away from my ear. As an afterthought, I scrambled for a pen so I could take notes on the letter itself before I turned the request over. Also, a pen gave me something to fidget with.
A moment later, a woman said, “Hello?”
I froze. It was Carolyn.
She said again, “Hello?”
Years of being a performer bowled over me, and I was in professional mode before I knew it. “This is Sergeant Daniel Summers from the Calgary Twenty-Seventh Police District. Is this Carolyn Pierce?”
“This is she. Is this about the survey request I sent? I want you to know up front that the results will be kept completely confidential and I’m collecting data for statistical purposes.” Her words tumbled over each other with oh-so-familiar Carolyn enthusiasm.
My voice caught in my throat. “Of course,” I began. Now what could I say? I didn’t have authority to either deny or approve her request.
She broke in with, “Did you say your name was Daniel Summers?”
“I - yes.” Did she recognize my voice? Scott swore up and down it had broken some more since we’d disbanded. “I’m a sergeant. For the Calgary --”
“Dan? When did you become a cop?” Her voice was bright and cheerful and almost excited to hear me, and who the hell was she, to sound so happy when my brother had been quietly falling apart these last five years? “What a coincidence! How are the others?”
That was it. “I was just calling to inform you that we have received your request and it will be forwarded to the Chief for approval or denial.” And I hung up. I sank back in my chair with a sigh and tipped my head back to stare at the ceiling. What had I done?
(600 words)
I remembered that subdued tone, and I hated it. When had my brother become so divided, that he could be bright-eyed and humorous onstage and sound so broken with the people who knew him best? Of course, it had been five years since we’d given up the stage.
“How are classes going?” I cradled the phone against my shoulder and flipped open the nearest file in case the shift lieutenant came by and decided to yell at me.
“We got the good students, so it’s pretty all right. I just - Clay’s gonna hit me over the head with one of his shoes if I don’t shut up. Good night, Danny.”
“’Night, Bobby.”
And the line went dead.
For a long moment, I stared at my cellphone, wondered if I should call back and tell Bob it was probably just a coincidence, that Carolyn Pierce was a common name in America, and he should just put it out of his mind. Then I flattened the letter with one hand, flipped open my cellphone again, and dialed the number listed in the letterhead. For a second, I was confused - why hadn’t I given Bob the number as well? But I knew why. I dialed.
After several rings, someone picked up. An unfamiliar girl’s voice greeted me.
“Law office, how can I help you?”
I cleared my throat. Time to be authoritative. “This is Sergeant Summers from the Calgary Twenty-Seventh Police District. I’m calling regarding an academic survey request submitted by Carolyn Pierce?”
“One moment, please,” the girl said, and I was assaulted by elevator music.
I waited, phone canted away from my ear. As an afterthought, I scrambled for a pen so I could take notes on the letter itself before I turned the request over. Also, a pen gave me something to fidget with.
A moment later, a woman said, “Hello?”
I froze. It was Carolyn.
She said again, “Hello?”
Years of being a performer bowled over me, and I was in professional mode before I knew it. “This is Sergeant Daniel Summers from the Calgary Twenty-Seventh Police District. Is this Carolyn Pierce?”
“This is she. Is this about the survey request I sent? I want you to know up front that the results will be kept completely confidential and I’m collecting data for statistical purposes.” Her words tumbled over each other with oh-so-familiar Carolyn enthusiasm.
My voice caught in my throat. “Of course,” I began. Now what could I say? I didn’t have authority to either deny or approve her request.
She broke in with, “Did you say your name was Daniel Summers?”
“I - yes.” Did she recognize my voice? Scott swore up and down it had broken some more since we’d disbanded. “I’m a sergeant. For the Calgary --”
“Dan? When did you become a cop?” Her voice was bright and cheerful and almost excited to hear me, and who the hell was she, to sound so happy when my brother had been quietly falling apart these last five years? “What a coincidence! How are the others?”
That was it. “I was just calling to inform you that we have received your request and it will be forwarded to the Chief for approval or denial.” And I hung up. I sank back in my chair with a sigh and tipped my head back to stare at the ceiling. What had I done?
(600 words)
Monday, June 22, 2009
Just Us
I could hear him talking, but he wasn’t really talking to me. He was talking at me, and I hated that.
I guess in a way, I appreciated it too. I mean, I know he didn’t open his mouth and blab about his life to just anybody. I suppose that would make me lucky. I didn’t necessarily feel that way. I let him say his peace, because I knew he was annoyed with his roommate, with his job, with the direction his life was taking. And I wasn’t gonna tell anybody.
Why should I? I didn’t really talk to anybody else.
“Sam, am I boring you?” Vince had stopped talking and I hadn’t realized it - too lost on my own derailed train of thought. Sam is short for Samantha. I hate being called Samantha.
“No, I’m sorry Vince. I got trapped in my head for a second. What were we talking about?”
Vince raised an eyebrow at me, but continued the conversation like normal. “Well, I was telling you about John ruining the camping trip, but… I don’t know, it was pretty fun all the same. Nice to get out.”
He sipped his beer, and I sipped mine. Silence did happen between us occasionally, but it wasn’t what you would call uncomfortable.
The question flew from my mouth before I had a chance to stop it. “How’s Layla doin’? You heard much from her since she moved to Oregon?”
Vince took a long swallow from his beer, thinking about how to answer what appeared to be a simple question. “She’s alright, I s’pose. She’s out and about a lot, like she wants. So that’s doing her a world of good. In all honesty, I don’t hear much from her. Maybe once every couple of days, and even then sometimes it’s only a text message. But it’s something.”
He looked away then, staring off into a distance I probably couldn’t begin to fathom. I smiled, mostly to myself because Vince was too busy thinking about the girl of his dreams.
Sometimes I wish it was me he thought about.
(349 words)
I guess in a way, I appreciated it too. I mean, I know he didn’t open his mouth and blab about his life to just anybody. I suppose that would make me lucky. I didn’t necessarily feel that way. I let him say his peace, because I knew he was annoyed with his roommate, with his job, with the direction his life was taking. And I wasn’t gonna tell anybody.
Why should I? I didn’t really talk to anybody else.
“Sam, am I boring you?” Vince had stopped talking and I hadn’t realized it - too lost on my own derailed train of thought. Sam is short for Samantha. I hate being called Samantha.
“No, I’m sorry Vince. I got trapped in my head for a second. What were we talking about?”
Vince raised an eyebrow at me, but continued the conversation like normal. “Well, I was telling you about John ruining the camping trip, but… I don’t know, it was pretty fun all the same. Nice to get out.”
He sipped his beer, and I sipped mine. Silence did happen between us occasionally, but it wasn’t what you would call uncomfortable.
The question flew from my mouth before I had a chance to stop it. “How’s Layla doin’? You heard much from her since she moved to Oregon?”
Vince took a long swallow from his beer, thinking about how to answer what appeared to be a simple question. “She’s alright, I s’pose. She’s out and about a lot, like she wants. So that’s doing her a world of good. In all honesty, I don’t hear much from her. Maybe once every couple of days, and even then sometimes it’s only a text message. But it’s something.”
He looked away then, staring off into a distance I probably couldn’t begin to fathom. I smiled, mostly to myself because Vince was too busy thinking about the girl of his dreams.
Sometimes I wish it was me he thought about.
(349 words)
To Whom It May Concern
I stared at the letter in my hands and had to reread the letterhead several times. Then I scanned the contents of the letter and swallowed hard. It was business-like and impersonal, if polite, but then it wasn’t addressed to me. It was addressed to whom it may concern. I knew who this letter concerned, and it sure as hell wasn’t Chief Moreno.
I darted a glance over my shoulder at the other two desk sergeants, then dove for my cell phone. I poked through my contact list and cursed myself for not adding my brothers to speed dial sooner. In the time it took for five rings to jingle across the line, I tapped my foot impatiently and read the letterhead again.
Five years of complete and utter silence, and now this? It was pure chance, I knew - the dry legalese stated that this department had been chosen to represent part of a “random sample”, but how random could it be, really, that this letter had ended up on my desk?
“Dammit, pick up,” I muttered.
After the fifth ring, someone said, “D’you know what time it is, Dan?”
Only Clay would be that rude from the get-go. “I don’t care what time it is,” I said, and darted another glance over my shoulder at the two sergeants. My heart was pounding in my chest, and hell, was this even a good idea? That didn’t matter. “Get Bob on the phone now.”
There was a rustle as Clay dragged the phone away from his ear, and I heard a faint Bobby, phone for you. Your brother’s an effin’ nut.
And then Bob said, “H’lo?”
“Get a paper and pen,” I said.
“Dan, it’s eleven hours’ difference,” Bob began, but I cut him off.
“Get a pen, dammit!” I ducked instinctively, realizing I’d raised my voice, but no one looked my way. I was low man on the totem pole, fresh out of the academy, and I was pretty sure the other guys hated me. I couldn’t really afford to tick them off, but - this was huge.
“All right, all right, gimme a moment.” There was more crackling, then a crash - Bob was probably fumbling in the dark. Some swearing and then a Turn off the light filtered through the phone line, and then Bob said, “I have a pen. I swear, if this isn’t Beyoncé’s number, I’m coming all the way back to Calgary just to kick your ass.”
I bit my lip. Should I do this, really? “Write down this address,” I said, and read it off to him.
“Who do we know who lives in...Cedarville, Utah?”
I closed my eyes. I was going to regret this.
“...Dan? Dan, I swear if you hung up on me, I’m gonna - Clay. Get up. We’re going to Calgary to kill Dan.”
I felt my head begin to swim. This was almost worse than the day I’d told Dad about me and Joey. “Bob -”
“Just so you know, we’re coming to kill you. Triplets no more, Dan.”
“Bob, that address is for Carolyn Pierce.” There. I said it.
Now Bob’s end of the line was silent. I counted the beats of silence, waiting. Had I killed him? Had he keeled over dead? Clay wasn’t screaming, but then he slept like a corpse... “Bobby?”
“If this is a prank, I really am coming home to kill you.”
I closed my eyes and shook my head. My voice came out sounding miserable. “No, it’s not a prank.”
“How do you know it’s her?”
“She always said she’d be a lawyer.”
(600 words)
I darted a glance over my shoulder at the other two desk sergeants, then dove for my cell phone. I poked through my contact list and cursed myself for not adding my brothers to speed dial sooner. In the time it took for five rings to jingle across the line, I tapped my foot impatiently and read the letterhead again.
Five years of complete and utter silence, and now this? It was pure chance, I knew - the dry legalese stated that this department had been chosen to represent part of a “random sample”, but how random could it be, really, that this letter had ended up on my desk?
“Dammit, pick up,” I muttered.
After the fifth ring, someone said, “D’you know what time it is, Dan?”
Only Clay would be that rude from the get-go. “I don’t care what time it is,” I said, and darted another glance over my shoulder at the two sergeants. My heart was pounding in my chest, and hell, was this even a good idea? That didn’t matter. “Get Bob on the phone now.”
There was a rustle as Clay dragged the phone away from his ear, and I heard a faint Bobby, phone for you. Your brother’s an effin’ nut.
And then Bob said, “H’lo?”
“Get a paper and pen,” I said.
“Dan, it’s eleven hours’ difference,” Bob began, but I cut him off.
“Get a pen, dammit!” I ducked instinctively, realizing I’d raised my voice, but no one looked my way. I was low man on the totem pole, fresh out of the academy, and I was pretty sure the other guys hated me. I couldn’t really afford to tick them off, but - this was huge.
“All right, all right, gimme a moment.” There was more crackling, then a crash - Bob was probably fumbling in the dark. Some swearing and then a Turn off the light filtered through the phone line, and then Bob said, “I have a pen. I swear, if this isn’t Beyoncé’s number, I’m coming all the way back to Calgary just to kick your ass.”
I bit my lip. Should I do this, really? “Write down this address,” I said, and read it off to him.
“Who do we know who lives in...Cedarville, Utah?”
I closed my eyes. I was going to regret this.
“...Dan? Dan, I swear if you hung up on me, I’m gonna - Clay. Get up. We’re going to Calgary to kill Dan.”
I felt my head begin to swim. This was almost worse than the day I’d told Dad about me and Joey. “Bob -”
“Just so you know, we’re coming to kill you. Triplets no more, Dan.”
“Bob, that address is for Carolyn Pierce.” There. I said it.
Now Bob’s end of the line was silent. I counted the beats of silence, waiting. Had I killed him? Had he keeled over dead? Clay wasn’t screaming, but then he slept like a corpse... “Bobby?”
“If this is a prank, I really am coming home to kill you.”
I closed my eyes and shook my head. My voice came out sounding miserable. “No, it’s not a prank.”
“How do you know it’s her?”
“She always said she’d be a lawyer.”
(600 words)
Revenge
I have thought of nothing but my revenge since Arianna's death. The only thing to take my mind off of it was my next mission. The next mission and training, endless training that would lead to my revenge. But always, my mind came back to revenge. I have imagined it a thousand times, a different scenario for every night that she was not by my side. I imagined guns, bombs, knives; slow torments and quick deaths, none give any relief to my mind.
Each plan never seemed to fulfill my need for revenge, each fell short. Each one ended in his death. He would never suffer the way that I have suffered, because he will be dead. He will be dead, and I will still be alive.
Alive without her.
Each plan never seemed to fulfill my need for revenge, each fell short. Each one ended in his death. He would never suffer the way that I have suffered, because he will be dead. He will be dead, and I will still be alive.
Alive without her.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Project Assignment #32: First Person
I know you guys have done a POV challenge before, but it is rare that we see any first person POV around here. I want to be inside your character's heads, or at least hear the way they see situations as opposed to the general omnicient third person POV.
100-600 words, I'd say. That's good.
I swear I'll post this week guys. Let me know if this isn't an up-to-par challenge.
100-600 words, I'd say. That's good.
I swear I'll post this week guys. Let me know if this isn't an up-to-par challenge.
Overview #31 - Dreams
This week didn't go as I planned. I had thought to give greater insight into the characters by their dreams, but that didn't really happen. I found myself giving premonitions or visions almost to their dreams. Like Steven's a vision of David dying, or Joe's seeing the battles of the world in his sleep. I have come to realize that I pick on Joe quite a bit. If there is abuse to be given, Joe usually gets it. I should really stop abusing him so much. Mark and Bryan tend to have it easier. Steve gets plenty of abuse and David gets his fair share. I hipe I am able to define my characters more in the weeks to come.
Overview #31 - Dreams
So this didn't quite turn out how I wanted it to. When I started with Naoya, I had grand visions of painting surrealist worlds with words alone, because dreams are so rarely linear and rarely clear, but I ended up...torturing Bob and Carolyn some more. Which is, admittedly, pretty mean of me. It was interesting not to write any dialogue, which was good practice. I think I got some good description in there, but in a couple of places I can see my attempts at description go awry. Either way, it was a definite learning experience for me, and one that I enjoyed. The exercise made me think back on dreams that I've had, the ones that were completely unreal, the ones that seemed so real I was still terrified when I woke up, and the ones that I like to have over and over again. (I will confess, more than once in my life I've fallen asleep to 2BP on my iPod, and it has done weird things to my dreams.)
It's a good thing Freud wasn't hanging around this blog, hm?
It's a good thing Freud wasn't hanging around this blog, hm?
Ordinary Day
Sometimes dreams were deceptive. Those were usually the worst kind, because Carolyn couldn’t tell if she was awake or asleep until it was too late.
The dream she hated worst started just like an ordinary day of hers, with her opening her eyes thirty seconds before her alarm went off. She hit the button to shut off the alarm before it could start and rolled out of bed. She hit the gym in her apartment building for a good half-hour workout, then hit the shower. She dressed and ate and headed for the office.
Kara, the receptionist, was as bright and bubbly as ever and greeted her with a list of appointments, a stack of files she had requested, and a chain of sticky notes for all of the calls left on the office voicemail for her.
Carolyn was halfway to her desk, puzzled as to why the attorney general was calling about the Millay case, and then Kara called her back. There was a Robert Summers waiting in her office, Kara said. Slipped in before her ten o’clock meeting.
It took Carolyn a moment, because she’d never really called him Robert aloud before, and only infrequently in her head, and then she knew precisely who Kara meant. Kara smiled and said he was polite and soft-spoken, seemingly shy, but pretty darn cute, and she hoped he wasn’t in some sort of legal trouble.
Carolyn only half-heard Kara’s words, and the stack of folders in her arms would have tumbled to the floor but for the glimpse she caught of a man standing in her office, back to her. His head turned, and she saw the line of his profile, traced its familiar shape, and her heart began to pound in her chest. How had he found her? The Agency had declared her officially dead, given her a new start.
But what if it wasn’t him? The man standing her office had short hair, and was taller than she remembered and -
She woke up.
Thirty seconds before her alarm went off.
(344 words)
The dream she hated worst started just like an ordinary day of hers, with her opening her eyes thirty seconds before her alarm went off. She hit the button to shut off the alarm before it could start and rolled out of bed. She hit the gym in her apartment building for a good half-hour workout, then hit the shower. She dressed and ate and headed for the office.
Kara, the receptionist, was as bright and bubbly as ever and greeted her with a list of appointments, a stack of files she had requested, and a chain of sticky notes for all of the calls left on the office voicemail for her.
Carolyn was halfway to her desk, puzzled as to why the attorney general was calling about the Millay case, and then Kara called her back. There was a Robert Summers waiting in her office, Kara said. Slipped in before her ten o’clock meeting.
It took Carolyn a moment, because she’d never really called him Robert aloud before, and only infrequently in her head, and then she knew precisely who Kara meant. Kara smiled and said he was polite and soft-spoken, seemingly shy, but pretty darn cute, and she hoped he wasn’t in some sort of legal trouble.
Carolyn only half-heard Kara’s words, and the stack of folders in her arms would have tumbled to the floor but for the glimpse she caught of a man standing in her office, back to her. His head turned, and she saw the line of his profile, traced its familiar shape, and her heart began to pound in her chest. How had he found her? The Agency had declared her officially dead, given her a new start.
But what if it wasn’t him? The man standing her office had short hair, and was taller than she remembered and -
She woke up.
Thirty seconds before her alarm went off.
(344 words)
Friday, June 19, 2009
Looking Back At Him
It was a cruel game Bob and Clay had played on their father. Back when they were younger, when they were still the same height and their voices sounded exactly alike (Clay’s voice broke first, Bob ended up being taller), they’d pretend to be one another. It was easy, in the mornings, for Bob to dig through Clay’s duffel bag and pull on some of his clothes. Clay just had to pull a baseball cap on backward to cover his hair, let Bob carry his bass case, and their father never knew.
But in dreams the prank took on a twist. Most nights, once a show was ready to roll, Bob and Clay would have to give themselves up, because they were good actors, but they couldn’t play each other’s instruments.
More than once Scott had woken up to the sound of Bob tossing and turning, moaning and kicking at the sheets. Bob was usually the quietest sleeper of them all, and Clay would kneel beside him, shake him hard, but it was impossible to wake him up.
Because in his sleep, no one believed him when he tried to take his identity back. He was twelve years old and backstage, tapping his foot impatiently, because Dad’s pep talk was the same every night, and Bob just wanted to crank out his twenty-five push-ups and hit the stage. Twenty-five push-ups it was, and then Bob was on his feet. He rolled his wrists a few times to loosen them up, tugged his gloves on, and reached for his drum sticks - only Clay had picked them up and was heading for the stage.
Bob tried to catch his shoulder, protest, but then his father yelled at him, told him to come pick up his bass, because Scott was already onstage. Bob tried to explain the truth, that he really wasn’t Clay, that Clay would completely and utterly ruin the rhythm line, but his father shook him, told him the bass was part of the rhythm section too, and to get out there, because Dan was terrible at stalling a crowd.
Bob insisted - he wasn’t Clay. His father spun him around, tugged the baseball cap off his head, and pushed him toward the mirror.
The face looking back at him was Clay’s.
Bob screamed.
He opened his eyes, and the face looking back at him was Clay’s. He lashed out, tried to break the mirror with his fists, and then Clay had him by the wrists and Dan was beside him, stroking his shoulder and making wordless, soothing sounds.
For the next two days, Bob refused to look in a mirror.
(443 words)
But in dreams the prank took on a twist. Most nights, once a show was ready to roll, Bob and Clay would have to give themselves up, because they were good actors, but they couldn’t play each other’s instruments.
More than once Scott had woken up to the sound of Bob tossing and turning, moaning and kicking at the sheets. Bob was usually the quietest sleeper of them all, and Clay would kneel beside him, shake him hard, but it was impossible to wake him up.
Because in his sleep, no one believed him when he tried to take his identity back. He was twelve years old and backstage, tapping his foot impatiently, because Dad’s pep talk was the same every night, and Bob just wanted to crank out his twenty-five push-ups and hit the stage. Twenty-five push-ups it was, and then Bob was on his feet. He rolled his wrists a few times to loosen them up, tugged his gloves on, and reached for his drum sticks - only Clay had picked them up and was heading for the stage.
Bob tried to catch his shoulder, protest, but then his father yelled at him, told him to come pick up his bass, because Scott was already onstage. Bob tried to explain the truth, that he really wasn’t Clay, that Clay would completely and utterly ruin the rhythm line, but his father shook him, told him the bass was part of the rhythm section too, and to get out there, because Dan was terrible at stalling a crowd.
Bob insisted - he wasn’t Clay. His father spun him around, tugged the baseball cap off his head, and pushed him toward the mirror.
The face looking back at him was Clay’s.
Bob screamed.
He opened his eyes, and the face looking back at him was Clay’s. He lashed out, tried to break the mirror with his fists, and then Clay had him by the wrists and Dan was beside him, stroking his shoulder and making wordless, soothing sounds.
For the next two days, Bob refused to look in a mirror.
(443 words)
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Battle of the World
"In my dream, I stood on a high place. Below me I could see armies of the world, past and present, marching across the land. Men in chariots, men in tanks, and men on horseback. There were jets streaking across they sky and bombs falling with bright flashes. I could feel the earth rumbling under my feet, the sky was dark and there was a storm in the distance. The scent of war was on the wind, sharp, acrid, and it burned my nose. The wind was also hot, stuffy, and laden with the the decay of bodies," Joe recounted his dream to the psychologist at his yearly checkup.
Joe continued, "I saw the armies below me in vast platoons, moving slowly across the fields, bent on destroying each other. All around me there were dead and dying men. And I didn't know who I belonged with. I looked around and saw others just standing there, watching as the world destroyed itself, and I didn't know if I was dead or alive myself. I thought for a while that it would be better to be dead. I looked at my own hands and found them stained with blood, bright, vivid red and dripping," Joe finished, looking up at the psychologist.
Laura finished neatly writing down an observation and looked at Joe, "What do you think it means?"
"I don't know. I know I have seen many awful things since I have come here. I have done many extreme things," Joe said, hesitant to lead her in any way.
"Well Joe. I think that you need a short vacation. I want you to get away somewhere peaceful and quiet for two weeks," Laura said. She wrote a brief explanation to Major Cole.
"Do you have anywhere in mind?" Laura asked as Joe was standing up.
"No. I am sure I will find somewhere though," Joe said as he walked quietly from the office.
Joe continued, "I saw the armies below me in vast platoons, moving slowly across the fields, bent on destroying each other. All around me there were dead and dying men. And I didn't know who I belonged with. I looked around and saw others just standing there, watching as the world destroyed itself, and I didn't know if I was dead or alive myself. I thought for a while that it would be better to be dead. I looked at my own hands and found them stained with blood, bright, vivid red and dripping," Joe finished, looking up at the psychologist.
Laura finished neatly writing down an observation and looked at Joe, "What do you think it means?"
"I don't know. I know I have seen many awful things since I have come here. I have done many extreme things," Joe said, hesitant to lead her in any way.
"Well Joe. I think that you need a short vacation. I want you to get away somewhere peaceful and quiet for two weeks," Laura said. She wrote a brief explanation to Major Cole.
"Do you have anywhere in mind?" Laura asked as Joe was standing up.
"No. I am sure I will find somewhere though," Joe said as he walked quietly from the office.
Second Unlocking
Maybe the teachers shouldn’t have given him that chemistry textbook, because he was too smart for his own good, and a few hours with that book and an old biology book and suddenly he knew how people were put together.
People looked the most beautiful in his dreams, because he could see each and every part of them, the strands of coiling oxygen and hydrogen, iron and carbon, calcium and potassium that made up blood and bones, marrow and muscle. He learned about polypeptide chains and hydrocarbon chains, and when he looked at the boys who haunted him on the playground, he could see colors dancing through their skin. He knew that if he tugged just the right one - a shimmer of violet tinged fuschia at the edges - he could unravel every single carbohydrate in a given limb.
The rush of power through his body was exhilarating, and in his dream-world he felt as though he could fly.
When Naoya woke in the middle of the night to one of the orphanage mothers screaming, he realized that his talent could wake without him.
And that another door had opened when he was dreaming.
(194 words)
People looked the most beautiful in his dreams, because he could see each and every part of them, the strands of coiling oxygen and hydrogen, iron and carbon, calcium and potassium that made up blood and bones, marrow and muscle. He learned about polypeptide chains and hydrocarbon chains, and when he looked at the boys who haunted him on the playground, he could see colors dancing through their skin. He knew that if he tugged just the right one - a shimmer of violet tinged fuschia at the edges - he could unravel every single carbohydrate in a given limb.
The rush of power through his body was exhilarating, and in his dream-world he felt as though he could fly.
When Naoya woke in the middle of the night to one of the orphanage mothers screaming, he realized that his talent could wake without him.
And that another door had opened when he was dreaming.
(194 words)
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Just so you know...
I'm not dead.
Will join back in next week when I must give the assignment.
Sorry guys. ;(
Stress has given me writer's block.
Will join back in next week when I must give the assignment.
Sorry guys. ;(
Stress has given me writer's block.
Twenty-Seven Across, Thirteen Up
It came to him on random nights, when he least expected it, the journey into hell.
It began, in the dream, with an obsession. A clue she’d left him when they were children, something she’d whispered to him back in the days when he could wind his arms around her waist and hold her and call it “tag”. Somehow he knew how to find her, and the looks on the faces of the black-suited agents when he asked for Carolyn Pierce were priceless.
Their poleaxed expressions were usually the last moment worth laughing at as the dream sequence spiraled on downward. From there it was...paperwork. For some reason his subconscious decided paperwork and requests, poking through outdated paper archives and microfiche deserved their own montage, like a bad eighties movie, set to Massive Attack’s Safe From Harm.
He wondered why, when he was in the dank basement of the nameless agency, he was safe from harm.
The first half of the sequence was lit in sepia and gold, all warm colors, like faded sunlight on an autumn afternoon, but as soon as he found the answer, the world would turn blue, all cerulean shadows and turquoise lights. He could feel the slip of paper in his hands. Name, rank, serial number...and address.
The world shifted from blues to greys, then to blacks and whites, because the drive was agonizing. He was only asleep for a few hours before he woke sobbing, but trapped in his own slumbering mind, the drive lasted for days and days, and the entire time his palms tingled with desperation and anticipation against the steering wheel, and his free foot tapped a nervous rhythm, which would ruin his hi-hat work later.
By the time he reached the address (marked with strange coordinates) he knew what was coming, but his lead feet dragged him up to the gate anyway. When he pushed it open, it creaked, and then he marched across the grass, head held high, determined not to let anyone see him break.
And then he stared out across the rows and rows of uniform headstones, and he counted. Twenty-seven across, thirteen up.
Carolyn Pierce lived to see eighteen, and then she died serving her country.
He sank to his knees, head bowed, and slid a hand across the grass, across the cold granite, and thought, She’s gone.
(397 words)
It began, in the dream, with an obsession. A clue she’d left him when they were children, something she’d whispered to him back in the days when he could wind his arms around her waist and hold her and call it “tag”. Somehow he knew how to find her, and the looks on the faces of the black-suited agents when he asked for Carolyn Pierce were priceless.
Their poleaxed expressions were usually the last moment worth laughing at as the dream sequence spiraled on downward. From there it was...paperwork. For some reason his subconscious decided paperwork and requests, poking through outdated paper archives and microfiche deserved their own montage, like a bad eighties movie, set to Massive Attack’s Safe From Harm.
He wondered why, when he was in the dank basement of the nameless agency, he was safe from harm.
The first half of the sequence was lit in sepia and gold, all warm colors, like faded sunlight on an autumn afternoon, but as soon as he found the answer, the world would turn blue, all cerulean shadows and turquoise lights. He could feel the slip of paper in his hands. Name, rank, serial number...and address.
The world shifted from blues to greys, then to blacks and whites, because the drive was agonizing. He was only asleep for a few hours before he woke sobbing, but trapped in his own slumbering mind, the drive lasted for days and days, and the entire time his palms tingled with desperation and anticipation against the steering wheel, and his free foot tapped a nervous rhythm, which would ruin his hi-hat work later.
By the time he reached the address (marked with strange coordinates) he knew what was coming, but his lead feet dragged him up to the gate anyway. When he pushed it open, it creaked, and then he marched across the grass, head held high, determined not to let anyone see him break.
And then he stared out across the rows and rows of uniform headstones, and he counted. Twenty-seven across, thirteen up.
Carolyn Pierce lived to see eighteen, and then she died serving her country.
He sank to his knees, head bowed, and slid a hand across the grass, across the cold granite, and thought, She’s gone.
(397 words)
Where Lovers Meet
David became aware of the warmth of a body beside him; a long slender figure curling into his side; arms wrapping around his chest.
"Hey Dave," Arianna said, as she leaned over and kissed him; she settled her head on his chest.
"Hey Ari," David said quietly, wrapping his long arms around her, holding her close.
David didn't know why, but he felt like crying. Even though he held her, it was if her warmth was fading with the summer.
"Don't cry David," Arianna said, wiping a tear from his cheek.
"I have dreamed about you so often Ari. So vivid in the night, that when I wake, I expect to find you next to me. But you are never there. Never more than a dream. Never again can I hold you," David said, tightening his embrace. "Never again can I kiss you," he brought his lips to hers. "I miss you so much Ari," David said.
"Rest easy my love," said Arianna, "Dreams are where lovers find each other again. I am with you. Always."
David awoke in the field beside his home; chill winds were blowing out of the east. The sun was sinking towards the horizon. Autumn was drifting across the world, the last of summer having retreated. David took a deep breath and looked up at the trees above him, the leaves were turning gold and red, thinning out and falling to the earth.
David curled onto his side and rested his hand on the ground where Arianna would have been. A ghost of a smile crossed his lips when he thought he felt a slight warmth to the grass beside him.
"Hey Dave," Arianna said, as she leaned over and kissed him; she settled her head on his chest.
"Hey Ari," David said quietly, wrapping his long arms around her, holding her close.
David didn't know why, but he felt like crying. Even though he held her, it was if her warmth was fading with the summer.
"Don't cry David," Arianna said, wiping a tear from his cheek.
"I have dreamed about you so often Ari. So vivid in the night, that when I wake, I expect to find you next to me. But you are never there. Never more than a dream. Never again can I hold you," David said, tightening his embrace. "Never again can I kiss you," he brought his lips to hers. "I miss you so much Ari," David said.
"Rest easy my love," said Arianna, "Dreams are where lovers find each other again. I am with you. Always."
David awoke in the field beside his home; chill winds were blowing out of the east. The sun was sinking towards the horizon. Autumn was drifting across the world, the last of summer having retreated. David took a deep breath and looked up at the trees above him, the leaves were turning gold and red, thinning out and falling to the earth.
David curled onto his side and rested his hand on the ground where Arianna would have been. A ghost of a smile crossed his lips when he thought he felt a slight warmth to the grass beside him.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
At the End of the Day
At the end of a long, hard day at the office, Carolyn wanted to punch something. Or cry.
The best thing to do, however, was to crawl into bed with her iPod, turn on some 2BP, and dream of Bob.
In her dreams they were always married, living together in a simple bungalow on the outskirts of Nashville. It had one of those wide southern porches, so on warm summer nights they could sit out and watch the sunset while Bob played his guitar. Carolyn would make cool lemonade, and when the crickets began to sing and the fireflies bobbed in the shadows, Bob would pull her into his arms and they would dance until the stars came out.
The images were always warm and fuzzy around the edges, and emotions and sounds were too sharp and bright to be real, but Carolyn reveled in every moment. Their marriage wasn’t always happy, in the surreal world of dreams, and sometimes Carolyn woke aching with the realization that she’d hurt the one man she loved...
And then she’d remember that she’d hurt him years ago, and he was never coming back.
Tonight, Carolyn was going to crawl into her nest of blankets, turn on her music, and dream of a world where her hands weren’t stained with blood.
The best thing to do, however, was to crawl into bed with her iPod, turn on some 2BP, and dream of Bob.
In her dreams they were always married, living together in a simple bungalow on the outskirts of Nashville. It had one of those wide southern porches, so on warm summer nights they could sit out and watch the sunset while Bob played his guitar. Carolyn would make cool lemonade, and when the crickets began to sing and the fireflies bobbed in the shadows, Bob would pull her into his arms and they would dance until the stars came out.
The images were always warm and fuzzy around the edges, and emotions and sounds were too sharp and bright to be real, but Carolyn reveled in every moment. Their marriage wasn’t always happy, in the surreal world of dreams, and sometimes Carolyn woke aching with the realization that she’d hurt the one man she loved...
And then she’d remember that she’d hurt him years ago, and he was never coming back.
Tonight, Carolyn was going to crawl into her nest of blankets, turn on her music, and dream of a world where her hands weren’t stained with blood.
Trying to Remember
Alastrina dreamed about the bar that night. Heard his voice in her sleep. It was if he was right there, singing her softly to sleep. She could only see his eyes and his smile, just as in life. Her unconscious mind wanting to fill in the blanks.
A pair of dimples should be with that smile. Dark curly hair, and a slight cleft in the chin. Pretty cheekbones would complete the picture. It would be a face she would recognize.
Struggle as she might, she could not place name to the face. A face begging to be remembered. A voice, calling to her soul.
Alastrina woke slowly. As the night faded, so did the face in her dreams, and the voice in the night.
A pair of dimples should be with that smile. Dark curly hair, and a slight cleft in the chin. Pretty cheekbones would complete the picture. It would be a face she would recognize.
Struggle as she might, she could not place name to the face. A face begging to be remembered. A voice, calling to her soul.
Alastrina woke slowly. As the night faded, so did the face in her dreams, and the voice in the night.
Dreams or Visions
"I had a dream last night," Steve said.
"And so did I," Bryan replied.
"Well what was yours?" Steve asked.
"That dreamers often lie," Bryan said with a sly grin.
Steve rolled his eyes at the reference. "No joke, Bry. I had a dream about a mission," Steve said.
Bryan shrugged his shoulders in response and said, "It's what we do. It's no great stretch that you would dream about it too."
"But this dream felt so real. It was if I was there. Not many of my dreams feel like that. I can usually tell when I am dreaming and when I'm not. But this," Steve trailed off.
"So what was the mission and what happened?" Bryan asked.
"I don't know what mission it was supposed to be, I can't recall that particular scenario. We were under heavy enemy fire. You had taken a couple of rounds and were down, but still alive. Mark was helping you get to safety. I turned and saw David go down. He had been shot in the back. He ordered us to leave and he would finish the job," Steve finished up.
"What happened to David?" Bryan asked quietly.
"He died," Steve said in a whisper.
"And so did I," Bryan replied.
"Well what was yours?" Steve asked.
"That dreamers often lie," Bryan said with a sly grin.
Steve rolled his eyes at the reference. "No joke, Bry. I had a dream about a mission," Steve said.
Bryan shrugged his shoulders in response and said, "It's what we do. It's no great stretch that you would dream about it too."
"But this dream felt so real. It was if I was there. Not many of my dreams feel like that. I can usually tell when I am dreaming and when I'm not. But this," Steve trailed off.
"So what was the mission and what happened?" Bryan asked.
"I don't know what mission it was supposed to be, I can't recall that particular scenario. We were under heavy enemy fire. You had taken a couple of rounds and were down, but still alive. Mark was helping you get to safety. I turned and saw David go down. He had been shot in the back. He ordered us to leave and he would finish the job," Steve finished up.
"What happened to David?" Bryan asked quietly.
"He died," Steve said in a whisper.
Monday, June 15, 2009
First Unlocking
Dreams were the key to unlocking his mind, opening doors to places he never even knew he had. Naoya closed his eyes and dreamt of vengeance, tucked under a threadbare blanket in his corner of the dorm room. The other boys threw rocks at him, called him a freak.
In his dreams, he was a freak and proud of it. In dreams, his strange ability was not a curse but a gift, and with it he could move mountains, not just bend spoons and accidentally shatter the windows in the cafeteria. When the other boys threw rocks at him, the rocks bounced off of invisible shields of protection.
When one of the boys tried to cut his throat in his sleep, he dismantled the boy limb from limb.
Naoya awoke the next morning and saw the boy’s blood dripping behind his eyelids. Something in him knew how to do that, how to tug apart flesh and bone, muscle and sinew, and earn a piercing scream with which to rend the air.
That night, when he laid down to sleep, he wondered what his dreams would teach him next.
(188 words)
In his dreams, he was a freak and proud of it. In dreams, his strange ability was not a curse but a gift, and with it he could move mountains, not just bend spoons and accidentally shatter the windows in the cafeteria. When the other boys threw rocks at him, the rocks bounced off of invisible shields of protection.
When one of the boys tried to cut his throat in his sleep, he dismantled the boy limb from limb.
Naoya awoke the next morning and saw the boy’s blood dripping behind his eyelids. Something in him knew how to do that, how to tug apart flesh and bone, muscle and sinew, and earn a piercing scream with which to rend the air.
That night, when he laid down to sleep, he wondered what his dreams would teach him next.
(188 words)
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Project Assignment # 31 - Dreams
Dreams are very useful in fiction, as well as fun to write. They are a part of life. They can also be used to show a character's mood or even to make a point, as a sort of allegory in the mind of a character. Write a dream for a character.
Lets set the word limit to 800 words. Dreams can be lengthy after all. keep it above 100 words though.
Lets set the word limit to 800 words. Dreams can be lengthy after all. keep it above 100 words though.
Overview #30 - Soundtrack
Okay, I had a few bump this week. I found that the songs that I chose for the piece didn't always fit, or I would start them at the wrong point. I also found that I need to expand my music collection.
I did like using music and other bits for background music and it helped set the mood.
Some of my writing errors snuck back in towards the end of the week. I need to be more conscious about it. I also found that while I have David's character down pretty good; I need to develop the others personalities more than what they are. I tried to give them all a day to shine this week. My characters do not always feel communicative or cooperative. I also have noticed that I have inconsistencies in characters; even in David's. So those are things to work on for me.
I did like using music and other bits for background music and it helped set the mood.
Some of my writing errors snuck back in towards the end of the week. I need to be more conscious about it. I also found that while I have David's character down pretty good; I need to develop the others personalities more than what they are. I tried to give them all a day to shine this week. My characters do not always feel communicative or cooperative. I also have noticed that I have inconsistencies in characters; even in David's. So those are things to work on for me.
Overview #30 - Soundtrack
So this assignment ended up being better and worse than I thought it would be. It was better because by the end of the week, I had a series of key scenes that could realistically be turned into something in the way of a novel. I'd have to pick a better starting point, and I'd have to develop background and conflict more (what was so important about Bob anyway, right?), but it could be done. All summer I've felt like all I've been writing are tiny pieces that end up being nothing and that my ability to complete a work has gone down the drain, since I skip straight to the fun scene and don't work at the nuts and bolts. But this could be something, and who knows what it would be.
In this assignment I also learned the difference between writing to a song and writing for a song. Often the song I ended up using as the background for a piece wasn't the song I actually listened to while I wrote the piece. Once I finished with a piece, I'd surf through my playlists for what might be a good song, then read the piece aloud to the song. It took a lot of finessing, trying to find the right songs, which was what made this assignment worse than I thought it would be. Half the time I couldn't find the song I wanted on YouTube, or I wanted to write to a song that was a horrible soundtrack for a given piece. It was also difficult to figure out where in the piece a given song should start. The play list and concepts I had at the beginning of the week had completely evolved by the end of the week, which reminded me why I don't sit down and plan an entire novel from beginning to end, but plan key scenes and work my way from scene to scene. Maybe planning really isn't for me, and I've learned how to do it.
I was worried that having all four brothers like one girl would be a little too Mary Sue and cliché, so I drew a little from real life and decided I could fix things so it wasn't quite so wish-fulfilling, that all four boys liking Carolyn could work, even if all of them weren't actually in love with her. I think this has been some of my best work yet.
I'm looking forward to next week's project!
In this assignment I also learned the difference between writing to a song and writing for a song. Often the song I ended up using as the background for a piece wasn't the song I actually listened to while I wrote the piece. Once I finished with a piece, I'd surf through my playlists for what might be a good song, then read the piece aloud to the song. It took a lot of finessing, trying to find the right songs, which was what made this assignment worse than I thought it would be. Half the time I couldn't find the song I wanted on YouTube, or I wanted to write to a song that was a horrible soundtrack for a given piece. It was also difficult to figure out where in the piece a given song should start. The play list and concepts I had at the beginning of the week had completely evolved by the end of the week, which reminded me why I don't sit down and plan an entire novel from beginning to end, but plan key scenes and work my way from scene to scene. Maybe planning really isn't for me, and I've learned how to do it.
I was worried that having all four brothers like one girl would be a little too Mary Sue and cliché, so I drew a little from real life and decided I could fix things so it wasn't quite so wish-fulfilling, that all four boys liking Carolyn could work, even if all of them weren't actually in love with her. I think this has been some of my best work yet.
I'm looking forward to next week's project!
Slapstick
Mark settled into his seat in the darkened theater just as the beginning credits were starting to roll. Wednesday was his favorite night to go to the movies. Old black and white and silent films were the best. Grinning from ear to ear Mark popped a a few pieces of popcorn into his mouth the antics started.
The theater rolled with laughter when the brush became stuck to Hardy's face. They continued to chuckle at Laurels attempts to remove it.
Laurel was just getting to the point of shaving his friend when Mark's phone went off. Glancing at the screen on his phone he saw a text message.
From: Major Cole
To: You
Mission. Leave immediately. Flight to Africa at 1100.
Mark glanced at his watch. It was now just 1000. He would have to leave now to get to the base to get his gear and still make his flight. Mark stood up and edged himself out of the row.
Walking up the isle he allowed himself one last glance at the screen before hurrying out into the night.
(I know it's not technically a song, but there is music.)
The theater rolled with laughter when the brush became stuck to Hardy's face. They continued to chuckle at Laurels attempts to remove it.
Laurel was just getting to the point of shaving his friend when Mark's phone went off. Glancing at the screen on his phone he saw a text message.
From: Major Cole
To: You
Mission. Leave immediately. Flight to Africa at 1100.
Mark glanced at his watch. It was now just 1000. He would have to leave now to get to the base to get his gear and still make his flight. Mark stood up and edged himself out of the row.
Walking up the isle he allowed himself one last glance at the screen before hurrying out into the night.
(I know it's not technically a song, but there is music.)
Saturday, June 13, 2009
All For You
“All this. All for me?” Bob gestured a the fallen bodies, the charred buildings.
Carolyn emptied her handgun, tucked it into her pack.
“All my life was for you.”
Bob blinked rapidly. His breath hitched in his chest. “Did you ever really love me?”
Scott and Clay glared daggers at her, daring her to answer any other way than yes.
She stepped closer to Bob, then closer again, and leaned up. He leaned down so their foreheads were touching, and she curled a hand around the nape of his neck. For a long moment they stood there, just breathing with each other, a whisper away from a kiss.
Then Carolyn spoke, too softly for the other boys to hear.
“I picked up a gun when I was six years old, first killed a man when I was ten. I learned seven languages and how to withstand torture, just so I could keep you alive. They taught me everything I know, but the one thing I never learned was how to love.”
Bob’s eyes slipped closed, and a sob caught in his throat.
Carolyn whispered, “Thank you for trying to teach me, Robbie.”
Bob tilted his head forward, and their lips brushed, not quite a kiss. He settle a hand on her waist to tug her closer, seal their embrace, and then someone said,
“Agent Pierce!”
And she was gone. Carolyn spun away before their mouths could meet and shouldered her pack. She snapped off a salute at a man in a uniform and fell into step with him.
Bob let his hands fall to his sides and opened his eyes, watched her walk away. Dan went to put a hand on his shoulder, but Clay shook his head.
“What just happened?” Scott asked, voice faint.
“I think,” Bob said, voice thick with emotion, “that she just saved my life.”
“Think we’ll ever see her again?” Dan asked.
“Except for the past twenty-four hours, I don’t think we ever saw her at all,” Clay said.
Scott put a hand on Bob’s arm. “Come on. We’re going home.”
(347 words - "The Funeral" by Band of Horses)
Carolyn emptied her handgun, tucked it into her pack.
“All my life was for you.”
Bob blinked rapidly. His breath hitched in his chest. “Did you ever really love me?”
Scott and Clay glared daggers at her, daring her to answer any other way than yes.
She stepped closer to Bob, then closer again, and leaned up. He leaned down so their foreheads were touching, and she curled a hand around the nape of his neck. For a long moment they stood there, just breathing with each other, a whisper away from a kiss.
Then Carolyn spoke, too softly for the other boys to hear.
“I picked up a gun when I was six years old, first killed a man when I was ten. I learned seven languages and how to withstand torture, just so I could keep you alive. They taught me everything I know, but the one thing I never learned was how to love.”
Bob’s eyes slipped closed, and a sob caught in his throat.
Carolyn whispered, “Thank you for trying to teach me, Robbie.”
Bob tilted his head forward, and their lips brushed, not quite a kiss. He settle a hand on her waist to tug her closer, seal their embrace, and then someone said,
“Agent Pierce!”
And she was gone. Carolyn spun away before their mouths could meet and shouldered her pack. She snapped off a salute at a man in a uniform and fell into step with him.
Bob let his hands fall to his sides and opened his eyes, watched her walk away. Dan went to put a hand on his shoulder, but Clay shook his head.
“What just happened?” Scott asked, voice faint.
“I think,” Bob said, voice thick with emotion, “that she just saved my life.”
“Think we’ll ever see her again?” Dan asked.
“Except for the past twenty-four hours, I don’t think we ever saw her at all,” Clay said.
Scott put a hand on Bob’s arm. “Come on. We’re going home.”
(347 words - "The Funeral" by Band of Horses)
On Our Own
Scott was sure this was a nightmare. He’d had one just like it as a child. He’d wake up in his bedroom and find his brothers slaughtered in bed beside him, throats dripping with blood. Only he was in a hotel room this time, and his brothers were yelling at the sight of black-uniformed men sprawled across the beds and floor, throats cut. Carolyn stood in the doorway, holding a knife. Her hands were covered in blood. She cast the knife aside and drew a gun from somewhere beneath her jacket, and then she shouted for Bob.
“Robbie! Come on - we have to get out of here!”
He hesitated, then scrambled off his bed. He yelped when he accidentally kicked one of the bodies.
“What about us?” Dan asked. He was breathing rapidly, but he was calm.
“John’s on the way - he’ll make sure you’re secure. Bob’s my priority.” Carolyn held out her hand. “C’mon, Robbie.”
An explosion rocked the building.
The dream-like buzzing that had filled Scott’s head since he’d awakened cut off abruptly. “What’s going on?”
John appeared in the doorway, and he was armed with a gun as well. “We’re federal agents. We have the situation under control. Come quickly and quietly.”
Dan obeyed first, and he had to tug on Clay’s arm to get him to follow, which he did, dazed.
Carolyn laced her fingers with Bob’s. “Let’s go.”
Bob stared down at the blood that stained her hands. “Did you kill all those men?”
The chatter of machine-gun fire broke him out of his dazed. John flung himself to the floor and fumbled for his walkie-talkie. Carolyn tackled Bob down, and Dan dragged Clay down to the carpet, so Scott followed suit. He didn’t even know where the sound was coming from.
John flipped his walkie-talkie on. “Agents Simon and Pierce. We’re on the third floor under heavy enemy fire, and we have the package. Requesting backup immediately.”
The only response was static.
John swore. “Combat command’s been hit. Raid the corpses.”
Scott could only stare as Carolyn reached out and tugged an assault rifle off of the nearest fallen body.
“What’s going on?” he asked again.
Carolyn patted the body down for more ammo. “We’re on our own. How are you with a gun?”
(385 words - "Spybreak" by Propellerheads)
“Robbie! Come on - we have to get out of here!”
He hesitated, then scrambled off his bed. He yelped when he accidentally kicked one of the bodies.
“What about us?” Dan asked. He was breathing rapidly, but he was calm.
“John’s on the way - he’ll make sure you’re secure. Bob’s my priority.” Carolyn held out her hand. “C’mon, Robbie.”
An explosion rocked the building.
The dream-like buzzing that had filled Scott’s head since he’d awakened cut off abruptly. “What’s going on?”
John appeared in the doorway, and he was armed with a gun as well. “We’re federal agents. We have the situation under control. Come quickly and quietly.”
Dan obeyed first, and he had to tug on Clay’s arm to get him to follow, which he did, dazed.
Carolyn laced her fingers with Bob’s. “Let’s go.”
Bob stared down at the blood that stained her hands. “Did you kill all those men?”
The chatter of machine-gun fire broke him out of his dazed. John flung himself to the floor and fumbled for his walkie-talkie. Carolyn tackled Bob down, and Dan dragged Clay down to the carpet, so Scott followed suit. He didn’t even know where the sound was coming from.
John flipped his walkie-talkie on. “Agents Simon and Pierce. We’re on the third floor under heavy enemy fire, and we have the package. Requesting backup immediately.”
The only response was static.
John swore. “Combat command’s been hit. Raid the corpses.”
Scott could only stare as Carolyn reached out and tugged an assault rifle off of the nearest fallen body.
“What’s going on?” he asked again.
Carolyn patted the body down for more ammo. “We’re on our own. How are you with a gun?”
(385 words - "Spybreak" by Propellerheads)
Internet Phenomenon
Bryan sat typing rapidly at his computer. Nothing seemed to be going right today. Bryan glanced up at the clock again and sighed. He knew he was not going to be able to leave for another forty-five minutes. He was going to be late for his date.
Shaking his head he turned back to his computer. He knew that there was no way he would be able to get this done faster, and Mark had flatly refused to file the report for him.
Bryan opened another browser on his computer and quickly searched out the site and file that he needed to complete his report. He clicked on the link that would give him the information that he needed.
Suddenly sound blared out of his computers speakers.
Never gonna give you up
Never gonna let you down
Never gonna run around and desert you
Never gonna make you cry
Never gonna say goodbye
Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you
Bryan jerked back and desperately tried to close the window, his computer seemingly frozen, the song still playing loudly.
Suddenly the music cut out, the screen going blank. Bryan turned in confusion. He saw Steve holding the power cord for his computer.
"Dude, did you just get Rickrolled?" Steve asked in disbelief.
"I guess I did," Bryan groaned and dropped his head to the keyboard.
"It's not as bad as all that. Annoying, but not anything to get worked up about," said Steve, patting Bryan on the shoulder.
"That's not it. I have to do that whole report again," Bryan said, lifting his head and dropping it again onto the board.
Shaking his head he turned back to his computer. He knew that there was no way he would be able to get this done faster, and Mark had flatly refused to file the report for him.
Bryan opened another browser on his computer and quickly searched out the site and file that he needed to complete his report. He clicked on the link that would give him the information that he needed.
Suddenly sound blared out of his computers speakers.
Never gonna give you up
Never gonna let you down
Never gonna run around and desert you
Never gonna make you cry
Never gonna say goodbye
Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you
Bryan jerked back and desperately tried to close the window, his computer seemingly frozen, the song still playing loudly.
Suddenly the music cut out, the screen going blank. Bryan turned in confusion. He saw Steve holding the power cord for his computer.
"Dude, did you just get Rickrolled?" Steve asked in disbelief.
"I guess I did," Bryan groaned and dropped his head to the keyboard.
"It's not as bad as all that. Annoying, but not anything to get worked up about," said Steve, patting Bryan on the shoulder.
"That's not it. I have to do that whole report again," Bryan said, lifting his head and dropping it again onto the board.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
What You Seem
Dan leaned in the doorway and watched Carolyn kick her duffel bag under the bed. She was good, and no one had noticed that it wasn’t the same duffel bag where she kept her books and CDs, but Dan was more observant than his brothers usually gave him credit for. Carolyn went to tug the gun from its holster in the small of her back, and then she turned.
“Danny.” Her expression was - blank, completely devoid of emotion, and she looked curiously adult. She held herself with a strange assurance that Dan had never seen before, because whenever she was hanging off of Bob’s arm insisting he couldn’t beat her at Tekken, she was the unsure tomboy in a skirt, never comfortable in her own skin. Whoever she was here, she was completely confident of her capabilities, and Dan couldn’t begin to imagine what they were.
“No one else has noticed,” he said.
She kept her hand near the gun. “I must be getting sloppy.”
“I know you’re not - what you seem.” Dan took a step forward, hands raised in a gesture of surrender. “I just --”
Carolyn’s expression shifted, became wary, and then she pushed past him, closed the door. Then she turned to him, and though her mouth was still curiously blank, her dark eyes were feverishly bright. “Danny, I can’t tell you what’s going on, but I promise you that my ultimate goal is to protect.”
“Protect Bob, right? I mean, Scott’s half in love with you, and Clay would slit his wrists over you if he were an emo boy, and you know all that. But you stick with Bob. I -- do you love him?”
Carolyn’s eyes fluttered closed, her lashes forming a dark crescents against her cheeks, and she took a deep breath. “I’d die for him.”
That wasn’t the same as loving him, but Dan knew, instinctively, that Carolyn was telling the truth. He tilted his head to the side. “How long?”
“How long what?”
“Have you done what you’ve done?”
A small, sad smile curved Carolyn’s lips. “Studies show that children around the age of six learn fastest, especially for things like marksmanship.”
Dan felt cold horror shiver down his spine.
But then Carolyn shrugged. “At least I know you’ll listen to me if we end up in danger and I take over.”
“Yeah,” Dan said faintly.
“I know about you, too, by the way.” Carolyn drew her gun and checked it.
“What do you mean?”
“We’re taught to observe interpersonal relationships, and...Michael has no clue how you feel, and you’d best not tell him.” Carolyn met his gaze.
Dan felt his throat close. “I --”
“Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.” Carolyn holstered the gun again. “Trust me. One day your life might depend on it.”
Dan nodded. “Okay. And - thanks.” He started for the door.
Carolyn reached out and caught his wrist. “I do love Robert. I want you to know that.”
“Why?”
“Because no one else ever can.”
(498 Words - "Leave Out All The Rest" by Linkin Park; I had song ADD tonight and the song I originally wanted to use was not on YouTube)
“Danny.” Her expression was - blank, completely devoid of emotion, and she looked curiously adult. She held herself with a strange assurance that Dan had never seen before, because whenever she was hanging off of Bob’s arm insisting he couldn’t beat her at Tekken, she was the unsure tomboy in a skirt, never comfortable in her own skin. Whoever she was here, she was completely confident of her capabilities, and Dan couldn’t begin to imagine what they were.
“No one else has noticed,” he said.
She kept her hand near the gun. “I must be getting sloppy.”
“I know you’re not - what you seem.” Dan took a step forward, hands raised in a gesture of surrender. “I just --”
Carolyn’s expression shifted, became wary, and then she pushed past him, closed the door. Then she turned to him, and though her mouth was still curiously blank, her dark eyes were feverishly bright. “Danny, I can’t tell you what’s going on, but I promise you that my ultimate goal is to protect.”
“Protect Bob, right? I mean, Scott’s half in love with you, and Clay would slit his wrists over you if he were an emo boy, and you know all that. But you stick with Bob. I -- do you love him?”
Carolyn’s eyes fluttered closed, her lashes forming a dark crescents against her cheeks, and she took a deep breath. “I’d die for him.”
That wasn’t the same as loving him, but Dan knew, instinctively, that Carolyn was telling the truth. He tilted his head to the side. “How long?”
“How long what?”
“Have you done what you’ve done?”
A small, sad smile curved Carolyn’s lips. “Studies show that children around the age of six learn fastest, especially for things like marksmanship.”
Dan felt cold horror shiver down his spine.
But then Carolyn shrugged. “At least I know you’ll listen to me if we end up in danger and I take over.”
“Yeah,” Dan said faintly.
“I know about you, too, by the way.” Carolyn drew her gun and checked it.
“What do you mean?”
“We’re taught to observe interpersonal relationships, and...Michael has no clue how you feel, and you’d best not tell him.” Carolyn met his gaze.
Dan felt his throat close. “I --”
“Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.” Carolyn holstered the gun again. “Trust me. One day your life might depend on it.”
Dan nodded. “Okay. And - thanks.” He started for the door.
Carolyn reached out and caught his wrist. “I do love Robert. I want you to know that.”
“Why?”
“Because no one else ever can.”
(498 Words - "Leave Out All The Rest" by Linkin Park; I had song ADD tonight and the song I originally wanted to use was not on YouTube)
First Solo
Joe fidgeted with the zipper on his jumpsuit. His body made jerking movements as if he was not sure if he wanted to run, or if he was just eager to get started. Joe was dressed in a one piece jumpsuit, his helmet on the ground beside him. His fingers twitched as he mentally checked off procedures in his head.
"Hey Joe, how's it going?" Brian asked, grinning from ear to ear. He noted Joe's fingers twitching, and smiled wider. "Nervous much?"
Joe shrugged, taking a deep breath and stilling his hands, "it's my first solo flight."
Brian suppressed the urge to razz his younger teammate. Mark and Brian had taken their qualifying flights the previous month. "Don't worry about it," Brian said, "just do as David taught you, and you'll be fine."
"I know that I know this, but that doesn't stop me from being nervous," Joe said.
"Are you ready Joe?" David asked, as he rounded the corner into the hanger.
"I guess as ready as I will be," Joe said, snapping off a salute.
"Okay. Jump into the Falcon over there and taxi out to the runway," David said.
"Yes Sir." Joe snapped off another salute.
Joe climbed into the cockpit of the fighter jet and checked his instruments, letting the taxi pull the jet to the runway.
David's voice came crackling over the headset into his ear. "Okay Joe, just like you trained. Take a deep breath. You can do this. You know the procedures, you know the maneuvers. Take it slow and do it right," David said.
"Yes Sir," Joe said, nodding, even though David couldn't see him.
Joe pulled back on the controls when he was given the all clear and the flag man had retreated.
The jet rocketed down the runway, gathering speed until it was airborne. Joe climbed swiftly into the sky, grinning at the feeling of freedom.
Joe settled himself and looked at his panel of information. He knew that David would be his spotter on the ground, and Steve would be the air observer. He was not sure who he would be flying against.
Joe rolled his jet to the left as his honed instincts noted the barest movement from the corner of his eye. He banked his jet in a tight turn and climbed steeply, trying to get a visual on his opponent. He saw the other jet below him as he did a roll to the right as his sensors picked up the mock gunfire.
Joe dipped his jet into a controlled dive so that he could get beneath the other fighter pilot. He punched in the code that would send signals to the other pilot of his strafing run. the other pilot looped around him to come up from his tail.
Joe stalled out to slow down enough so that the other pilot would over shoot him. As Joe came up behind the other jet he let loose a volley. A direct hit.
David's and Steve's cheers were drowned out by Joe's own enthusiasm. Joe did a victory roll and streaked back towards the runway.
As Joe exited his plane there was an enthusiastic group waiting for him.
"Way to go Joe!" Mark said, pounding him on the back.
"Good job. I knew you could do it," David said, punching him in the shoulder.
"I think a celebration is in order," Steve said.
"Absolutely," David said, leading the way away from the hanger.
"Hey Joe, how's it going?" Brian asked, grinning from ear to ear. He noted Joe's fingers twitching, and smiled wider. "Nervous much?"
Joe shrugged, taking a deep breath and stilling his hands, "it's my first solo flight."
Brian suppressed the urge to razz his younger teammate. Mark and Brian had taken their qualifying flights the previous month. "Don't worry about it," Brian said, "just do as David taught you, and you'll be fine."
"I know that I know this, but that doesn't stop me from being nervous," Joe said.
"Are you ready Joe?" David asked, as he rounded the corner into the hanger.
"I guess as ready as I will be," Joe said, snapping off a salute.
"Okay. Jump into the Falcon over there and taxi out to the runway," David said.
"Yes Sir." Joe snapped off another salute.
Joe climbed into the cockpit of the fighter jet and checked his instruments, letting the taxi pull the jet to the runway.
David's voice came crackling over the headset into his ear. "Okay Joe, just like you trained. Take a deep breath. You can do this. You know the procedures, you know the maneuvers. Take it slow and do it right," David said.
"Yes Sir," Joe said, nodding, even though David couldn't see him.
Joe pulled back on the controls when he was given the all clear and the flag man had retreated.
The jet rocketed down the runway, gathering speed until it was airborne. Joe climbed swiftly into the sky, grinning at the feeling of freedom.
Joe settled himself and looked at his panel of information. He knew that David would be his spotter on the ground, and Steve would be the air observer. He was not sure who he would be flying against.
Joe rolled his jet to the left as his honed instincts noted the barest movement from the corner of his eye. He banked his jet in a tight turn and climbed steeply, trying to get a visual on his opponent. He saw the other jet below him as he did a roll to the right as his sensors picked up the mock gunfire.
Joe dipped his jet into a controlled dive so that he could get beneath the other fighter pilot. He punched in the code that would send signals to the other pilot of his strafing run. the other pilot looped around him to come up from his tail.
Joe stalled out to slow down enough so that the other pilot would over shoot him. As Joe came up behind the other jet he let loose a volley. A direct hit.
David's and Steve's cheers were drowned out by Joe's own enthusiasm. Joe did a victory roll and streaked back towards the runway.
As Joe exited his plane there was an enthusiastic group waiting for him.
"Way to go Joe!" Mark said, pounding him on the back.
"Good job. I knew you could do it," David said, punching him in the shoulder.
"I think a celebration is in order," Steve said.
"Absolutely," David said, leading the way away from the hanger.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Caught
Walking was the only way to properly digest a heavy Italian meal. It hadn’t been horrendous, by any means - just heavy in the way that made you want to curl up on any semi-soft surface and go to sleep. Heavy, but content.
So, they were in the park again. Jamie thought it a bit strange that a majority of her time spent with Miles happened to be in Central Park, but it was a beautiful night, and it was by his suggestion that they walk there.
“So on your scale of Italian cuisine how did that rank?” Miles had a crooked, boyish smile on his face that Jamie was forcing herself not to dwell on. She might get caught staring.
“That was actually pretty close to authentic-style cooking. I’m impressed. They’ll definitely get a good review.” Of course, Jamie wasn’t thinking about the food anymore at this point. She concentrated on the sound of their footsteps, the way his arm would brush hers every few seconds… the silence of their suddenly stopped conversation. “What did you think of it, Miles?” She turned toward him and stopped walking.
He shrugged. “It was good, but to me, food is food. As long as I’m fed, I’m a happy guy.” He took a few more steps forwards before he realized Jamie wasn’t keeping pace.
“What else makes you happy? I feel like you know a lot about me, but I know hardly anything about you.” They’d spent a lot of the meal chatting about her job and the traveling she had done. He didn’t like to talk about himself.
He looked like he was searching for an answer, his eyes getting wide for a second as if he was remembering what made him happy… like he had forgotten at some point. “Writing…” he started, “writing and just observing people. It’s amazing to just see us, people like you and me, in our natural comfort zones. And it’s the small things that say a lot, you know?” He stopped, coming out of his reverie, and noticed Jamie smiling serenely at him. “But that’s just me.”
Jamie took a few steps toward him. “So, people make you happy then?” She tried to mask the fact that her heart was thumping so hard it felt like it might explode from her chest.
“Yeah, I guess I’m a sentimental guy that way.” He closed the distance between them.
“What about me, Miles?” Jamie was nearly whispering now. She was stumbling forward into something she hadn’t felt in a long time, something she dare not think or speak of for fear that it would disappear and soon as the thought conjured or the word fell from her lips.
“You know the answer… don’t you?”
He kissed her then, and the moment their lips touched the word ‘love’ popped in and out of existence in Jamie’s brain, and Miles was still there in her arms.
(487 words, Ben Folds - Sentimental Guy)
So, they were in the park again. Jamie thought it a bit strange that a majority of her time spent with Miles happened to be in Central Park, but it was a beautiful night, and it was by his suggestion that they walk there.
“So on your scale of Italian cuisine how did that rank?” Miles had a crooked, boyish smile on his face that Jamie was forcing herself not to dwell on. She might get caught staring.
“That was actually pretty close to authentic-style cooking. I’m impressed. They’ll definitely get a good review.” Of course, Jamie wasn’t thinking about the food anymore at this point. She concentrated on the sound of their footsteps, the way his arm would brush hers every few seconds… the silence of their suddenly stopped conversation. “What did you think of it, Miles?” She turned toward him and stopped walking.
He shrugged. “It was good, but to me, food is food. As long as I’m fed, I’m a happy guy.” He took a few more steps forwards before he realized Jamie wasn’t keeping pace.
“What else makes you happy? I feel like you know a lot about me, but I know hardly anything about you.” They’d spent a lot of the meal chatting about her job and the traveling she had done. He didn’t like to talk about himself.
He looked like he was searching for an answer, his eyes getting wide for a second as if he was remembering what made him happy… like he had forgotten at some point. “Writing…” he started, “writing and just observing people. It’s amazing to just see us, people like you and me, in our natural comfort zones. And it’s the small things that say a lot, you know?” He stopped, coming out of his reverie, and noticed Jamie smiling serenely at him. “But that’s just me.”
Jamie took a few steps toward him. “So, people make you happy then?” She tried to mask the fact that her heart was thumping so hard it felt like it might explode from her chest.
“Yeah, I guess I’m a sentimental guy that way.” He closed the distance between them.
“What about me, Miles?” Jamie was nearly whispering now. She was stumbling forward into something she hadn’t felt in a long time, something she dare not think or speak of for fear that it would disappear and soon as the thought conjured or the word fell from her lips.
“You know the answer… don’t you?”
He kissed her then, and the moment their lips touched the word ‘love’ popped in and out of existence in Jamie’s brain, and Miles was still there in her arms.
(487 words, Ben Folds - Sentimental Guy)
Alive Beside Carolyn
(play it low)
“Hey, wake up.”
Clay hated waking up like this. Carolyn’s voice was soft and gentle, and Clay knew if he opened his eyes he’d see her kneeling beside Bob’s side of the bed, a mug of hot chocolate in hand. Everyone thought Bob was such an early riser because he was disciplined or some kind of morning person, but Clay knew that Bob was out of bed first so he could have fifteen minutes alone with Carolyn in the kitchenette while she fixed breakfast for the rest.
Clay kept his eyes closed, and anyone looking at him just then would’ve thought he was still deep in sleep and not listening to Carolyn and Bob share a brief, sweet good morning kiss. Anyone who looked closer would see Clay had one hand curled into a white-knuckled fist from the effort of staying still.
Two sets of footsteps faded, and Clay finally opened his eyes, rolled onto his back. Their dad insisted that none of them date so they weren’t lying when reporters asked the damned girlfriend question, but hell if everyone didn’t know that Carolyn was the default girl, the one each of them were supposed to fall in love with so they’d stay out of trouble. And hell if it hadn’t worked.
Clay had seen Carolyn deep in conversation with Dan after a long day of press work, heads bent close while Dan dealt cards and Carolyn swindled him out of pocket change. No one knew what they talked about, but every now and again Carolyn would make a casual comment and then she and Dan would share a secret smile. And Scott - even though he professed grand detachment from Lady Caro, he’d hover over her whenever she wanted, showing her how to hold his favorite guitar, lacing his fingers with hers to show her how to lay a chord. At best, Carolyn smiled at Clay once in a while, teased him about flirting with girls on venue crews, and Clay smiled back, because it was all he could do. But she never talked to him like she talked to the others, and he was lucky if he could earn more than a passing glance in a single day. He felt utterly helpless whenever she looked at him, and he wondered how he’d missed it when they were children, when it was still all right to tackle her in a flying leap and pin her to the grass, tickle her till she shrieked with laughter.
Scott and Dan woke themselves up because they smelled food, but they wouldn’t bother to try to wake Clay. Everyone thought he was the late sleeper. His eyes were closed, but he wasn’t asleep - he was steeling himself for another day of being alive beside Carolyn without living with her, without really being in her life.
(472 words - "Who Do You Love" by The Moffatts, and yes, Clint totally sings lead on this one - apropos, I thought)
“Hey, wake up.”
Clay hated waking up like this. Carolyn’s voice was soft and gentle, and Clay knew if he opened his eyes he’d see her kneeling beside Bob’s side of the bed, a mug of hot chocolate in hand. Everyone thought Bob was such an early riser because he was disciplined or some kind of morning person, but Clay knew that Bob was out of bed first so he could have fifteen minutes alone with Carolyn in the kitchenette while she fixed breakfast for the rest.
Clay kept his eyes closed, and anyone looking at him just then would’ve thought he was still deep in sleep and not listening to Carolyn and Bob share a brief, sweet good morning kiss. Anyone who looked closer would see Clay had one hand curled into a white-knuckled fist from the effort of staying still.
Two sets of footsteps faded, and Clay finally opened his eyes, rolled onto his back. Their dad insisted that none of them date so they weren’t lying when reporters asked the damned girlfriend question, but hell if everyone didn’t know that Carolyn was the default girl, the one each of them were supposed to fall in love with so they’d stay out of trouble. And hell if it hadn’t worked.
Clay had seen Carolyn deep in conversation with Dan after a long day of press work, heads bent close while Dan dealt cards and Carolyn swindled him out of pocket change. No one knew what they talked about, but every now and again Carolyn would make a casual comment and then she and Dan would share a secret smile. And Scott - even though he professed grand detachment from Lady Caro, he’d hover over her whenever she wanted, showing her how to hold his favorite guitar, lacing his fingers with hers to show her how to lay a chord. At best, Carolyn smiled at Clay once in a while, teased him about flirting with girls on venue crews, and Clay smiled back, because it was all he could do. But she never talked to him like she talked to the others, and he was lucky if he could earn more than a passing glance in a single day. He felt utterly helpless whenever she looked at him, and he wondered how he’d missed it when they were children, when it was still all right to tackle her in a flying leap and pin her to the grass, tickle her till she shrieked with laughter.
Scott and Dan woke themselves up because they smelled food, but they wouldn’t bother to try to wake Clay. Everyone thought he was the late sleeper. His eyes were closed, but he wasn’t asleep - he was steeling himself for another day of being alive beside Carolyn without living with her, without really being in her life.
(472 words - "Who Do You Love" by The Moffatts, and yes, Clint totally sings lead on this one - apropos, I thought)
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