Afternoon contentment is
The warmth of a laptop against my thighs
While the screen flashes
Arena lights
And crystalline guitar notes
Spill from the tiny speakers,
Rock’n’roll thrum and the teenage angst of
I don’t want you to want me.
Afternoon contentment is
The slick slide of needle between fingers
And coloured cotton against fingertips
A string of knots to form flowers and suns,
Stars and a smile.
Afternoon contentment is
The clacking of keyboard keys
And rhymes coming alive
Black on white,
Stark and bright.
Afternoon contentment is
The city skyline against a periwinkle sky
Peeking through blue curtains
And sunlight shining on
A day’s work done.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Never Fully Bloom
It unfurls in my chest,
A shaking, shivering
Blossom,
Blue petals curled and
Heavy,
Wet from the spring of new life.
It sighs in a breeze of
Want,
Sudden and unexpected
As a ray of sunlight between storm clouds.
I water it with smiles exchanged and
The subtle warmth of his elbow
Against mine,
A chance glance into blue eyes and a casual
I’ll walk you to your car.
But it will never fully bloom,
Will linger, withered and bent
Beneath the weight of
Pages and words,
Statutes and precedents.
Beneath a shower of velvet-striped robes and
Flying caps
It will breathe its first - or last.
(107 words)
A shaking, shivering
Blossom,
Blue petals curled and
Heavy,
Wet from the spring of new life.
It sighs in a breeze of
Want,
Sudden and unexpected
As a ray of sunlight between storm clouds.
I water it with smiles exchanged and
The subtle warmth of his elbow
Against mine,
A chance glance into blue eyes and a casual
I’ll walk you to your car.
But it will never fully bloom,
Will linger, withered and bent
Beneath the weight of
Pages and words,
Statutes and precedents.
Beneath a shower of velvet-striped robes and
Flying caps
It will breathe its first - or last.
(107 words)
Monday, July 13, 2009
The Ghost
Ethereal, floating
on the wind,
nothing could touch you.
Nothing to feel.
And nothing would hurt you.
A ghost,
you slip past existence.
Pushing through,
passing on.
With no one to say your name.
Keener senses
cannot lie.
A muffled cry,
and whispers in the dark.
I can still feel you.
You search for something
as I, unable to fill that wanting
void,
stumble quietly through grief.
Do not despair, you will say.
For I am neither living, nor dead.
Just a ghost.
(83 words)
Uncertain
How to express all that I feel;
to make myself understood.
Would you understand,
if I just came out and said it?
A delicate waltz of hints that
protect a fragile soul.
Faltering steps, drawing near and pulling away.
Shifting like a tower of Jenga;
one false move will send it to the ground.
(I'm not sure what is expected from this challenge exactly, so I am expecting the first few days to be a bit rough before I fall into the swing of it.)
to make myself understood.
Would you understand,
if I just came out and said it?
A delicate waltz of hints that
protect a fragile soul.
Faltering steps, drawing near and pulling away.
Shifting like a tower of Jenga;
one false move will send it to the ground.
(I'm not sure what is expected from this challenge exactly, so I am expecting the first few days to be a bit rough before I fall into the swing of it.)
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Project Assignment #35 - Nothing More Than Feelings
Let's dive back into my element once again... poetry.
We should each write a poem every day conveying a different emotion. I seem to get stuck in a rut of only writing poems that are sad or confusing, etc. So let's branch out. Let's write some happy stuff, some angry stuff... you know what I'm trying to say.
Let's cap the word limit at 200 words. It can be shorter though if you want. Some of the best poems are only a few lines long.
Sorry for my constant disappearing act...
Overview #34: Hands
This week's assignment was hard. I think I did learn from last week's assignment, because I resisted the urge to go crazy detailed on a set of hands. I returned to the Carolyn-verse even though, in sudden retrospect, it would have been much easier to go mainline Dagaz because I have more than enough characters to fill up a week. By the time I got to the end of this week, I realized the problem with having six days in a writing week and only five main characters, so I had to take a quick readers' poll (thanks to Jade for deciding that Clay needed some love) and write the final piece.
I learned how to focus a very short, tight plot around a single image without (hopefully) letting the image override the plot. I took this as a chance to explore the brothers Summers in their lives now that they're no longer Four Times Summer (although any helpful hints for a more decent band names are welcome). It was fun to explore what they do, even though it would seem that none of them are really all that happy. (I do have a problem with that sort of thing, don't I?) I surprised myself with some of the hand uses I came up with. I honestly think I liked Scott's the best this week, but then I have been listening to Allegory of the City all week, so I probably had a better grip on him as a character (I really can't find anything from Lights Out Love to use for Dan. >.<)
We'll see what happens in the coming week.
I learned how to focus a very short, tight plot around a single image without (hopefully) letting the image override the plot. I took this as a chance to explore the brothers Summers in their lives now that they're no longer Four Times Summer (although any helpful hints for a more decent band names are welcome). It was fun to explore what they do, even though it would seem that none of them are really all that happy. (I do have a problem with that sort of thing, don't I?) I surprised myself with some of the hand uses I came up with. I honestly think I liked Scott's the best this week, but then I have been listening to Allegory of the City all week, so I probably had a better grip on him as a character (I really can't find anything from Lights Out Love to use for Dan. >.<)
We'll see what happens in the coming week.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Anymore
“Thanks for the new phone, man. It got here pretty fast.” Clay cradled the shiny new gadget between his ear and shoulder while he attempted to chop the chicken. Bob was better with a knife - probably that whole rhythmic drummer thing. Clay swore when he almost took off part of his finger, and Scott laughed in his ear.
“Is Betty Crocker Clay on the loose again?”
“Bob’s not here, all right? I have to cook for myself.” Clay sighed and set down the knife, stared at his hands. He remembered pretending to stare at his cuticles lots of times as a teenager, the only way he could really show disdain for his father without risking what Bob risked.
“You let Bobby-O cook you food? And you’re still alive?”
“Apparently Bob’s pretty handy with foreign cuisine,” Clay said. He stared - really stared - at his hands and remembered a crazy fan had latched onto him, crying with joy and hysteria, and told him his hands were magic. He and his brothers had been adolescent long enough to have a good laugh about it later, but his hands were just - hands. His fingernails were always chipped because he played his bass without a pick, and his fingertips were heavily callused. As an experiment, he dug a fingernail into one of his fingertips and felt...nothing. Huh. He had that much dead skin in one spot? But it was a good thing - making music didn’t hurt. At least, not physically.
“Any word from your taller half?”
“Not one. If you hear from him, tell him to come home - I’m terrible with kids. Have I mentioned Bob’s also handy to have around when kids start to cry?”
More laughter from Scott. “Is there anything you’re better than Bob at?”
“Picking up chicks,” Clay said automatically, and then he sighed. Sure, he was good at picking girls up at bars, but of the brothers four, the only one who was in a steady relationship was Dan. He and Joey had been together for four years.
“That’s what you think. Actually, uh, I have heard from Bob.”
Clay raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”
“He’s still on his way to see her. He, uh, he wrote a song.”
“He did what?” Clay glanced toward the corner of the main room, but his guitar was still there - he’d used it earlier that day, after all.
“Yeah. It was a pretty good song, too.” Something in Scott’s voice was oddly muted. “You know what I realized today?”
“What?” Clay wondered what sort of song Bob could have written, remembered the steady bitterness of Two Beats and remorseful resignation of Love Isn’t.
“I don’t have guitar calluses anymore,” Scott said.
Clay rubbed his fingertips together and realized he couldn’t feel anymore. “That’s too bad,” he said. “I really liked Perilously Here.”
“I did, too.”
(oddly enough, all of the song titles referenced in this piece are actual songs; I cannot guarantee that you'll find them on YouTube)
“Is Betty Crocker Clay on the loose again?”
“Bob’s not here, all right? I have to cook for myself.” Clay sighed and set down the knife, stared at his hands. He remembered pretending to stare at his cuticles lots of times as a teenager, the only way he could really show disdain for his father without risking what Bob risked.
“You let Bobby-O cook you food? And you’re still alive?”
“Apparently Bob’s pretty handy with foreign cuisine,” Clay said. He stared - really stared - at his hands and remembered a crazy fan had latched onto him, crying with joy and hysteria, and told him his hands were magic. He and his brothers had been adolescent long enough to have a good laugh about it later, but his hands were just - hands. His fingernails were always chipped because he played his bass without a pick, and his fingertips were heavily callused. As an experiment, he dug a fingernail into one of his fingertips and felt...nothing. Huh. He had that much dead skin in one spot? But it was a good thing - making music didn’t hurt. At least, not physically.
“Any word from your taller half?”
“Not one. If you hear from him, tell him to come home - I’m terrible with kids. Have I mentioned Bob’s also handy to have around when kids start to cry?”
More laughter from Scott. “Is there anything you’re better than Bob at?”
“Picking up chicks,” Clay said automatically, and then he sighed. Sure, he was good at picking girls up at bars, but of the brothers four, the only one who was in a steady relationship was Dan. He and Joey had been together for four years.
“That’s what you think. Actually, uh, I have heard from Bob.”
Clay raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”
“He’s still on his way to see her. He, uh, he wrote a song.”
“He did what?” Clay glanced toward the corner of the main room, but his guitar was still there - he’d used it earlier that day, after all.
“Yeah. It was a pretty good song, too.” Something in Scott’s voice was oddly muted. “You know what I realized today?”
“What?” Clay wondered what sort of song Bob could have written, remembered the steady bitterness of Two Beats and remorseful resignation of Love Isn’t.
“I don’t have guitar calluses anymore,” Scott said.
Clay rubbed his fingertips together and realized he couldn’t feel anymore. “That’s too bad,” he said. “I really liked Perilously Here.”
“I did, too.”
(oddly enough, all of the song titles referenced in this piece are actual songs; I cannot guarantee that you'll find them on YouTube)
Friday, July 10, 2009
And The Boss Was Back
Carolyn drummed her fingertips on the desk and listened to Donna witter on about the wonderful date she’d had the night before. They were supposed to be talking about partnership agreements and sliding-scale contingent fees, but the senior partner had stepped out, and the harpies were on the loose.
“And then he gave me this new bracelet. See?” Donna cocked her wrist to show off a glitter of diamonds. She had long, thin hands, her fingers almost bony to the point of being sharp. If she gestured any more broadly than usual, she’d likely put out her neighbor’s eye.
Carolyn glanced down at her own hands, weapon-scarred and devoid of real fingerprints. After several moments, she realized the rhythm she was drumming was one Bob had taught her. The nearest handy distraction was a pen. Carolyn scooped it up and set a-twirling. She’d learnt several interesting pen-flips in her time. In fact, she was fully capable of shooting a pen across a room like a small spear. She’d almost blinded her weapons master once that way.
“So you think he’ll propose?” Suzy asked.
Donna tossed her head. “Oh, please. I’ll be done with him and onto the next man before he knows what hit him. This time I’m thinking...a guy with a Maserati.”
Carolyn bit the inside of her cheek to keep from blurting out a comment. Donna was about to get a pen through the eye.
“What about you, Carolyn? Any new men in your life?” Lola’s sudden question jolted Carolyn out of her pen-flipping rhythm, and the pen launched itself across the table. Toward Donna.
Carolyn squeaked and lunged, closed a fist over the pen mid-air. The other women went silent and stared at Carolyn’s hand.
“Um...nice catch,” Lola said faintly.
Carolyn lowered her hand slowly, set the pen down beside her notepad. Then she curled her hands demurely in her lap. “No man in my life. You know me - it’s all about billing hours.”
The admission earned precisely the frosty, dismissive look Carolyn had been hoping for, and then it was Amanda’s turn to brag about her latest fling. Carolyn stared down at her hands, two weapons curled around each other, and remembered candle-lit nights in foreign hotel rooms. She remembered laughter and pillow fights and curling up in her own corner of the bed, Bob’s arms wrapped around her, both of them watching as Scott and Clay squabbled over which channel to watch while Dan picked a movie and settled in. Bob would twine his fingers with hers and tease her gently about how small her hands were. She’d have to remind him that, in karate lessons, she had a much better punch, and he would kiss the argument away, and then Dan would fling a handful of popcorn at them, and --
“So, have we decided on new contingent fees?”
And the boss was back.
“And then he gave me this new bracelet. See?” Donna cocked her wrist to show off a glitter of diamonds. She had long, thin hands, her fingers almost bony to the point of being sharp. If she gestured any more broadly than usual, she’d likely put out her neighbor’s eye.
Carolyn glanced down at her own hands, weapon-scarred and devoid of real fingerprints. After several moments, she realized the rhythm she was drumming was one Bob had taught her. The nearest handy distraction was a pen. Carolyn scooped it up and set a-twirling. She’d learnt several interesting pen-flips in her time. In fact, she was fully capable of shooting a pen across a room like a small spear. She’d almost blinded her weapons master once that way.
“So you think he’ll propose?” Suzy asked.
Donna tossed her head. “Oh, please. I’ll be done with him and onto the next man before he knows what hit him. This time I’m thinking...a guy with a Maserati.”
Carolyn bit the inside of her cheek to keep from blurting out a comment. Donna was about to get a pen through the eye.
“What about you, Carolyn? Any new men in your life?” Lola’s sudden question jolted Carolyn out of her pen-flipping rhythm, and the pen launched itself across the table. Toward Donna.
Carolyn squeaked and lunged, closed a fist over the pen mid-air. The other women went silent and stared at Carolyn’s hand.
“Um...nice catch,” Lola said faintly.
Carolyn lowered her hand slowly, set the pen down beside her notepad. Then she curled her hands demurely in her lap. “No man in my life. You know me - it’s all about billing hours.”
The admission earned precisely the frosty, dismissive look Carolyn had been hoping for, and then it was Amanda’s turn to brag about her latest fling. Carolyn stared down at her hands, two weapons curled around each other, and remembered candle-lit nights in foreign hotel rooms. She remembered laughter and pillow fights and curling up in her own corner of the bed, Bob’s arms wrapped around her, both of them watching as Scott and Clay squabbled over which channel to watch while Dan picked a movie and settled in. Bob would twine his fingers with hers and tease her gently about how small her hands were. She’d have to remind him that, in karate lessons, she had a much better punch, and he would kiss the argument away, and then Dan would fling a handful of popcorn at them, and --
“So, have we decided on new contingent fees?”
And the boss was back.
My Own Hands
My own hands were once unscared. Once, the hands of a writter, a crafter, smooth. Of course they were not always as strong as they are now.
Deft and concise movments now are the strange grace to my hands. The smooth movements of the blade in my hands, rapidly dicing food into neat and even pieces, the same hands that can filet a salmon, can carve a cantalope into a flower, can pipe a rose out of icing for a cake.
They are perpetually brown from the heat in the kitchens. Always a new cut, a new scar. Burns turning smooth flesh puckered and angry red; burns that fade into grayish brown lines forever engraved into my skin, another story. Skin so dry from constant scrubbing, I could itch my face with the backs of my hands. It's strange, so brown, yet an ashy pallor from the lack of moisture in the air.
Torn and bleading fingers, scraped by a grater, singed on the grill, slammed in the washer. I don't want my hands touched by others; hands so harsh. Hands perpetually scented with garlic and onion, so much that I don't notice it anymore.
(Lame I know, but I was stuck for something to write. I know it's really bad, but c'est la vie. Can't have a great one every day, especially when I am on vacation.)
Deft and concise movments now are the strange grace to my hands. The smooth movements of the blade in my hands, rapidly dicing food into neat and even pieces, the same hands that can filet a salmon, can carve a cantalope into a flower, can pipe a rose out of icing for a cake.
They are perpetually brown from the heat in the kitchens. Always a new cut, a new scar. Burns turning smooth flesh puckered and angry red; burns that fade into grayish brown lines forever engraved into my skin, another story. Skin so dry from constant scrubbing, I could itch my face with the backs of my hands. It's strange, so brown, yet an ashy pallor from the lack of moisture in the air.
Torn and bleading fingers, scraped by a grater, singed on the grill, slammed in the washer. I don't want my hands touched by others; hands so harsh. Hands perpetually scented with garlic and onion, so much that I don't notice it anymore.
(Lame I know, but I was stuck for something to write. I know it's really bad, but c'est la vie. Can't have a great one every day, especially when I am on vacation.)
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Tiny Spiders
She was crying, and Clay didn’t know what to do. He would be the first to admit that Bob was by far the better teacher. It was Bob who’d fled to Thailand first, and his tales of glorious beaches and days in the sun had lured Clay away from California and his quixotic ideas about making it on the silver screen. At least twice a day, Clay wondered why he was still here when it was pretty obvious Bob didn’t need him to help teach.
Only Bob was gone, chasing something that was either a hoax, a dream, or a cruel joke, and now Clay was staring down at a crying five-year-old and wondering what the hell he should do. Bob usually handled things like this. Clay knelt so he was eye-level with the girl.
“Hey,” he said, doing his best to mimic Bob’s comforting tone. “He didn’t mean to hurt you - you just bonked heads. He said he’s sorry. Are you going to stop crying now?”
That just made her cry more.
Clay winced. He held out one hand. “Hey, you...want to come help Teacher Clay play his guitar while everyone eats lunch?”
Her tears subsided for a moment, and she stared at his hand. Clay had every urge to tug it back and let it fall to his side, and then she put her hand in his. For a moment, Clay could only stare. Her hand was tiny compared to his. Her entire hand, palm and chubby splayed fingers at all, fit onto the palm of his hand. He’d always had spidery hands for being the skinniest of the brothers Summers, but then he’d always joked he’d needed it for his bass - after all, his instrument was almost too much music for one man.
“Where Teacher Bob?” the girl asked.
“You mean where is Teacher Bob? He had to go to America, but he’ll be back.” I hope. Clay closed his hand carefully around hers, starkly aware of how tiny and fragile her bones were, how soft her skin was. “Now, you want to learn to play a song?”
Her eyes lit up at the word “play”, and Clay supposed he should have been glad that this wasn’t one of his good guitars, just a cheap acoustic he’d picked up at a pawn shop.
It took a bit of maneuvering, but then Clay had the girl on his lap and the guitar semi-perched on her knees even though he was supporting most of its weight. He let her explore the strings and the neck, the fretboard, the body and the pegs - although he turned the strings as soon as she was done poking at them. Her tiny hands were like little spiders alive with curiosity, and her eyes were wide with wonder, and Clay wondered when he’d stopped looking at music like that, when it became a shield and a retreat and the only way he knew how to be human once more.
Only Bob was gone, chasing something that was either a hoax, a dream, or a cruel joke, and now Clay was staring down at a crying five-year-old and wondering what the hell he should do. Bob usually handled things like this. Clay knelt so he was eye-level with the girl.
“Hey,” he said, doing his best to mimic Bob’s comforting tone. “He didn’t mean to hurt you - you just bonked heads. He said he’s sorry. Are you going to stop crying now?”
That just made her cry more.
Clay winced. He held out one hand. “Hey, you...want to come help Teacher Clay play his guitar while everyone eats lunch?”
Her tears subsided for a moment, and she stared at his hand. Clay had every urge to tug it back and let it fall to his side, and then she put her hand in his. For a moment, Clay could only stare. Her hand was tiny compared to his. Her entire hand, palm and chubby splayed fingers at all, fit onto the palm of his hand. He’d always had spidery hands for being the skinniest of the brothers Summers, but then he’d always joked he’d needed it for his bass - after all, his instrument was almost too much music for one man.
“Where Teacher Bob?” the girl asked.
“You mean where is Teacher Bob? He had to go to America, but he’ll be back.” I hope. Clay closed his hand carefully around hers, starkly aware of how tiny and fragile her bones were, how soft her skin was. “Now, you want to learn to play a song?”
Her eyes lit up at the word “play”, and Clay supposed he should have been glad that this wasn’t one of his good guitars, just a cheap acoustic he’d picked up at a pawn shop.
It took a bit of maneuvering, but then Clay had the girl on his lap and the guitar semi-perched on her knees even though he was supporting most of its weight. He let her explore the strings and the neck, the fretboard, the body and the pegs - although he turned the strings as soon as she was done poking at them. Her tiny hands were like little spiders alive with curiosity, and her eyes were wide with wonder, and Clay wondered when he’d stopped looking at music like that, when it became a shield and a retreat and the only way he knew how to be human once more.
Not Your Fault
“Don’t touch me!” The woman screamed and kicked out when Ellis tried to approach. He grunted when her heel connected with his thigh, and he staggered back.
Scott froze in the doorway. The woman’s face was bruised and swollen on one side, and she had thick scratches on her throat. Her shirt was torn and exposed more bruising on her ribs, scratches and bruises on her hips. After one horrified moment, Scott knew.
His hands curled into fists, and he felt his fingernails bite into his palms.
“Ma’am,” Ellis said. He reached for her.
She shrieked and tossed her head wildly, sank back against the closet door. Her chest heaved, and Scott realized she was crying.
“Ellis,” he said, “get back.”
“Summers, she’s obviously high --”
“Get back, moron.” Scott set down his emergency bag and raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “My name is Scott Summers and I’m an EMT. We’re here to help. Officers will be here as soon as possible to secure the scene, but we need to take you to a hospital to get you checked over --”
“Stay back, monster!” She threw one of her shoes at him.
Scott ducked instinctively, then lowered himself to his knees. “We’re not going to hurt you. I promise.”
She twitched like a rabid animal when he extended one hand, palm up.
“I promise.” Scott caught her gaze and held it.
She lunged at him and sank her teeth into his hand. Scott bit back a curse and took the pain, felt the burn in his palm and let it wash through him, calm him down. He remembered sitting in his room with his beat-up old acoustic and playing till his fingers bled, playing louder and angrier so he didn’t have to hear Bob’s quiet sobs in the next room. Scott knew there was something wrong with him, that physical pain calmed his fury, but he took it.
After a moment, the woman pulled back. She was trembling. Scott instinctively curled his fingers over the wound and was surprised to realize that his calluses from playing the guitar were gone. Had it been that long?
“I’m sorry,” the woman whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry --”
Scott reached out to her once more. “Shhh,” he whispered. “We’re here to help. Come on with us.”
The woman reached out and curled her hand tightly around his. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Scott wished he’d been able to say these words to his brother back when he needed them. “It’s not your fault.”
Her grip on his hand tightened, but he ignored the pain, just stared at the convergence of fingers and skin where her hand clutched his. He studied the contrast in light and shadow, the delicate shadows between her knuckles and the thickness of his fingers compared to hers. Her fingers were almost as long as his, but more slender, and they curled like claws against his skin while she cried.
Scott froze in the doorway. The woman’s face was bruised and swollen on one side, and she had thick scratches on her throat. Her shirt was torn and exposed more bruising on her ribs, scratches and bruises on her hips. After one horrified moment, Scott knew.
His hands curled into fists, and he felt his fingernails bite into his palms.
“Ma’am,” Ellis said. He reached for her.
She shrieked and tossed her head wildly, sank back against the closet door. Her chest heaved, and Scott realized she was crying.
“Ellis,” he said, “get back.”
“Summers, she’s obviously high --”
“Get back, moron.” Scott set down his emergency bag and raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “My name is Scott Summers and I’m an EMT. We’re here to help. Officers will be here as soon as possible to secure the scene, but we need to take you to a hospital to get you checked over --”
“Stay back, monster!” She threw one of her shoes at him.
Scott ducked instinctively, then lowered himself to his knees. “We’re not going to hurt you. I promise.”
She twitched like a rabid animal when he extended one hand, palm up.
“I promise.” Scott caught her gaze and held it.
She lunged at him and sank her teeth into his hand. Scott bit back a curse and took the pain, felt the burn in his palm and let it wash through him, calm him down. He remembered sitting in his room with his beat-up old acoustic and playing till his fingers bled, playing louder and angrier so he didn’t have to hear Bob’s quiet sobs in the next room. Scott knew there was something wrong with him, that physical pain calmed his fury, but he took it.
After a moment, the woman pulled back. She was trembling. Scott instinctively curled his fingers over the wound and was surprised to realize that his calluses from playing the guitar were gone. Had it been that long?
“I’m sorry,” the woman whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry --”
Scott reached out to her once more. “Shhh,” he whispered. “We’re here to help. Come on with us.”
The woman reached out and curled her hand tightly around his. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Scott wished he’d been able to say these words to his brother back when he needed them. “It’s not your fault.”
Her grip on his hand tightened, but he ignored the pain, just stared at the convergence of fingers and skin where her hand clutched his. He studied the contrast in light and shadow, the delicate shadows between her knuckles and the thickness of his fingers compared to hers. Her fingers were almost as long as his, but more slender, and they curled like claws against his skin while she cried.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Which Wire
"Okay, now locate the primary and the secondary switches and trace them back to the source," David's voice sounded loud and clear in his ear.
Steve's quick hands sifted through the wires attached to the bomb that he was practicing on. "Okay, this is the primary, but it looks like there is a third redundancy down here," Steve's long fingers traced a blue wire gently as it twisted back on itself and into the core of the device.
"Now the real question," David said, "is which wire do you cut? Bear in mind that you only have three more minutes before it goes off."
Steve grasped a small pair of wire cutters in his left hand, looking at the bomb. He looked again at the bundle of wires. Smiling, he grasped the green wire gently and cut it with a quick motion.
Steve couldn't help his cry of surprise when the little bomb went off in a shower of confetti.
Picking the colored paper out of his hair, Steve scowled in frustration. "I though I had it right for sure that time," Steve said as David came into the practice room.
"Don't worry about it, You'll get it eventually," David said, patting Steve on the shoulder. "Lets just hope it's before you have to disarm am bomb for real."
Steve's quick hands sifted through the wires attached to the bomb that he was practicing on. "Okay, this is the primary, but it looks like there is a third redundancy down here," Steve's long fingers traced a blue wire gently as it twisted back on itself and into the core of the device.
"Now the real question," David said, "is which wire do you cut? Bear in mind that you only have three more minutes before it goes off."
Steve grasped a small pair of wire cutters in his left hand, looking at the bomb. He looked again at the bundle of wires. Smiling, he grasped the green wire gently and cut it with a quick motion.
Steve couldn't help his cry of surprise when the little bomb went off in a shower of confetti.
Picking the colored paper out of his hair, Steve scowled in frustration. "I though I had it right for sure that time," Steve said as David came into the practice room.
"Don't worry about it, You'll get it eventually," David said, patting Steve on the shoulder. "Lets just hope it's before you have to disarm am bomb for real."
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Used To Play Piano
Dan could only stare at his hands, white-knuckled and trembling, as they curled around his gun. The shot was still ringing in his ears, and all he could think was, I used to play piano with these hands.
He remembered being fifteen years old and sitting at a grand piano in a hotel restaurant, smiling at a camera and showing a stranger how his brothers’ rock’n’roll could be converted into a slow, poignant melody.
He’d always had the prettiest hands of the lot - whenever they rewatched old videos of themselves hosting the Juno awards, Clay would make fun of how girly his hands were for the Celine Dion joke. Dan always defended himself - he was the piano player. His hands were supposed to be graceful.
“Summers, I need you to let go of the gun.”
Dan blinked. Officer Henry was standing beside him, trying to ease the gun out of his hands. Dan’s hands tightened reflexively, and hell, when had his hands become so pale?
“Officer, the gun. It’s safe now.” Henry smiled weakly.
Dan took a deep breath. “Just give me a moment to unclench, okay?” He could remember twelve-hour-days in the basement in the house in Nashville, how swollen and cramped his hands were after rehearsals. His pretty little hands would curl into tight claws because he’d been playing so hard and so long, and he usually had to soak them in hot water and get Bob to rub them before he could even move them again.
Not even Bob would help now.
“Is he dead?” Dan asked.
Henry glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah.” He swallowed hard. “You’re lucky - he has a piece on him.”
He remembered being fifteen years old and sitting at a grand piano in a hotel restaurant, smiling at a camera and showing a stranger how his brothers’ rock’n’roll could be converted into a slow, poignant melody.
He’d always had the prettiest hands of the lot - whenever they rewatched old videos of themselves hosting the Juno awards, Clay would make fun of how girly his hands were for the Celine Dion joke. Dan always defended himself - he was the piano player. His hands were supposed to be graceful.
“Summers, I need you to let go of the gun.”
Dan blinked. Officer Henry was standing beside him, trying to ease the gun out of his hands. Dan’s hands tightened reflexively, and hell, when had his hands become so pale?
“Officer, the gun. It’s safe now.” Henry smiled weakly.
Dan took a deep breath. “Just give me a moment to unclench, okay?” He could remember twelve-hour-days in the basement in the house in Nashville, how swollen and cramped his hands were after rehearsals. His pretty little hands would curl into tight claws because he’d been playing so hard and so long, and he usually had to soak them in hot water and get Bob to rub them before he could even move them again.
Not even Bob would help now.
“Is he dead?” Dan asked.
Henry glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah.” He swallowed hard. “You’re lucky - he has a piece on him.”
Monday, July 6, 2009
Boy With the Beat
“Do you even know how to play a guitar?” Sonny asked. He hovered over Bob and watched while Bob fumbled with the chords.
Bob dragged a hand through his hair and stared down at the crumpled napkin where he’d scribbled hasty lyrics and a dash of chords, then set the guitar aside for a moment.
“You done with it?” Sonny asked. His breath was rancid and he definitely had several old meals in his beard, but Bob didn’t care.
“No, not yet. It’s just --”
“Can you even write a song?” Sonny asked.
“Yes! I’ve been writing songs since I was seven. It’s just -- I was the drummer, all right? Clay tried to teach me how to play the guitar, but my hands just weren’t made for that.”
Sonny blinked. “Breathe, kid. It’s just a song.”
Just a song. Bob wanted to laugh. He did take a deep breath, and then he stared down at his hands. For twelve years now he’d pretended that all that mattered was dexterity, the quick rhythm of palms and knuckles, from brushes and sticks to bare hands on a box. Clay had longer fingers, more graceful hands, but then he had the smaller, thinner frame. Somehow, despite the fact that they were twins, he was prettier.
“Going to try again?” Sonny reached for the guitar.
“My fifty bucks isn’t up yet,” Bob said. “I just - need a minute.” He closed his eyes and set his hands on his knees. Then he curled his hands into fists and began to play. It was the first beat, the easy beat, the oldest beat from their oldest song, and it evolved from one song to the next, one album to another. When he opened his eyes, his palms were red and tingling, his knuckles swollen. He stared down at his hands once more. He had blunt-fingered, broad hands, like a carpenter or a construction worker, not a musician.
“That was...you’re crazy,” Sonny said.
Bob scooped up the guitar and tried the chord sequence once more. He was surprised at how steady his hands were this time, and he smiled.
“That sounds pretty good, actually,” Sonny said.
“Thanks.” Bob’s smile widened. “Now, on to the second verse.”
He barely noticed when a crowd began to gather around the edges of his vision.
“Every step along the way is part of who we are today...”
Bob dragged a hand through his hair and stared down at the crumpled napkin where he’d scribbled hasty lyrics and a dash of chords, then set the guitar aside for a moment.
“You done with it?” Sonny asked. His breath was rancid and he definitely had several old meals in his beard, but Bob didn’t care.
“No, not yet. It’s just --”
“Can you even write a song?” Sonny asked.
“Yes! I’ve been writing songs since I was seven. It’s just -- I was the drummer, all right? Clay tried to teach me how to play the guitar, but my hands just weren’t made for that.”
Sonny blinked. “Breathe, kid. It’s just a song.”
Just a song. Bob wanted to laugh. He did take a deep breath, and then he stared down at his hands. For twelve years now he’d pretended that all that mattered was dexterity, the quick rhythm of palms and knuckles, from brushes and sticks to bare hands on a box. Clay had longer fingers, more graceful hands, but then he had the smaller, thinner frame. Somehow, despite the fact that they were twins, he was prettier.
“Going to try again?” Sonny reached for the guitar.
“My fifty bucks isn’t up yet,” Bob said. “I just - need a minute.” He closed his eyes and set his hands on his knees. Then he curled his hands into fists and began to play. It was the first beat, the easy beat, the oldest beat from their oldest song, and it evolved from one song to the next, one album to another. When he opened his eyes, his palms were red and tingling, his knuckles swollen. He stared down at his hands once more. He had blunt-fingered, broad hands, like a carpenter or a construction worker, not a musician.
“That was...you’re crazy,” Sonny said.
Bob scooped up the guitar and tried the chord sequence once more. He was surprised at how steady his hands were this time, and he smiled.
“That sounds pretty good, actually,” Sonny said.
“Thanks.” Bob’s smile widened. “Now, on to the second verse.”
He barely noticed when a crowd began to gather around the edges of his vision.
“Every step along the way is part of who we are today...”
Pictures and Memories
David pulled a scrap of a photo out of his pocket, it was torn and creased. DAvid studied the people in the picture, Arianna and himself. They were holding hands and smiling at the camera. David closed his eyes, he could remember that day as if it were yesterday. They had gone to the fair, Arianna had beaten him in the carnival games. They had ridden the Farris wheel, and cuddled under the stars. One of the carnival workers had agreed to take their picture.
David looked at his hands in the picture; looked at them now. In the picture they had been smooth, strong, yet cleans, unblemished and innocent. David placed the picture in his lap, and spread his hands to see them clearly. Palm, down, his hands were browner now than they were then, fine lines crossed the backs of his hands. Long fingers ended in blunt tips, fingers made leaner by a hard life. Turning his hands over and looking at the palms, David noted the deep red scars running across his fingers; fingers that were also thick with callouses from years of fighting and weapons training. Hands that were broken with years of hard use.
Looking at the photo again David shook his head. He could wish for clean and gentle hands again. He could wish for a lot of things that couldn't be or he couldn't have. Soft hands belong to the her, to the past, he mused. Slipping the picture back into his pocket he looked at his hands once more.
This was his life, his fate. The hands of a warrior.
David looked at his hands in the picture; looked at them now. In the picture they had been smooth, strong, yet cleans, unblemished and innocent. David placed the picture in his lap, and spread his hands to see them clearly. Palm, down, his hands were browner now than they were then, fine lines crossed the backs of his hands. Long fingers ended in blunt tips, fingers made leaner by a hard life. Turning his hands over and looking at the palms, David noted the deep red scars running across his fingers; fingers that were also thick with callouses from years of fighting and weapons training. Hands that were broken with years of hard use.
Looking at the photo again David shook his head. He could wish for clean and gentle hands again. He could wish for a lot of things that couldn't be or he couldn't have. Soft hands belong to the her, to the past, he mused. Slipping the picture back into his pocket he looked at his hands once more.
This was his life, his fate. The hands of a warrior.
Project Assignment # 34 - Hands
This week should focus on hands in the story. Is it an old ladies gnarled and wrinkled hands, a babies smooth perfect skin? Does Vince have strong hands? what kind of Hands does the wordsmith have? Hands can tell a lot about a character. Rough, smooth, calloused, manicured. Do their hands have a nervous twitch?
Have fun with your descriptions.
I promise I will do my overview later today.
Have fun with your descriptions.
I promise I will do my overview later today.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Overview #33: World-Building
Ugh, I am so terrible at making myself write everyday. That, and I am quite scatterbrained in general, so I tend to just... forget. I know, terrible of me to forget M&M! What's wrong with me?!
Anyhow, the two entries I did write this week were... alright I suppose. I didn't really like the bowling alley one, but I wanted to describe a local haunt kind of thing, a place where pretty much everyone hangs out at one time or another. And I wrote about Sam's apartment complex because I feel like all you really get of Sam most of the time is her angsting over Vince. So I wanted to do something that was strictly Sam, for Sam.
Well... I promise I will try harder to write everyday. Not just for M&M, but also for myself. Thanks you guys.
Overview #33: World-Building
I essentially failed at this exercise. But whatever. I think switching to random characters for this week might have done me in, but there are worse things I could do. I'll fully admit to pretty much describing the different places I go to in Omaha, and I definitely caricatured them up a bit, but part of that was for Kyle's character as I made him up. The cheapness of literally calling places North Omaha, South Omaha, and West Omaha (there is no East Omaha - that is downtown) gave the world a more coherent feel than it really had, to me. It isn't easy to balance having characters and building a world, but Jade was right - a world comes alive because of the characters who inhabit it and interact with it, who observe it and comment on it and try to change it.
This exercise mostly brought home my utter inability to spatially process places alone in my head without visibly seeing what I'm describing. I think I improved as the week went, coming up with a lame if coherent story line and developing a fairly solid character for Kyle, who shall go the way of the dodo with whatever the impending challenge may be. In looking back, my sense of description improved, because in considering what I'd write for the day I'd watch the world around me and try to categorize the little visual details that fed into my overall impression of the place. (South Omaha has houses crammed closer together than in North Omaha, but North Omaha somehow feels more ghetto and unsettling than South Omaha.)
Well, better luck next week. At least I got my daily words, right?
This exercise mostly brought home my utter inability to spatially process places alone in my head without visibly seeing what I'm describing. I think I improved as the week went, coming up with a lame if coherent story line and developing a fairly solid character for Kyle, who shall go the way of the dodo with whatever the impending challenge may be. In looking back, my sense of description improved, because in considering what I'd write for the day I'd watch the world around me and try to categorize the little visual details that fed into my overall impression of the place. (South Omaha has houses crammed closer together than in North Omaha, but North Omaha somehow feels more ghetto and unsettling than South Omaha.)
Well, better luck next week. At least I got my daily words, right?
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Alleged Little Mexico
South Omaha was theoretically its own ghetto apart from North Omaha. Most didn’t call it the ghetto, though - it was Little Mexico. Maybe Kyle was just friends with too many white people, but in all his ventures south of Dodge he hadn’t seen a single Mexican market, piñata, taco joint, or remotely Catholic-looking church. The taco place around the corner from where he lived was more Mexican than any place he’d seen in South Omaha.
The alleged Little Mexico didn’t have the same desperate air that North Omaha carried. Its streets had the same bizarre grey overtones that Council Bluffs carried, and some of the houses could do with a new paint job, but Kyle didn’t feel nearly as suffocated there. Sure, the houses were crammed a little closer together, and the different families - most of whom were admittedly Mexican - did seem to spill from one property onto another, but their lawns were neater and Kyle did feel so uneasy as he drove the streets, searching for Drew’s new place. His lady had put the kaibash on a West Omaha mansion pretty quickly.
Children clustered around a new toy on the driveway of one of the houses and barely glanced Kyle’s car as he passed. One of them even smiled and waved. That was different - in North Omaha he’d get flipped off for making eye contact. The children’s mother came out and rounded them up, speaking in rapid Spanish, and she cast a wary look Kyle’s car, but he didn’t mind.
Drew lived in a strange white pocket of Little Mexico in a whitewashed townhome crammed into the middle of a series of identical townhomes. They had less color than the crowded-together houses across the streets, and after a moment Kyle realized it was because no one’s children were playing outside. He parked behind a beat-up black pick-up truck and reached for his cell phone. He still wasn’t going to stand around alone.
(327 words)
The alleged Little Mexico didn’t have the same desperate air that North Omaha carried. Its streets had the same bizarre grey overtones that Council Bluffs carried, and some of the houses could do with a new paint job, but Kyle didn’t feel nearly as suffocated there. Sure, the houses were crammed a little closer together, and the different families - most of whom were admittedly Mexican - did seem to spill from one property onto another, but their lawns were neater and Kyle did feel so uneasy as he drove the streets, searching for Drew’s new place. His lady had put the kaibash on a West Omaha mansion pretty quickly.
Children clustered around a new toy on the driveway of one of the houses and barely glanced Kyle’s car as he passed. One of them even smiled and waved. That was different - in North Omaha he’d get flipped off for making eye contact. The children’s mother came out and rounded them up, speaking in rapid Spanish, and she cast a wary look Kyle’s car, but he didn’t mind.
Drew lived in a strange white pocket of Little Mexico in a whitewashed townhome crammed into the middle of a series of identical townhomes. They had less color than the crowded-together houses across the streets, and after a moment Kyle realized it was because no one’s children were playing outside. He parked behind a beat-up black pick-up truck and reached for his cell phone. He still wasn’t going to stand around alone.
(327 words)
Friday, July 3, 2009
Over The Bridge
When they said Iowa was “just over the bridge”, they meant it. Kyle had been in downtown Omaha before - the place was a harrowing maze of one-way streets. The grid was at its most perfect downtown, all parallel streets and perfect right angles, but the idea that one could simply travel the grid to an intended destination was a fallacy, so Kyle had never ventured below tenth street in his desperation not to get lost.
What he didn’t realize was that Dodge - and Douglas running neatly parallel to it in the other direction - turned into Iowa below tenth street. Omaha went from tenth street to the bridge to a different state entirely.
Kyle could feel it when he crossed the bridge. Drew and the others in the office called Council Bluffs the ghetto, but it wasn’t a ghetto the same way North Omaha wasn’t really a ghetto. Something about the grey tinge to everything - buildings, streets, signs, even the lights - caused Kyle to automatically hunch his shoulders and tighten his grip on the steering wheel as he hunted for the shoe store where Drew’s girlfriend’s shoes were waiting to be picked up.
The sidewalks were disturbingly empty, given that Broadway was supposedly the main drag. Kyle watched the other cars cram the road and tried to figure out what it was that made the place so dingy. He’d rolled up his windows as soon as he hit thirty-second street, because a stench that greatly resembled raw sewage had attacked his car. Perhaps what was most disconcerting was the way none of the buildings were actually on Broadway itself. A dizzying array of dim and flickering signs advertising various establishments crowded for attention above the sidewalk, but everything was set back a ways, and Kyle had to crane his neck to see if the right building was there.
He missed the Payless Shoe Source and had to find a side street to flip around and backtrack. He couldn’t wait to get back over the bridge, but he was sure that once he made it, invisible fingers of unease would claw at the back of his neck until he fell asleep.
(361 words)
What he didn’t realize was that Dodge - and Douglas running neatly parallel to it in the other direction - turned into Iowa below tenth street. Omaha went from tenth street to the bridge to a different state entirely.
Kyle could feel it when he crossed the bridge. Drew and the others in the office called Council Bluffs the ghetto, but it wasn’t a ghetto the same way North Omaha wasn’t really a ghetto. Something about the grey tinge to everything - buildings, streets, signs, even the lights - caused Kyle to automatically hunch his shoulders and tighten his grip on the steering wheel as he hunted for the shoe store where Drew’s girlfriend’s shoes were waiting to be picked up.
The sidewalks were disturbingly empty, given that Broadway was supposedly the main drag. Kyle watched the other cars cram the road and tried to figure out what it was that made the place so dingy. He’d rolled up his windows as soon as he hit thirty-second street, because a stench that greatly resembled raw sewage had attacked his car. Perhaps what was most disconcerting was the way none of the buildings were actually on Broadway itself. A dizzying array of dim and flickering signs advertising various establishments crowded for attention above the sidewalk, but everything was set back a ways, and Kyle had to crane his neck to see if the right building was there.
He missed the Payless Shoe Source and had to find a side street to flip around and backtrack. He couldn’t wait to get back over the bridge, but he was sure that once he made it, invisible fingers of unease would claw at the back of his neck until he fell asleep.
(361 words)
Project in the Works
David walked into his room and placed his backpack on his desk. Kicking off his shoes he placed them on the floor of his closet and tossed his dirty socks into the hamper. Walking back to his desk, David unzipped his backpack and pulled out his textbook and notepads, placing them neatly on his desk.
The room was spacious, the walls lined neatly with posters and pictures in frames. A computer sat humming in one corner of the room. A bookshelf was near the window, the titles organized by genre and author. An electronic keyboard was tucked into one corner, sheets of music spread on the music stand.
Strangely the only disorderly aspect to the room was the bed. Sheets and blankets were tangled on the end of the bed. Papers were crumpled and scattered over the bedding, sketches and snatches of writing. Drawings lay at strange angles and bizarre juxtapositions to each other. A pillow and a light blanket lay on the floor, as if he had chosen to sleep on the floor rather than disturb the pattern of the papers.
David glanced over at the bed, twitching as if he were going to jump up and rearrange the papers on the bed. Sighing he turned back to his homework, working out a few sums. Looking at the bed again, David almost made it out of his chair before he stopped himself. Grinding his teeth, David turned his back squarely on his project and forced himself to finish his work.
"Soon enough," he said.
The room was spacious, the walls lined neatly with posters and pictures in frames. A computer sat humming in one corner of the room. A bookshelf was near the window, the titles organized by genre and author. An electronic keyboard was tucked into one corner, sheets of music spread on the music stand.
Strangely the only disorderly aspect to the room was the bed. Sheets and blankets were tangled on the end of the bed. Papers were crumpled and scattered over the bedding, sketches and snatches of writing. Drawings lay at strange angles and bizarre juxtapositions to each other. A pillow and a light blanket lay on the floor, as if he had chosen to sleep on the floor rather than disturb the pattern of the papers.
David glanced over at the bed, twitching as if he were going to jump up and rearrange the papers on the bed. Sighing he turned back to his homework, working out a few sums. Looking at the bed again, David almost made it out of his chair before he stopped himself. Grinding his teeth, David turned his back squarely on his project and forced himself to finish his work.
"Soon enough," he said.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
West Omaha
“Now this is a house call.” Drew whistled appreciatively as Kyle steered the car off the main drag and down a side street.
Maybe this neighborhood was safer, but to Kyle it was...boring. Sure, the houses were big, and the lawns were neat, but everything looked the same. It was suburban hell at its finest. Most of the houses were cookie-cutter generic, from the fancy molding around the windows and the stylish wooden shutters set to make the places look semi-rustic. If just one of the houses had looked like that, it would have been fine, but driving through a bewildering subdivision of over a hundred of them was like being lost in some sort of Jungian nightmare hell. It was Kyle’s subconscious reminding him why he had a loft downtown on the borders of Little Mexico, the ghetto, and corporate satanism.
“I’d kill to be able to afford a place out here,” Drew said. “When Melissa and I get married, if I can score a place like this --”
Kyle privately thought that if Drew moved Melissa out to one of these mansion-wannabe monsters with the fake chandeliers and overly thick cream carpets, she’d tear her own hair out. All of the streets had ridiculous names on overly-gilded signs that were difficult to read in the glare of fading sunlight. Did that say Black Swan or Black Dawn? And who’d want to live on Black Dawn anyway?
Predictably, the house that had summoned them was at the end of a cul-de-sac, perched at the top of a ridiculously long and curved driveway. Golden light spilled from the massive front windows - a bay window on the second floor - and it felt like a three-eyed demon was staring down at them. The squat doors for the three-car-garage grimaced like so many teeth.
Kyle parked the car at the sidewalk and followed the curving path up the slope, nervous about stepping on the immaculately manicured lawn. From the doorstep, he could see the fake chandelier, and - oh hell, the woman coming to answer the door was wearing a 1950’s house dress, complete with pearls and high heels.
So this was West Omaha.
(370 words)
Maybe this neighborhood was safer, but to Kyle it was...boring. Sure, the houses were big, and the lawns were neat, but everything looked the same. It was suburban hell at its finest. Most of the houses were cookie-cutter generic, from the fancy molding around the windows and the stylish wooden shutters set to make the places look semi-rustic. If just one of the houses had looked like that, it would have been fine, but driving through a bewildering subdivision of over a hundred of them was like being lost in some sort of Jungian nightmare hell. It was Kyle’s subconscious reminding him why he had a loft downtown on the borders of Little Mexico, the ghetto, and corporate satanism.
“I’d kill to be able to afford a place out here,” Drew said. “When Melissa and I get married, if I can score a place like this --”
Kyle privately thought that if Drew moved Melissa out to one of these mansion-wannabe monsters with the fake chandeliers and overly thick cream carpets, she’d tear her own hair out. All of the streets had ridiculous names on overly-gilded signs that were difficult to read in the glare of fading sunlight. Did that say Black Swan or Black Dawn? And who’d want to live on Black Dawn anyway?
Predictably, the house that had summoned them was at the end of a cul-de-sac, perched at the top of a ridiculously long and curved driveway. Golden light spilled from the massive front windows - a bay window on the second floor - and it felt like a three-eyed demon was staring down at them. The squat doors for the three-car-garage grimaced like so many teeth.
Kyle parked the car at the sidewalk and followed the curving path up the slope, nervous about stepping on the immaculately manicured lawn. From the doorstep, he could see the fake chandelier, and - oh hell, the woman coming to answer the door was wearing a 1950’s house dress, complete with pearls and high heels.
So this was West Omaha.
(370 words)
The Trenches
David and Joe huddled in a fox hole; a few feet away, Mark, Bryan, and Steve were crouched in another. The steep earthen walls crumbled and dirt slithered to the ground as another mortar shell landed nearby.
"Join the Army, they said. See the world they said," Joe grumbled, shifting as more dirt found it's way down his shirt. He felt like it was caked on an inch thick by now.
David's smile was crooked, "this isn't the Army, we are a branch of the Marines. We go where they tell us, do what they tell us, no questions."
David stood up and fired a few rounds at the enemy. The screams of pain reported a direct hit. "I feel a bit like that game Whack-a-Mole. We pop up and pop down. And if we're lucky, we don't get hit back," David said as he crouched back beside Joe.
"At least can we have a war where it's cooler?" Joe asked, mopping the sweat out of his eyes and taking a long pull from his canteen.
"Can't help that the hot spots in the world right now are in the Middle East," David said, shrugging, and taking a swallow of his own warm water. He took in one more mouthful, swishing it around, and standing, spit it out quickly to get the grit out of his mouth. "Just imagine being in Alaska, salmon fishing in the rivers," David said, sitting back down, "at least trench warfare is nothing like it was in the other wars. Here it's relatively clean and sanitary."
"Hey Boss!" Steve hollered from the other hole.
"Yeah?"
"What is the deepest part of the ocean?"
"Challenger Deep," David hollered back.
David could hear a scuffle from the next hole over, and a faint, "ha, I told you so. Pay up."
David rolled his eyes. His team could be immature, but he wouldn't trust his life to any other group of men.
"Hey boss!" It was Bryan this time.
"What?"
"When can we go home?"
"We go home when we've won," David said.
"When we've won," He whispered to himself.
"Join the Army, they said. See the world they said," Joe grumbled, shifting as more dirt found it's way down his shirt. He felt like it was caked on an inch thick by now.
David's smile was crooked, "this isn't the Army, we are a branch of the Marines. We go where they tell us, do what they tell us, no questions."
David stood up and fired a few rounds at the enemy. The screams of pain reported a direct hit. "I feel a bit like that game Whack-a-Mole. We pop up and pop down. And if we're lucky, we don't get hit back," David said as he crouched back beside Joe.
"At least can we have a war where it's cooler?" Joe asked, mopping the sweat out of his eyes and taking a long pull from his canteen.
"Can't help that the hot spots in the world right now are in the Middle East," David said, shrugging, and taking a swallow of his own warm water. He took in one more mouthful, swishing it around, and standing, spit it out quickly to get the grit out of his mouth. "Just imagine being in Alaska, salmon fishing in the rivers," David said, sitting back down, "at least trench warfare is nothing like it was in the other wars. Here it's relatively clean and sanitary."
"Hey Boss!" Steve hollered from the other hole.
"Yeah?"
"What is the deepest part of the ocean?"
"Challenger Deep," David hollered back.
David could hear a scuffle from the next hole over, and a faint, "ha, I told you so. Pay up."
David rolled his eyes. His team could be immature, but he wouldn't trust his life to any other group of men.
"Hey boss!" It was Bryan this time.
"What?"
"When can we go home?"
"We go home when we've won," David said.
"When we've won," He whispered to himself.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
The Vein
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)
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)
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)
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