I wrote this two months ago at an RWA meeting -- so it has a romancy theme, though not exactly romance (and I don't write romance). The idea of the exercise was to write a piece that included 20 some-odd things -- like taste and smell, background sound, and lighting. I can't remember the entire list, but I think I got everything. I read it out loud with accents in appropriate places.
Zelf-control
"Thanks for coming. I'm not looking forward to this," said my sister Annie. I stood at the door to her studio, the divorce papers clutched in my sweating hand. I wasn't looking forward to this either. Behind her, I could hear her husband Gerard humming softly and slapping wet clay. Annie and I stood awhile, gazes locked. The late afternoon light passed through the willow tree in her yard ad danced on her forehead. I looked down.
"Let's get this over with," I said. We went into the studio. Gerard was at the potting wheel, shirtless, impossibly buff for someone who shunned exercise. He was gnawing on a fuming Cuban cigar as he caressed a lump of clay in such a way that left me red-checked just looking at the undulating, controlled, expert movements of his hands. He cocked his head this way and that, observing each ripple of the slip. With his large hawk nose and protruding cigar he looked like a large featherless bird hunting larvae in a tree trunk.
"Um, Gerard --" I said meekly. He looked up with a start. A big grin spread across his face. He stood abruptly and whipped the cigar out of his mouth.
"Allo! Mon soeur! How ezz zee deevorce biznezz? Av you come to tell us juicee storiez? Ah -- I am sooree, You are family. We should not talk biznezz. Come, let me give you a hug."
"Actually it's quite alright--" Before I could finish my sentence he had bounded across the room and squeezed me in a tight embrace. I forced out an "um" through a half-crushed windpipe, then he planted a clay-covered hand firmly around my lower left cheek, and like a vampire, sucked in a patch of skin on my neck in a slobbery, scratchy kiss.
Annie gave me a look of consternation, tugged roughly on his arm, and unvelcroed him from my body. In the process he gave me a sly wink. I just wanted to get this over with. I summoned the courage to do what I was there for and shoved the envelope in his face.
"Annie wants a divorce!!!" I shouted; Annie winced. Gerard stood there a moment and blinked. Then his eyes darkened, if that was possible. "I'm sorry," I whispered.
"What!!" he bellowed. "What!?" He glared at Annie, shoved the cigar back in his mouth, and stomped back to the potting wheel. "What??" He sat down with a thump. "Why?" He looked up at Annie pleading. "Don't I pleez you every night? Several times in zee night?"
"Well, no complaints there, uh," she said, blushing, "It's just that you can be, well, you can be a little, um, impetuous."
"What?" he said. "What ezz this word? Impetuous?" He said it laboriously.
"Oh. Well, it means that you don't have a lot of, um --" The color was quickly draining out of Annie's face, as she struggled with what she needed to do.
"It means you have no self-control," I said out of sisterly loyalty. And I regretted it.
"What!?" he bellowed again. "Are you crazee? I av plenty of zelf-control!!" He stood up and stomped to the drying rack. "I will show you." He picked up one of my sister's ceramic unicorns (apparently there is quite a demand for them on the internet, though I've never seen the appeal).
"Theez, theez eez ugly." He spat on the floor. "I ave zee zelf-control to deestroy it!" He threw it against the far wall and it shattered in a spray of tragic unicorn bits. He picked up another one, identical. "And theez, theez is even uglier zan zee first!" He threw it to the floor, then gave it a little stomp and flourish like a matador.
"Sweetie, please--" said Annie.
"No!" he pointed at her with a long, lean finger. "You do not sweetie me!" He picked up a cherubic leprechaun from the rack, and gave it a disgusted look before dropping it to the floor. Below the leprechauns was a shelf with smiling bears holding fishing poles. I HATED those bears, and I secretly wished he'd pick one of those up and smash it. Instead, he lifted his hand to his head and sighed deeply. "You do not love me. You av never loved me." He began to cry.
"Oh don't give me that crap!" screamed Annie. I was shocked. Her whole life my sister was meek.
Gerard picked up another leprechaun. "No!" I shouted. I wanted to add, "throw the bears," but luckily I stopped there.
"You!" he said. "You av talked her into theez!"
"No, it was my decision Gerard!" said Annie. She walked over to the potting wheel. "You see this? This is not art, this is a mess. You make a mess of everything!" She picked up the half-formed pot and threw it at the wall, where it stuck.
Gerard stared at her, his eyes darkening again. He crushed the leprechaun he was holding in his hand. Annie picked up a handful of wet clay and threw it near his feet. Gerard gave the entire rack a shove, and a cascade of doomed kitschy animals fell and died in pieces on the floor.
Annie's face grew red, her chest heaved. She picked up one of his pots from his worktable and flung it at the wall like a discus. She stepped closer to him, challenging him. He picked up a jar of glaze and poured it out in ribbons on the floor, then smashed the jar against the wall with a flick of the wrist. He stepped closer to her. She picked a bowl of slip and spattered it against him with her fingers, and stepped closer. He picked up a handful of brushes and flung them into the air. They danced and banged on the floor when they came down. He stepped closer. She stepped into his arms.
"Oh, Gerard, I do love you. I, I want you," she said.
"Ov course," he said. They went into liplock so close I thought they would turn inside-out on each other like sea cucumbers. It was time for me to leave.
If only all of my clients could resolve their differences so easily -- I'd be out of a job. I was just happy I got to see all those hideous bears meet their demise.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Monday, June 22, 2009
Musings on a Plane
I and a fellow, unnamed travel companion (who insisted on being anonymous), were bored on a flight from Honolulu to LAX played a writing game were one person writes a sentence, the other modifies and so on. Here is the result:
Me: It was a dark and stormy night.
Traveling Companion: It was a cold, stormy night, when something awoke Griselmina with a start.
It was a fridgid, torpid evening when something slimy nudged Griselmina awake to a frightened start.
The night was turbulent and wild, when Griselmina awoke suddenly. Something slimy was silently slithering its way across her bedroom floor.
The night writhed in a fit of chaotic hail and lightening as Griselmina Castleford came to consciousness in abrupt fashion. Something was mewling as it slithered across the floorboards of her sleeping chamber. It left a glistening trail of mucous visible in the shimmering reflected light of the dying firepit embers.
The night writhed in a fit of chaotic hail and lightening as Griselmina Castleford came to consciousness abruptly. Something slimy was wriggling its way across the stained floorboards of her sleeping chamber. It was headed straight fot the peacefully slumbered nun lying in the sarcophogus opposite.
Griselmina Castleford slithered across the floorboards of the sarcophagus chamber towards the body of the nun as a blizzard raged outside.
Slithering across the grimy floorboards toward the unconscious nun who lay opposite on that stormy night, Griselmina Castleford stopped suddenly. Something slimy was protruding from the base of the chimney breast, oozing something that was eeking its way in her direction.
Griselmina Castleford stopped in front of the nun, noting that several tentacles were pushing through the wallpaper, oozing mucous onto the grimy floorboards below. She took off her hemp serape and began stuffing it down the nun's mouth.
Griselmina Castleford stopped in front of the nun, noting that several tentacles were pushing through the wallpaper, oozing mucous onto the grimy floorboards below. Startled that "they" would know what she was doing, she began stripping the nun bare in an instant. She took a knife from the bottom drawer of the blood-stained dresser and held it up above the nun's navel in the moonlight.
Griselmina held the razor above the naked nun's navel; she thrust down and slit the corpse up to the throat. Hundreds of inky tentacles burst out and spattered the yellowed wallpaper and grimy floorboards as the fire spit to a bitter end with the incoming hail granules.
With the dagger poised above the sleeping nun's naked body, Griselmina plunged down with all her might into her navel. Blood burst forth from the screaming body and spattered across the walls and stained floorboards. Griselmina Castleford looked down. There were hundreds of dripping tentacles writhing from the nun's now lifeless corpse.
With trepidation Griselmina stepped within the reach of the tentacled beast, it's maw and mandibles clomping with evident delight and anticipation. She swooped and slashed the beast's stomach sac with practiced accuracy, releasing the gasping nun in a pool of acidic mucous.
Griselmina writhed and kicked from within the hideous beast's stomach sac, praying vainly that someone could help, when light suddenly burst through the darkness and the creature let out a painful, haunting cry. She could see the nun standing there now the juices had all flown out, with the dagger in her hand, still drenched in the being's blood.
Griselmina felt warm and comfortable in the beast's oxygen-rich stomach; the nun was curled up next to her. They both munched on the organ's tender lining as the beast writhed in pain, its mewls carrying hauntingly over the blizzard draped moor.
Me: It was a dark and stormy night.
Traveling Companion: It was a cold, stormy night, when something awoke Griselmina with a start.
It was a fridgid, torpid evening when something slimy nudged Griselmina awake to a frightened start.
The night was turbulent and wild, when Griselmina awoke suddenly. Something slimy was silently slithering its way across her bedroom floor.
The night writhed in a fit of chaotic hail and lightening as Griselmina Castleford came to consciousness in abrupt fashion. Something was mewling as it slithered across the floorboards of her sleeping chamber. It left a glistening trail of mucous visible in the shimmering reflected light of the dying firepit embers.
The night writhed in a fit of chaotic hail and lightening as Griselmina Castleford came to consciousness abruptly. Something slimy was wriggling its way across the stained floorboards of her sleeping chamber. It was headed straight fot the peacefully slumbered nun lying in the sarcophogus opposite.
Griselmina Castleford slithered across the floorboards of the sarcophagus chamber towards the body of the nun as a blizzard raged outside.
Slithering across the grimy floorboards toward the unconscious nun who lay opposite on that stormy night, Griselmina Castleford stopped suddenly. Something slimy was protruding from the base of the chimney breast, oozing something that was eeking its way in her direction.
Griselmina Castleford stopped in front of the nun, noting that several tentacles were pushing through the wallpaper, oozing mucous onto the grimy floorboards below. She took off her hemp serape and began stuffing it down the nun's mouth.
Griselmina Castleford stopped in front of the nun, noting that several tentacles were pushing through the wallpaper, oozing mucous onto the grimy floorboards below. Startled that "they" would know what she was doing, she began stripping the nun bare in an instant. She took a knife from the bottom drawer of the blood-stained dresser and held it up above the nun's navel in the moonlight.
Griselmina held the razor above the naked nun's navel; she thrust down and slit the corpse up to the throat. Hundreds of inky tentacles burst out and spattered the yellowed wallpaper and grimy floorboards as the fire spit to a bitter end with the incoming hail granules.
With the dagger poised above the sleeping nun's naked body, Griselmina plunged down with all her might into her navel. Blood burst forth from the screaming body and spattered across the walls and stained floorboards. Griselmina Castleford looked down. There were hundreds of dripping tentacles writhing from the nun's now lifeless corpse.
With trepidation Griselmina stepped within the reach of the tentacled beast, it's maw and mandibles clomping with evident delight and anticipation. She swooped and slashed the beast's stomach sac with practiced accuracy, releasing the gasping nun in a pool of acidic mucous.
Griselmina writhed and kicked from within the hideous beast's stomach sac, praying vainly that someone could help, when light suddenly burst through the darkness and the creature let out a painful, haunting cry. She could see the nun standing there now the juices had all flown out, with the dagger in her hand, still drenched in the being's blood.
Griselmina felt warm and comfortable in the beast's oxygen-rich stomach; the nun was curled up next to her. They both munched on the organ's tender lining as the beast writhed in pain, its mewls carrying hauntingly over the blizzard draped moor.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
The Opened Box
This was from another writing prompt I did with Leslee. We switched genres -- I had to write a romance, and she had to write a horror story. Since this was just a prompt, we both ended up with snippets, and mine still leaned towards the horror side (the dolls are the people, at least in my head).
The Opened Box
Muriel and James lay flat on the bottom of the mahogany box. They were covered in plastic popcorn.
Amanda shuffled her fingers through the packing material. She wondered what the box contained. The contents were her inheritance from her grandmother. The note had stated that she was bequeathed the greatest romance of all time. Amanda had never known her grandmother personally but had heard stories of her eccentricities from other family members, so the note had been no particular surprise.
Her fingers touched the top of Muriel's head, Amanda grabbed the doll's hair and pulled it out of the box. the doll was small, dressed in a gingham dress and white apron. It looked like it had belonged to a dollhouse at one time. Amanda set the doll aside and reached back into the box. She rustled in the plastic then felt James. She pulled him out. He was dressed in denim overalls and looked to have a somewhat dour expression.
Amanda wondered if these two were the great romance. Surely her grandmother had meant more than a pair of toys. Amanda reached into the box a third time, pushed her hand deeper, then she felt it, the corner of a leather bound book. She picked up the corner, but it was heavy. She eagerly plunged her other hand in and withdrew "The Greatest Romance of All Time", the words written in a graceful script in faded ink on a piece of paper glued to the front cover. It was her grandmother's hand writing.
Amanda tipped the book up to examine the script in better light and a photograph fell from within the pages. She set the book down beside the dolls and picked up the photo. She dropped it almost immediately in shock, then bent down to the floor to look at it again. She looked over at the dolls then back at the photo. Amanda shivered. In the photo were a man and a woman, holding hands and smiling at the camera - they were the exact likeness of the two dolls in human form.
Amanda turned the photo over to see if there was anything on the back. It read "Wedding Day: June Fourth 1932, James and Muriel".
The Opened Box
Muriel and James lay flat on the bottom of the mahogany box. They were covered in plastic popcorn.
Amanda shuffled her fingers through the packing material. She wondered what the box contained. The contents were her inheritance from her grandmother. The note had stated that she was bequeathed the greatest romance of all time. Amanda had never known her grandmother personally but had heard stories of her eccentricities from other family members, so the note had been no particular surprise.
Her fingers touched the top of Muriel's head, Amanda grabbed the doll's hair and pulled it out of the box. the doll was small, dressed in a gingham dress and white apron. It looked like it had belonged to a dollhouse at one time. Amanda set the doll aside and reached back into the box. She rustled in the plastic then felt James. She pulled him out. He was dressed in denim overalls and looked to have a somewhat dour expression.
Amanda wondered if these two were the great romance. Surely her grandmother had meant more than a pair of toys. Amanda reached into the box a third time, pushed her hand deeper, then she felt it, the corner of a leather bound book. She picked up the corner, but it was heavy. She eagerly plunged her other hand in and withdrew "The Greatest Romance of All Time", the words written in a graceful script in faded ink on a piece of paper glued to the front cover. It was her grandmother's hand writing.
Amanda tipped the book up to examine the script in better light and a photograph fell from within the pages. She set the book down beside the dolls and picked up the photo. She dropped it almost immediately in shock, then bent down to the floor to look at it again. She looked over at the dolls then back at the photo. Amanda shivered. In the photo were a man and a woman, holding hands and smiling at the camera - they were the exact likeness of the two dolls in human form.
Amanda turned the photo over to see if there was anything on the back. It read "Wedding Day: June Fourth 1932, James and Muriel".
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Spider Girl
This was from another writing prompt, but I can't remember the prompt!
---
Spider Girl
"I gotta get out of here guys, I need some air!" Mark slid open the door to his lanai, letting out a thick cloud of pot smoke. Why did the parties always turn into this? And who brought the hookah? Mark's brain was fuzzy. It took him a moment to realize there was a figure huddled in the corner.
"Hi." said the figure. It was a woman, crouched by the potted plant Mark could never remember the name of (and it didn't matter because it had died tragically a long time ago).
"Who are you?"
"None of your business."
"You're on my lanai. That's kind of my business. Why are you on my lanai by the way? What are you, like a cat burglar?"
"Yes."
"Really? Like you'd admit that?"
"No."
"But-" there was a pause.
"I'm not a cat burglar."
"Oh." The woman stood up, a bit unsteady.
"I live below you. I climbed up here to get away from my boyfriend. He's on a rampage."
"Really? Isn't that what rhinos do? And rabid baboons?" Mark could feel her staring at her. "Sorry, that was in bad taste."
"Yeah, really. I hope it's okay I'm up here."
"Yeah, that's fine. Are you okay? Did he hurt you?"
The woman took a step forward, out of the shadow of the corner. Her face was bruised, her left eye swollen shut. "I'm fine, really."
"No your not!" Mark moved forward, she stepped back. "I won't hurt you-" He stepped back again, sensing that she felt threatened. There was an awkward moment. He moved to the railing and looked down. "I can't believe you climbed up. I'm on the ninth floor. We're really high up."
"S'all right. I'm athletic. I dance on a pole all day."
Mark looked back, sizing up her svelte body. "Cool." He broke his gaze again, slightly embarrassed. "Well, maybe you should call the police on your boyfriend dude - get a restraining order or something."
"I think I'd rather just stay here for a bit. If that's okay."
"Yeah, that's cool I guess. Whatever you want. Just don't cat burglarize me, yeah?"
"No problem."
---
Spider Girl
"I gotta get out of here guys, I need some air!" Mark slid open the door to his lanai, letting out a thick cloud of pot smoke. Why did the parties always turn into this? And who brought the hookah? Mark's brain was fuzzy. It took him a moment to realize there was a figure huddled in the corner.
"Hi." said the figure. It was a woman, crouched by the potted plant Mark could never remember the name of (and it didn't matter because it had died tragically a long time ago).
"Who are you?"
"None of your business."
"You're on my lanai. That's kind of my business. Why are you on my lanai by the way? What are you, like a cat burglar?"
"Yes."
"Really? Like you'd admit that?"
"No."
"But-" there was a pause.
"I'm not a cat burglar."
"Oh." The woman stood up, a bit unsteady.
"I live below you. I climbed up here to get away from my boyfriend. He's on a rampage."
"Really? Isn't that what rhinos do? And rabid baboons?" Mark could feel her staring at her. "Sorry, that was in bad taste."
"Yeah, really. I hope it's okay I'm up here."
"Yeah, that's fine. Are you okay? Did he hurt you?"
The woman took a step forward, out of the shadow of the corner. Her face was bruised, her left eye swollen shut. "I'm fine, really."
"No your not!" Mark moved forward, she stepped back. "I won't hurt you-" He stepped back again, sensing that she felt threatened. There was an awkward moment. He moved to the railing and looked down. "I can't believe you climbed up. I'm on the ninth floor. We're really high up."
"S'all right. I'm athletic. I dance on a pole all day."
Mark looked back, sizing up her svelte body. "Cool." He broke his gaze again, slightly embarrassed. "Well, maybe you should call the police on your boyfriend dude - get a restraining order or something."
"I think I'd rather just stay here for a bit. If that's okay."
"Yeah, that's cool I guess. Whatever you want. Just don't cat burglarize me, yeah?"
"No problem."
Monday, January 14, 2008
Valerie
I wrote this about 2 years ago now, and I've been wanting to dust it off. It was locked away in a file format I can't access on my Mac (Microsoft Works), and I finally bothered to find a file converter -- the fantastic Zamzar.
A pat on the back goes to the first reader who figures out what the "hospital" actually is.
---
Valerie
"I dreamed that my name was Valerie and that I worked at a department store." I said. My doctor looked back at me in silence, his dark eyes held no expression. I continued. "I was sorting out old clothes that didn't belong -- they were vintage, from the 50s and 60s. I had to climb on a huge shaky ladder and get them down from the very top displays. For some reason I was wearing a lot of brown lipstick. Doctor, could it be that I really did work at a department store? I seem to know an awful lot about displaying clothes."
"Most likely not." My doctor thought out loud. "The sorting and extraction of old clothes merely represents your desire to find your memories. The lipstick says that you are hiding something."
I thought for a moment. "But maybe my name is Valerie. It would be a start. It would be worth looking into wouldn't it?"
"No. Dreams are seldom that expository." It was the first name I had come up with in the week since I was found, shivering and naked, with a thick layer of dirt caked under my fingernails. I somehow just showed up at the hospital. That was the first of what I could remember. It was one week of therapy and recuperation and I knew nothing about who I was. But my name was Valerie, I felt certain.
An hour later, after another unsuccessful attempt at hypnosis, I found myself padding down the corridor back to my room. The floor was cold -- I wish they had given me a pair of shoes to wear but the doctors thought they were unnecessary. The only garment they gave me was a thin gown. As I walked I ran my fingers against the smooth wall. At about the height of my hip there were words embossed in the surface that ran the length of the corridor. I knew I could read -- but my amnesia was so complete that they just looked like garbled symbols.
When I got to my room my door was open as usual. There were fresh linens on the bed, and a meal waiting for me. Out my window, a sloped skylight in the ceiling, it was night-time. There was a sea of stars in a perfect moonless night, just like every night. The doctors never woke me during the day and I hadn't seen daylight since I arrived at the hospital. A fragment of memory surfaced. The Sun - I remember the Sun. I remember a brilliant light shining down on me -- I felt joyful, vindication? It made me feel as if I could fly, weightless. I don't know. I just wish I could see the day again.
I ate my meal alone on my bed. Whatever I was eating was bland, rubbery, and cold. When I was finished I curled up in the sheets. There was a faint smell of damp and mildew, the cloth was harsh and stiff. A few minutes later the sleep doctor showed up with another needle. I held out my arm as was required by the routine. I watched my reflection in his large eyes as he slowly pressed amber fluid into the crook of my elbow. It was required that I dream some more.
"Doctor, I'd like to go outside. I feel cramped in here."
"You can't go outside." We were in the therapy room.
"Why not?"
"It's not safe." I stared at him suspiciously. "Tell me about your dreams."
"I don't want to talk about them anymore."
"We need to find out who you are."
"My name is Valerie."
"No, it's not. I told you that wasn't your name."
"Why not? If it isn't. it might as well be."
"Tell me about the dream you just had."
"I didn't have a dream."
"You're lying."
"I refuse to dream."
"You can't, you will always dream."
"Maybe the answer isn't in a dream. Maybe it's outside."
"Forget about the outside. Your identity resides within you. I am going to place you in regression."
When I got back to my room there was no meal waiting for me, just two doctors, a needle, and a rectangular swath of stars. The next day I retold a dream about gardening, had another unsuccessful session of hypnosis and when I returned to my room a bland meal was waiting. Clearly I was being rewarded for my cooperation.
A pat on the back goes to the first reader who figures out what the "hospital" actually is.
---
Valerie
"I dreamed that my name was Valerie and that I worked at a department store." I said. My doctor looked back at me in silence, his dark eyes held no expression. I continued. "I was sorting out old clothes that didn't belong -- they were vintage, from the 50s and 60s. I had to climb on a huge shaky ladder and get them down from the very top displays. For some reason I was wearing a lot of brown lipstick. Doctor, could it be that I really did work at a department store? I seem to know an awful lot about displaying clothes."
"Most likely not." My doctor thought out loud. "The sorting and extraction of old clothes merely represents your desire to find your memories. The lipstick says that you are hiding something."
I thought for a moment. "But maybe my name is Valerie. It would be a start. It would be worth looking into wouldn't it?"
"No. Dreams are seldom that expository." It was the first name I had come up with in the week since I was found, shivering and naked, with a thick layer of dirt caked under my fingernails. I somehow just showed up at the hospital. That was the first of what I could remember. It was one week of therapy and recuperation and I knew nothing about who I was. But my name was Valerie, I felt certain.
An hour later, after another unsuccessful attempt at hypnosis, I found myself padding down the corridor back to my room. The floor was cold -- I wish they had given me a pair of shoes to wear but the doctors thought they were unnecessary. The only garment they gave me was a thin gown. As I walked I ran my fingers against the smooth wall. At about the height of my hip there were words embossed in the surface that ran the length of the corridor. I knew I could read -- but my amnesia was so complete that they just looked like garbled symbols.
When I got to my room my door was open as usual. There were fresh linens on the bed, and a meal waiting for me. Out my window, a sloped skylight in the ceiling, it was night-time. There was a sea of stars in a perfect moonless night, just like every night. The doctors never woke me during the day and I hadn't seen daylight since I arrived at the hospital. A fragment of memory surfaced. The Sun - I remember the Sun. I remember a brilliant light shining down on me -- I felt joyful, vindication? It made me feel as if I could fly, weightless. I don't know. I just wish I could see the day again.
I ate my meal alone on my bed. Whatever I was eating was bland, rubbery, and cold. When I was finished I curled up in the sheets. There was a faint smell of damp and mildew, the cloth was harsh and stiff. A few minutes later the sleep doctor showed up with another needle. I held out my arm as was required by the routine. I watched my reflection in his large eyes as he slowly pressed amber fluid into the crook of my elbow. It was required that I dream some more.
"Doctor, I'd like to go outside. I feel cramped in here."
"You can't go outside." We were in the therapy room.
"Why not?"
"It's not safe." I stared at him suspiciously. "Tell me about your dreams."
"I don't want to talk about them anymore."
"We need to find out who you are."
"My name is Valerie."
"No, it's not. I told you that wasn't your name."
"Why not? If it isn't. it might as well be."
"Tell me about the dream you just had."
"I didn't have a dream."
"You're lying."
"I refuse to dream."
"You can't, you will always dream."
"Maybe the answer isn't in a dream. Maybe it's outside."
"Forget about the outside. Your identity resides within you. I am going to place you in regression."
When I got back to my room there was no meal waiting for me, just two doctors, a needle, and a rectangular swath of stars. The next day I retold a dream about gardening, had another unsuccessful session of hypnosis and when I returned to my room a bland meal was waiting. Clearly I was being rewarded for my cooperation.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Buster
This was from a writing prompt I did with Leslee at Barnes & Noble. She always asks me to come up with a prompt, and I hadn't a clue, so it ended up being the word "fork". I have no problem with one word prompts, but she hates them and gave me stink-eye. When I wrote this, I realize that people die in most of my stories (or whole planets, as the case may be).
Once again, this one is weird (when are they not?) I went again with a short, rapid sentence structure, but I think it is too simple here.
Buster
Boom! The kitchen exploded. Dust burst through the cracks between the window casings and the walls. A small fire began to burn where Alison had stood stirring the goop in the pot with a fork. Her left pinky had shot across the room and impaled a grease covered picture of a French rooster. The fingertip poked out at an angle that accentuated the rooster's comb.
The explosion woke up Buster who was sleeping on the sofa in the living room, basking in the wan glow of an episode of "The Price is Right" that Alison DVR'd the previous morning. Buster's ears were ringing, his tongue was bleeding a bit where he bit down on it, and he was disoriented. He began to smell bacon.
The audience on the TV groaned as a Plinko chip popped out of the Plinko board and fell on the waxy white studio floor.
Buster began to salivate. He stretched his hairy legs against the worn pink afghan covering the sofa. He liked the texture - the purl knit was soothing against his skin. The bacon was beginning to drive him nuts, but a headache was setting in and he didn't want to move much. He wanted Alison to turn off the TV. It gave off too much light. Buster rolled over and nestled his head in a green velvet pillow. He let out a long, relaxing fart. He was beginning to fall asleep again.
Crash! The front door burst open sending shards of cheap wood all over the living room. Buster sat up instantly against the protest of his elderly backbone. Five men dressed in yellow and black with helmets charged through carrying a hose. They ran towards the kitchen and crouched in a line. The first man yelled out something and a few seconds later the hose grew pregnant with water. The sound was deafening again. Kitchen utensils clattered around the room. A minute later it was over, water beginning to pool back into the living room. The firemen scooped up the empty hose and began to file out. None of them noticed Buster staring at them.
Buster yawned. He turned around, punching the sofa with his toes in a slow dance. He flopped down. He slept again.
Once again, this one is weird (when are they not?) I went again with a short, rapid sentence structure, but I think it is too simple here.
Buster
Boom! The kitchen exploded. Dust burst through the cracks between the window casings and the walls. A small fire began to burn where Alison had stood stirring the goop in the pot with a fork. Her left pinky had shot across the room and impaled a grease covered picture of a French rooster. The fingertip poked out at an angle that accentuated the rooster's comb.
The explosion woke up Buster who was sleeping on the sofa in the living room, basking in the wan glow of an episode of "The Price is Right" that Alison DVR'd the previous morning. Buster's ears were ringing, his tongue was bleeding a bit where he bit down on it, and he was disoriented. He began to smell bacon.
The audience on the TV groaned as a Plinko chip popped out of the Plinko board and fell on the waxy white studio floor.
Buster began to salivate. He stretched his hairy legs against the worn pink afghan covering the sofa. He liked the texture - the purl knit was soothing against his skin. The bacon was beginning to drive him nuts, but a headache was setting in and he didn't want to move much. He wanted Alison to turn off the TV. It gave off too much light. Buster rolled over and nestled his head in a green velvet pillow. He let out a long, relaxing fart. He was beginning to fall asleep again.
Crash! The front door burst open sending shards of cheap wood all over the living room. Buster sat up instantly against the protest of his elderly backbone. Five men dressed in yellow and black with helmets charged through carrying a hose. They ran towards the kitchen and crouched in a line. The first man yelled out something and a few seconds later the hose grew pregnant with water. The sound was deafening again. Kitchen utensils clattered around the room. A minute later it was over, water beginning to pool back into the living room. The firemen scooped up the empty hose and began to file out. None of them noticed Buster staring at them.
Buster yawned. He turned around, punching the sofa with his toes in a slow dance. He flopped down. He slept again.
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Isabelle
I wrote this last night at Denny's (the staff probably think I'm nuts because I'm always scribbling in a notebook), and used the word "red" as a prompt. When I thought of red, an image of a little girl on a dusty road with a red skipping rope popped into my head. There really wasn't anything planned about the story, and it evolved and developed as I went. It's just a snippet - not sure if I want to go further with it.
Isabelle
A young girl, Isabelle, walked plaintively down the dried up creek bed, trailing the remains of her shredded red jump rope behind her. The raw end bumped, bounced, and scratched against the water worn pebbles. No doubt the pebbles would have continued on their journey in Isabelle's direction, but the drought that started a decade ago ensured that they would remain in this spot for the foreseeable future.
Isabelle slowed, then stopped. She stared at a spot just in front of her scabbed and blistered toes. She sat, pulling her bare knees up to her chest. She reached back and pulled at the rope, bundling it up and hugging it to her knees. She was too dehydrated to cry.
As she sat still, the forest around began to fill with the noise of birds. The mammals and insects had moved on to wetter areas or died. The dry tinderbox forest was unmolested by predators. Isabelle listened to the clatter of the birds and wondered what they could be discussing. Another sound intruded. It was a rhythmic humming in the distance, downriver, if there were a river. The sound got louder, a thumping in the sky. Isabelle looked for the helicopter. She clutched the rope to her chest, tense with anticipation. It was five days since she ran from the campground, ran from that thing in the tent. Her mother had just chastised her for putting knots in the jump rope when it's bloodied hands ripped through the nylon. The rope was with her now only because it had been in her hand then.
The wingbeat of the helicopter intensified, but there was another sound, a frantic thrashing, then the scream of metal on metal. Isabelle saw bits of dry branches flying in all directions first, then saw the helicopter emerge into the clearing over the creek, a hundred yards away. The helicopter's white body spun as the wings caught and cut the trees. The pilot was clawing at a red window -- Isabelle could see his fingers making stripes on the windshield. The tail rotor dipped and dug a furrow in the bed. Rocks spat out and struck her. She fell to the ground and instinctively curled up and covered her face. The tail sheared off, and the main rotor keeled and carved into the creekbed. The engine burst into flame and the metal screaming faded.
Isabelle kept her eyes closed tight for a full minute. She was shaking. The air got hotter.
She stood up. The wreckage was in full orange bloom. The fire already sparked nearby brush, igniting the banks. She looked in shock and stepped backwards. There was a shrill scream from inside the cockpit. It was lit from inside. The door burst open then flapped back in place. A man spilled out -- the pilot, his right side covered in blood. He threw up, choking a bit on it as he was breathing heavily.
"Mister!" she yelled.
The man looked in her direction, then back at the cockpit.
"Oh my god!" he screamed. He looked back at Isabelle. "Run! Get out of here!"
"Mister, you okay?"
"Run, now!"
Another figure emerged from the cockpit, covered in blood and fumbling blindly. Recognition dawned on Isabelle's face. It was the thing in the tent, but it was different. This one was wearing the same uniform as the pilot, not her daddy's clothes.
The pilot screamed, trying to move back, hands scrabbling for purchase in the pebbles. The thing fell on top of the pilot, dug its raw face into the pilot's chest. The pilot flailed and bucked and scratched under the weight of the thing. Isabelle could see its teeth as it pulled up a mouthful of jacket, ripping. The pilot gripped its head and attempted to twist it to the side. It grabbed his elbows, pushed forward, snapped both joints. The pilot screamed, the thing dove for his throat. Blood spurt from the sides of its mouth.
Isabelle stepped back slowly. She watched the flames and the feeding figure. She saw it had two pits where eyes would be on a man. She quietly walked backwards, upriver.
Isabelle
A young girl, Isabelle, walked plaintively down the dried up creek bed, trailing the remains of her shredded red jump rope behind her. The raw end bumped, bounced, and scratched against the water worn pebbles. No doubt the pebbles would have continued on their journey in Isabelle's direction, but the drought that started a decade ago ensured that they would remain in this spot for the foreseeable future.
Isabelle slowed, then stopped. She stared at a spot just in front of her scabbed and blistered toes. She sat, pulling her bare knees up to her chest. She reached back and pulled at the rope, bundling it up and hugging it to her knees. She was too dehydrated to cry.
As she sat still, the forest around began to fill with the noise of birds. The mammals and insects had moved on to wetter areas or died. The dry tinderbox forest was unmolested by predators. Isabelle listened to the clatter of the birds and wondered what they could be discussing. Another sound intruded. It was a rhythmic humming in the distance, downriver, if there were a river. The sound got louder, a thumping in the sky. Isabelle looked for the helicopter. She clutched the rope to her chest, tense with anticipation. It was five days since she ran from the campground, ran from that thing in the tent. Her mother had just chastised her for putting knots in the jump rope when it's bloodied hands ripped through the nylon. The rope was with her now only because it had been in her hand then.
The wingbeat of the helicopter intensified, but there was another sound, a frantic thrashing, then the scream of metal on metal. Isabelle saw bits of dry branches flying in all directions first, then saw the helicopter emerge into the clearing over the creek, a hundred yards away. The helicopter's white body spun as the wings caught and cut the trees. The pilot was clawing at a red window -- Isabelle could see his fingers making stripes on the windshield. The tail rotor dipped and dug a furrow in the bed. Rocks spat out and struck her. She fell to the ground and instinctively curled up and covered her face. The tail sheared off, and the main rotor keeled and carved into the creekbed. The engine burst into flame and the metal screaming faded.
Isabelle kept her eyes closed tight for a full minute. She was shaking. The air got hotter.
She stood up. The wreckage was in full orange bloom. The fire already sparked nearby brush, igniting the banks. She looked in shock and stepped backwards. There was a shrill scream from inside the cockpit. It was lit from inside. The door burst open then flapped back in place. A man spilled out -- the pilot, his right side covered in blood. He threw up, choking a bit on it as he was breathing heavily.
"Mister!" she yelled.
The man looked in her direction, then back at the cockpit.
"Oh my god!" he screamed. He looked back at Isabelle. "Run! Get out of here!"
"Mister, you okay?"
"Run, now!"
Another figure emerged from the cockpit, covered in blood and fumbling blindly. Recognition dawned on Isabelle's face. It was the thing in the tent, but it was different. This one was wearing the same uniform as the pilot, not her daddy's clothes.
The pilot screamed, trying to move back, hands scrabbling for purchase in the pebbles. The thing fell on top of the pilot, dug its raw face into the pilot's chest. The pilot flailed and bucked and scratched under the weight of the thing. Isabelle could see its teeth as it pulled up a mouthful of jacket, ripping. The pilot gripped its head and attempted to twist it to the side. It grabbed his elbows, pushed forward, snapped both joints. The pilot screamed, the thing dove for his throat. Blood spurt from the sides of its mouth.
Isabelle stepped back slowly. She watched the flames and the feeding figure. She saw it had two pits where eyes would be on a man. She quietly walked backwards, upriver.
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