What if?

Get the paddles and the epinephrine!

2006-07-30T14:10:00.000-07:00

That's medical humor. I'm afraid this blog has gone Code Blue. I don't want it too, because I still have people posting stuff. :) I apologize for being so busy. I did get around to reading and making comments so please go look if you haven't seen them. I also have a new exercise.

Take a fairy tale, children's story, or a scene from a popular movie... ie Snow White, Star Wars, Jack and the Beanstalk, and tell it from a alternate POV; one other than the one we are used to hearing it. Have fun with it!

xoxo
G.

Remember

2006-07-26T11:26:00.000-07:00

[This is my first post to What If... It's short, but hey, it's a start. I need to thank Leesa for turning me on to the site. She's an inspiration.]

The first time I heard “Remember” by Harry Nilsson, I was sitting in the back seat of my mom’s car on my way to grandma’s house.

Being only ten years old at the time, I really didn’t have a lot of heavy memories to recall. Sure I could remember last years baseball season, my first to play on a real little league team. My bumbling awkwardness when I first started out. I could field the ball but I was no where near able to hit it like the other guys. I remembered the smell of the dirt at second base as I learned how to slide.

At ten I could still recall playing on the playground back when I was in first grade. The steel jungle-gym and the soft rubber matting underneath. The feel of the metal, smooth and hot on a Nevada summer day. The breeze coming off the desert was dry, warm and clean. No smog or city foulness. Sometimes the slight tinge of distant rain could be detected. Not heavy memories, but my memories none the less.

The next time I heard the song I was 18 years old. It was the summer after I had graduated from high school. A slightly rebellious time in which I was living at a friends house. Carefree with a job at the local KFC my time was spent working or partying. It was during an evening of beer and weed. Sitting around feeling mellow, channel surfing and socializing when we came upon a movie called “The Point”. A classic animation narrated by Ringo Starr. The song “Remember” stuck with me. I knew I had heard it before but I couldn’t recall where. But then life moved on and other songs came and went.

I’m now a veteran with kids of my own. I hold down a job and pay a mortgage. There’s pets and braces to tend to. Birthdays and anniversaries to celebrate. Life to live. I was sitting in my recliner watching a movie, “You’ve got mail” I believe was the name. When all of a sudden they start playing “Remember” by Harry Nilsson. And for the briefest moment I was sitting in the back seat of my mom’s car, ten years old, not a care in the world.....

Remember.

Overheard at a BBQ

2006-06-29T14:20:00.000-07:00

[I've been a wee bit busy of late. I know, I said that last time too. As I missed the previous assignment, I combined it with this assignment. Hopefully you can follow it okay. I had fun writing it, at least. -Paul]

"The first time I heard "Sportin' a Woody" by Dangerous Toys, I was over at Samantha Miller's house and we were dancing around her living room like idiots."

"Aw, come on Frank, not this story again."

"What do you mean? I haven't heard it yet."

"Yeah, Steve, why do you always have to be such a dick? Let Frank tell his story."

"Thank you, gentlemen. As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted by Mr. Grumpy-butt over there..."

"You're going to burn the hamburgers, Frank. Either cook, or tell your story and let someone else manage the food."

"Is he always like this?"

"Steve? Usually. I'm not sure why we're still friends with him, honestly."

"Thanks Mike, I love you too."

"Don't flip him the bird, Steve, there are kids running around. Why don't you have another beer?"

"Because Dan's fat ass is blocking access to the cooler."

"Holy crap, Steve, did the wife cut you off or something? You've known Dan for a whole hour and you're already treating him like an old high school buddy."

"Bite me, Mike."

"Okay then, beer for everybody. Thanks, Dan. As I was trying to say, I was at Samantha's - she was a crowd favorite in high school, by the way - and we were dancing around like idiots to whatever raucous music we could find.

"I see you haven't outgrown your idiocy."

"Do you want me to burn your burger? Anyway, I'd never heard the song before and thought it was a riot. The second time through the chorus I decided I'd jump on the couch and perform an aerial crotch thrust, singing at the top of my lungs."

"And then her dad walks in, right?"

"Who's telling the story, Mike? I've got Steve over there on his fancy little chaise lounge giving me the riot act, and now you're trying to usurp my narration. I'm sorry that you have to witness this, Dan."

"That's okay, but the brats are flaring up..."

"Oh crap!"

"Just spray some water on the coals."

"I told you you were going to screw up the food. Get out of the way, Frank."

"Fine, take the damn tongs. Bend over and I'll show you where you can stick them."

"Easy there, big guy. Let Steve handle the meat, since obviously his own meat isn't getting handled, and you can finish educating Dan here about Samantha's dad, the warden."

"No way, he was a warden? At a jail?"

"Oh yeah. The door flies open and he's standing silhouetted in the doorway, the lamp light reflecting off his shaved head, and I'm jumping on his leather couch grabbing my crotch in front of his seventeen year old daughter."

"Hot, seventeen year old daughter."

"Crap, man. What did you do?"

"He shat himself, and begged not to be fed to the ass-rapers at the prison."

"Would you shut the hell up already? Damn, Steve."

"Hey Mike, isn't that your kid over there?"

"What, Dan? Oh... Jonathan Adam, where are your pants? Don't you run away from me!"

"We'll help you coral him! Frank, keep an eye on the..."

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

"That's the extent of the recording?"

"Yes, sir. That's all we have."

"Well it's worthless! I don't give a damn about what his idiot friends did in high school, I want to know why Steve Gheffer isn't in our custody!"

"I understand, sir, but we were lucky to be able to salvage even this much. The tech said that the recording device was destroyed in the fire, and what was left of the tape had been severely damaged. It's a miracle that they were able to extract as much as they did."

"I don't care if they extracted the gospel of Jesus, there isn't any useful information about Agent Gheffer. How the hell did this get so screwed up?"

"We think that he must have somehow detected our surveillance, and planned the barbeque as a cover to go underground. It appears that he planted some sort of incendiary device in the grill, which set fire to the house when it detonated. He escaped with his wife and child in the confusion."

"And nobody saw him leave the premises?"

"No, sir. There was a general state of panic as people fled the explosion. The details of everyone's memories of the event were lost in the chaos."

"It's amazing that nobody was injured considering the scale of the damage."

"Yes, sir."

"Very well. We'll throw out the net and wait. He'll snare himself in it again. He's a fool to think he can hide with a family. I expect you to make a full report of your failure to the Director."

"Sir."

"Dismissed."

2006-06-28T07:34:00.000-07:00

Daddy took off from work yesterday so he could clean up downstairs. Mommy and I cleaned and took you downstairs for the first time! You didn't like it at first (I guess it was a new and strange environment) but I held you for a while, we talked about downstairs and eventually you played with the toys in the den. You loved the ball crawl that Mommy bought for you. It's definitely much cooler downstairs for you and we've pretty much baby-proofed the basement.

SNSW: "I see, I see." Whenever you want something you point at it and say "I see, I see". Your hair is growing like crazy and soon we'll be going to the dentist for those eight teeth you have!

Shake, Rattle, and Soul

2006-06-11T21:38:00.000-07:00

The first time Nan heard Miles Davis playing "Milestones" she was sitting on the floor of a brownstone apartment on E63 Street, wearing a pair of men's Champion sweatpants and an old Princeton tee shirt. The clothes belonged to the man who owned the apartment, but she was not wearing them as the result of some sordid encounter. Rather, he'd arrived home unexpectedly, causing her to spill the McDonald's strawberry shake she was enjoying—along with premium cable television, all over the front of her clothes.
John Lawrence traveled often. Nan wasn't quite sure for business or for pleasure, but had advertised for someone to "house sit". It was an easy way for a college student to make some cash. She was to take in his mail, and water his ficus. "I've had it since college, you know," he told her, "half a dozen moves and I've never let anything happen to it." The tree was huge for an indoor plant; the pot it sat in was at least two feet in diameter. Nan suspected he got this apartment, with its high ceilings and bay windows just to house it. It seemed tremendous for just one man. One bedroom sat vacant except for a coat rack and a box containing LP record albums. The other three rooms were tastefully, though minimally decorated—in fact the tree and the sixty-inch television, along with a six by nine foot Oriental rug and some pillows, were pretty much the only furniture in the living area.
"So, explain to me again exactly why you were enjoying this fine meal in my living room this afternoon?" he asked her.
He wasn't exactly angry. If anything Nan got the sense Mr. Lawrence was amused by the situation, especially by making her repeat the whole story, which on the surface essentially made her look like a fanatical bubblehead.
"It's actually all the Knicks fault," she said.
"The Knicks," he repeated.
"The basketball team."
"I've heard of them yes."
He was enjoying this, compounding Nan's embarrassment.
"They lost last night, and my roommate's boyfriend had money on the game. He kicked the television and broke it."
"Broke it? Good God," he commented as he made his way into the kitchen area.
"Yes, see that's why I was here."
"Whose was it?" He asked.
"Pardon me?"
"Whose television set was it?"
What on Earth did that have to do with anything, she thought. He grabbed a kettle off the stove and began adding water from the faucet.
"It was mine actually."
"Well how rude. I don't suppose he's going to pay for a new television, seeing as he lost his money gambling," he said. Nan couldn't help but smile at the ludicrous tone the conversation was taking.
"No. No, I doubt it. Anyway, that's why I needed to watch your TV." She smiled, as to punctuate why it all made perfect sense.
"Yes, to watch a soap opera, you mentioned that."
"I know it sounds silly but," Nan hesitated, feeling sheepish. "They were going to reveal Marley's killer. This has been dragging on for months; there was no way I could miss that."
"Marley's killer?" He asked, concerned.
"Yes!"
"Would you like some tea?" He asked her. "I'm sorry I don't have any shake fixings."
Nan tried to discern whether or not he was making fun of her or trying to make her more at ease. He seemed comfortable enough— pleasant and polite, the whole "making-herself-at-home-in-his-apartment-while-he-was-gone" incident forgotten.
"Tea is fine, thank you."

Twenty minutes later they sat, on the Oriental rug, listening to Miles Davis, while her clothes tumbled dry.
"How could you never have heard of Miles Davis? Jesus Christ what do they teach kids nowadays?"
He sat Indian style, still in his dress slacks and shirt. Nan sat opposite, sipping Earl Grey with milk and four sugars, gearing up to defend her generation.
"That's not fair! My parents were more of the Rat Pack crowd."
"Name one Frank Sinatra song besides 'New York, New York'," he said.
"'The Summer Wind'," she replied, setting down her mug, satisfied.
His eyes offered up what was his smile swallowed up in a sip of tea. He then set his mug down as well.
"Ok, I'll let it slide this time. But next time, I want you well versed in Miles, Chick Corea, and Coltrane.
"Next time?" She asked.
"It's ok to watch my TV Nan."
He got up and left to fetch her clothes from the dryer.
Nan sipped at what was left of her tea, but it was cool, and no longer held the same flavor as it did when hot. The notes from the saxophone drifted by lazily, not caring what the temperature of the room or her tea was. They just settled in her ears and puddled in mouth like caramel over ice cream. She closed her eyes and tried to float with them.
"Hey."
She opened her eyes to see John offering her clothes.
"You can dress in there," he said, gesturing to the almost empty guest room.
Nan got up and took the clothes, almost feeling like the party was over, and she'd been dismissed.
"Nan…"
She stopped and turned.
"Who killed Marley?"

Rain

2006-06-09T18:58:00.000-07:00

The first time Frankie heard Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head by BJ Thomas, he was down at Riverside Park and he had just fallen off the swing. His dad picked him up and was singing that song to him. Mumbling through the verses and picking up the chorus strong and clear. Maybe that is why Frankie only ever knew the chorus.

He smiled. The muzak in the elevator was playing that tune. Frankie was riding to the top floor to meet with Mr. Schneider the President and CEO of Wanaco Products, Inc. His smile did not last long as this ride was not for pleasure, or even good business. This was most likely his last day at the company. His division was lagging behind in an already depressed business cycle. In every day terms the company was falling. Hard. Other divisions had been closed. Other directors had been sacked. He did not expect anything to go any different for him.

The doors parted and Jennifer looked up from behind her desk.

"You can go right in. You are expected." Her demeanor was neutral. Her look was one watching a dead man walking.

Frankie opened the door to Mr. Schneider's office. It was a typical executive office. Plush carpet. Wood paneled interior walls. Mahogany desk. Big leather chair facing the window. Two smaller chairs facing the desk. The chairs had small backs to make you sit up straight and not want to stay long. What was not normal was the view. The unobstructed view. The CEO of Wanaco had built into his office a retractable glass dome opening his office to the city below him. The wind wafted the corner of a paper on the desk, rustling like dry leaves at the end of fall.

"Quite a view isn't it?" Mr. Schneider turned in his chair to face Frankie.

Frankie came face to face with the man who held his fate on his desk. He was sure one of those papers was his termination notice.

"Yes, it is," Frankie attempted cool, but he felt like he was stammering. Frankie had no idea what to say so he said whatever came to mind, "Especially like how you can see the whole hover train line as it leaves the city from here."

"The sun usually sets in that direction as well. Makes for a glorious sight," Schneider seemed to size Frankie up as he continued,"at least when the climate engineers aren't mucking about with the rotation of the planet. They do that from time to time and it just ruins my day. Like now, look they are shunting the rain makers into the city. It was not supposed to rain today."

Frankie did see that the sky was turning gray, a sure sign that mist was being pumped in the upper atmosphere. He would have to go home in the rain, more insult to injury.

"Frankie. In Roman times when a unit had failed in the most egregious manner, the commander would line his men up and select every tenth man and kill him. This is where we get the word decimate. Deci meaning ten. Our company is falling apart and we have units that are failing in a most egregious manner. Like yours for instance." Mr. Schneider paused at this point to let his words sink in.

He continued. "You have been selected for decimation."

Mr. Schneider stood up. He was a tall man. Six-one or six-two. Frankie had only ever seen him sitting at meetings. He had always arrived to meetings early and had left after he had long vacated the meeting. As he came out from behind the desk he noticed that Mr. Schneider's legs had been replaced by upgraded cybernetics. In fact, Frankie had never seen these models before.

"They are the latest. I had lost my own legs in the war." Mr. Schneider had noticed Frankie staring.

"Sit down." Mr. Schneider motioned Frankie to the chair on his left.

Frankie not sure what to make of this sat down. He had just been fired. But he sat down anyway.

Mr Schneider perched on the edge of his desk. His cybernetics feet digging into the carpet like talons wrapped around a branch.

He leaned in Frankie's direction, "At Wanaco we don't just fire our directors. We send them away." At that he pushed a button on his desk which morphed the arms of the chair Frankie was sitting into straps enclosing his wrists. Even though panic was rising in Frankie he was impressed. These chairs probably cost more than his whole house.

"Don't worry the straps are for your own protection. Don't want you losing a limb or anything."

The misting machines had done their jobs and now it was starting to rain. Frankie felt a drop hit his lips. It made him realize how dry his mouth had become.

Mr. Schneider pushed another button and a transparisteel pod enclosed the Frankie and the chair.

"You have been relocated, your assets sold and given to your wife and children. You won't work in this city again. Goodbye, Frankie."

Another button. Frankie plummeted into the depths of the city.

Your Song

2006-06-05T18:51:00.000-07:00

Your Song

The last time I heard Smetana's Die Moldau, I was at the office, and we were fighting. Or perhaps 'fighting' is too strong a word for it. You were lashing out at me with every bit of hatred you have for every man in your life. Every man who has ever wronged you, every man back straight back to your father, every man who abandoned you. Every man around you is a target for you to sling your contempt at with well-chosen words. I was sitting trapped in your anger, trying not to shout imprecations at you, trying desperately not to start weeping like a child whose best friend has just hit them with a tiny, tight fist. Struck them over and over, trying to make something, somewhere, finally give. You didn't let yourself see the wounds you inflicted. Or did you? Did it give you pleasure to see me hurt?

You always were, and likely always will be a hater of men, won't you. You won't ever let it go, because you cannot let it go. No amount of prescribed medication will ever loosen the fingers of your grudges, each and every one clutched against your chest like a miser clutching at his gold. Deep underneath, no matter how much you say otherwise, you will never truly trust, never truly forgive men.

You hissed at me "You don't care." How I wanted to stride over to you and slap that look off your face and that expression out of your mouth. You don't know what I care about. You think you do, but you cannot know what I care about. You cannot fathom how deeply I care for you, even when you are striking out at me like a drowning swimmer. The older instructors always tell the trainee lifeguards that if the victim is fighting you, endangering your own life then the wise thing is to simply let go and let them drown. There are days, especially here of late, when you are flailing around and biting every helping hand. It is during those days that I wonder how long it would take you to drown if I were to stop trying to keep us both afloat, or would you simply go on flailing and trashing?

Days passed, we both stayed afloat, and I never heard "I'm sorry" come from your mouth, even though things got back to normal prety fast, as they always do. And like always, I swallowed down my anger and my vivid imagination and my hurts and I went on loving you, trying to help you when I can, and trying to stay out of your way when any help I could give you was not only not wanted but perhaps not needed.

I'll always be your papa, no matter how much you decide to hit me with your tiny, balled fists. And Smetana? He'll never sound the same, ever again.

_____________
I don't know if I'm real crazy about this one or not. It needed to be said, somewhere, so I took it and changed it into a story, of sorts. If you've noticed, it's sat here in the Drafts column for about two weeks now, and finally got completed, I feel a little poorly. If nothing else, it's honest and emotionally charged. Perhaps to the point of pathos, but this is your opportunity to tell me so.

Beach Tales

2006-06-01T10:29:00.000-07:00

I distinctly remember the first time the song "Surfin' Safari" by the Beach Boys was played in my presence. I was thirteen years old and we were on our way to the eastern shore. Our destination was Ocean City, Maryland. I had never seen the ocean before and was excited to get there. It was a summer vacation I won't soon forget.

"Surfin' Safari" began playing as we got onto the bridge that takes you across the bay and into Ocean City. The smells of the ocean were floating on the wind. We were packed tight into the family station wagon. Since dad didn't go, mom was driving and I was riding shotgun. I stuck my head out the window, captivated by the smells and sounds. The smell of the ocean was met with the smells of steamed crabs, cotton candy, carmel popcorn and Solarcaine. The boardwalk captivated me as soon as it came into view. I could hardly wait to get there. I could hardly wait to feel the sand under my feet. This was going to be the best vacation ever!

We arrived at our hotel at about 11 a.m. Mom checked us in and we carted all our stuff to the third floor room that would be home for the week. I couldn't wait to get out onto the beach. I wanted to check out the boardwalk. I wanted to do everything right away. My mother fished a ten dollar bill out of her wallet and told me to have fun and to meet her at five. The first place I went was a music store. I had to own that song. It spoke to me. That one song was to become the theme song to my summer.

I popped the tape into my walkman and set out for the boardwalk. That place looked like fun. I still had money left over. There were numerous food stands to choose from. I decided on a hotdog and chowed it down quickly so I could continue to explore this new place. There was a big haunted house that didn't open until dark. I made a mental note of that so I could bring my siblings there and watch them all get scared. The rides loomed just up ahead. There was a ferris wheel, a small roller coaster, a carousel, and various other carnival type rides. This place was going to be fun.

It was then I decided that I needed to be on the beach. This turned out to be a good thing to do as the beach was rife with women in bikinis. I was thirteen and raging hormones took over as I watched bikini after bikini pass in front of me. I found a small outcrop of rocks to sit on and just relax. There was a certain magic in the air. Either that or it was the rotting fish smell. Either way, I found a little piece of heaven right here on earth.

I must have listened to that Beach Boys tape a hundred times that first day. It was a greatest hits tape that contained many other nuggets of musical joy for me that summer. "Fun Fun Fun" was my favorite. It reminded me of my father's Thunderbird. That may have been my favorite, but to this day I listen to "Surfin' Safari every time I go to the beach.

Anyway, that summer trip to the shore was probably one of the defining moments of my life. It was there that I experienced my first kiss. Her name was Heather. She was from Baltimore, Maryland. I met her our first night there. She was coming out of the haunted house as I was entering with my brothers and sister. She said hi and giggled. I turned bright red and scurried myself into the haunted house. What a good time that was. There were real live people all dressed up as zombies. They would pop out when you least expected it. There was one really long hallway where a man with a chainsaw would come out from behind you, rev the motor and start running after you. Never mind the fact there wasn't a chain on the blade, it was scary then.

After going through the haunted house, we walked down the boardwalk a bit to meet mom. Heather sneaked up behind me and tapped me on the shoulder. I about jumped out of my skin. She giggled. I turned red.

"I have to get these three back to mom." I said to Heather.

"Mind if I tag along?"

"Cool, that would be alright."

This is how Heather joined our summer vacation. She would come by the hotel in the morning, hang out with me all day and not leave until eleven at night. She was sweet and kind. We would go out on the beach in the morning and look for shells. She would always find the best ones. We even saw a hermit crab changing his shell. We named him Herman. Heather was my best friend for that week. If not for her I wouldn't have ever figured out how to eat a crab.

The night she kissed me, and make no bones about it, she kissed me, it was cool and breezy. She was getting a little chilly so I offered her my sweatshirt. She kissed me right then and there. Off in the distance there was a song playing, it was "Night Moves" by Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band. I won't ever forget that song as long as I live. Her lips were soft. She was gentle with her kiss. I didn't know what to do, so like any thirteen year old boy, I shoved my tongue into her mouth as akwardly as possible. To her credit she didn't let on that it may have been akward or unwanted.

That summer will always stand out in my mind. Those songs will always carry with them a sentimental value that can't be replaced by anything else. Who can't name the first person who ever kissed them? Music is a part of our lives. I can associate things with most of the songs on my ipod playlist. I think we are all like that in our own way.

The Killer in Me

2006-05-22T12:13:00.000-07:00

I always thought a person turned blue as you choke them to death. Turns out that red is the color of death. At least it's the color of death by strangulation. It's inspiring listening to the gurgle in thier throat. It's exhilarating seeing them attempt to beg for mercy when all they can do is gasp for air. I never thought death could be so much fun.

My victim is just some random guy. He never did anything to me. Nor I to him. That is until the moment I siezed his throat for all I was worth. The tenacity of a pitbull in a human package. Scrawny little runt that I am, I sure have a grip that's to die for. Ha, I just made a funny.

His eyes are getting bloodshot and starting to bulge ever so slightly out of his head. All he wants is precious oxygen. Wrong place, wrong time there buddy. Sorry for your luck. I don't speak these words. I let the silence cover us like a blanket. It feeds his fear you see. You can hardly tell his eyes were a gorgeous shade of green anymore. They are red, bloodshot and bulging out of thier sockets.

His nose is flaring from it's futile attempts to take in the air that sustains life. It's a cute nose, I wonder if he's had plastic surgury. His lips, thin and wide, are turning a nice shade of purple. I suppose maybe blue is next. All I know is that I feel godlike. I hold this man's life in my hands. Do I let go? Do I squeeze harder and end it quickly? Do I continue on this way and explore the dying mind? I can almost read his mind you know. His body language tells me all I need to know.

At first he flailed about like a chicken with it's head cut off. Good think I'm a little taller than he is. I picked him right off his feet. He couldn't be more than twenty one. I remember twenty one. He might weigh in the neighborhood of one hundred forty pounds. I could be wrong there. I'm no scale. His hair is in a ponytail and for a moment I thought I would use irony and strangle him with his own hair. That would have been worth a laugh. His five foot six inch frame yields to my every whim now. No fight left in him at this point. His feet claw at my shins, more than likely looking for some perch with which to mount a defense. Fat chance of that happening though. We are in the middle of a mostly unused allyway. Sorry for your luck pal.

All of a sudden he goes limp in my hands. I don't dare let go. He has probably passed out from the lack of oxygen. Better to hold my grip for a few more minutes. It's at this point I realize that I am sexually aroused. And here I thought the pervert gene missed me. I want him to die right now so that I may go home with his image fresh in my mind. I want to go home and think of this moment and masterbate. Pretty sick don't you think?

After ten more minutes of holding him, I declare him dead. I leave his limp body in the alley. It was discovered by police at five in the morning after some good citizen called them. Turns out the guy had a wife and four kids. Damn breeder. I should research my next victim. Next victim has a nice ring to it.

Person Place and Song

2006-05-22T05:47:00.000-07:00

Write a short piece of fiction, about 1000 words. It may be a complete short piece or the start of a longer story, but it begins as follows:

"The first time I (or Name) heard Specific Song Title by Specific Artist or Group, I (or Name) was down/up/over at Place and we were doing Action."

The object of the exercise is to begin a story simply and specifically. Nothing grand, just close evidence that may lead to somewhere.

I hope we're not fizzling out here kids, we started off with a bang!

Old School

2006-05-14T17:55:00.000-07:00

I had already cut my tags. LOL. Eh, it's more challenging anyway.

*^*^*^*^*^*

"So there I am, hastily apologizing to my guests while hauling her into the kitchen when Janie then says to me, 'But mommy, you told me those pads were napkins and were for a special time of the month,'"

"Oh my God! That is hilarious."

"Laura, you should have seen my face when I walked into the dining room."

"That'll teach you not to glaze over the facts of life Courtney."

"Yeah, well come talk to me when Emily is six and digging through the bottom of your linen closet. Can I have a fry?"

"Of course; like I need them to begin with."

"I'm glad we did this. We haven't had a chance to talk…"

"…in ages I know. This is something I did need."

"Well let's not wait that long to do it again, ok?"

"Sure. It's just hard… it's hard to get out, you know?"

"Sure."

"You want some more wine before I finish this off?"

"Wow the bottle's empty already?"

"Yeah, should we order another?"

"You should take it easy Laura, you have to drive home."

"Ah see, if I have too much to drink, I can just go home with you. Then I won't have to go back to my house."

"Laura."

"Laura honey what's going on?"

"Nothing, really. I'm just being silly."

"You're not just being silly. You've had three-quarters of a bottle of wine, and are only half-joking about not wanting to go home. Come to think of it, you've avoided talking about yourself and Steve all night. Talk to me; it's me, Courtney."

"Once when I was a student intern, I remember being at home and sitting up in my bed, suddenly realizing I had mixed someone's medicine wrong. I had given them less---not more, but still… the feeling you get when you've made a mistake…you know?"

"I'm not sure I follow you."

"Have you ever felt that Court? Like you just woke up and realized you've made a mistake?"

"Like the, 'I have a test today and I didn't study plus I'm wearing no pants' feeling?"

"Sort of, yeah."

"You can come over tonight if you want Laura; no excuses needed. We can just hang out more, and talk if you need to."

"No. No, it's ok, I have to go home. Running away doesn't solve anything."

"It's not running away, it's just a slumber party."

"You're so cute Courtney. Seriously. Let's just make a pact to meet up more, ok?"

"Ok, but promise to call me tomorrow?"

"Sure."

"I mean it. If you don't I'll hunt you down!"

"Okay, okay!"

"Waiter, can we have the check please?"

Mortal Coils ~ by Irrelephant

2006-05-12T13:07:00.000-07:00

Mortal Coils

"So, didja bring the case?"

"My god, Vince, are you stupid or something? Keep your fucking voice down and get away from my desk! I'll meet you at the cooler."

"Sheesh, you don' t hav'ta be such a jerk about it."

"Leave, before I carry you out by your asshole."

"Yeah, yeah."

"Hold on, damnit, I'm coming. I swear, you are such a nit sometime. Here, get a cup, at least try and act like you're doing something."

"I never could get used to all this spy stuff. I mean, really George, why can't we just behave like normal people?"

"Vince, you are a mook. You've always been a mook. You always will be a mook. We are not normal people, not anymore. And nobody can find out what's in that case. If they did, my God, I'd hate to think of what it would be like."

"Wow, that would be quite a party, wouldn't it? I mean, if everyone..."

"Hi, Paula. Pretty dress. Sheesh, why don't you just tell everyone that we're standing here discussing the contents of my briefcase? Damnit Vince, why are you so thick? How the hell did I get mixed up with someone as thick as you?"

"You didn't have a choice, remember?

"Oh yes, all too well, thank you. Yeah, that's it, laugh it up. Christ on a crutch. The one time I bring someone home from work it had to be you. The one night they decided was the night to intervene you had to be in the car with me. Damnit. Damnit it all to Hell."

"So, didja bring it?"

"Uhm, let's see. I brought my lunch, remembered my fountain pen, my glasses, my tie, watch, wallet, no wait, what did I forget? My briefcase? With that...that THING in it. Christ Vince, do you think I'm stupid? Once a month for three years, like clockwork, yeah I fuckin' well remembered. It's under my desk."

"Same time as always?"

"Yes, my incredibly thick friend. Same time as always. I'll even be in the same car as last time. Damnit, YES same time as always."

"Yeah yeah, okay George, just making sure."

"Go on, I'll see you down there. My God, who would have thought it. Fucking eternal life, shared with a moron. Yeah, sorry man, didn't mean to throw it at you, didn't see you standing there. Sorry. Damn, got your shirt all wet too. I'm sorry."

"Sheesh. Eternal life, and I gotta spend it with that guy. What a ripoff."

*^*^*^*^*^*^*

Afterword--

Wow that was hard to do. I hadn't realised until I really started imagining the characters of Vince and George and their meeting at the water cooler how difficult it would be to try and fully develop a scene between any four people (I'm counting Paula because of her untimely interruption and the unnamed fourth character at the end, even though we never 'hear' them) and their actions without putting in anything but their speech. And trying to let each of the mains have their own voice, their own vocal mannerisms, without sliding into anything that smacked of stilted plot-development...I'm still sweating. And so desperate I was to include a third and fourth person, just to keep it in that sort of crowded office setting. Then I was trying to work into the story too much of THEM, what they looked like, their chance meeting, the fact that Vince was tall and lanky while George was stout, what they were wearing, all that simply wouldn't fit. It was an interesting time trying to pare it all down to the bare bones, to make it fit the assignment, and still try to get what I most like in my stories-- twin doses of whimsy and menace.

I found myself doing a poor imitation of William Gibson; trying to let YOU see what your imagination wanted to see, while not describing anything at all. Paula's 'pretty' dress, the briefcase, what was IN the briefcase, the wet shirt. Tough stuff to do.

Bonus points to anyone who can positively identify the four characters. *S* ~Irrelephant

Demon Lover

2006-05-11T16:35:00.000-07:00

Demon Lover

“I can hear her.”

“Don’t! Don’t listen!”

“I can’t help it...”

“Stop! Think about something else.”

‘What else is there? What is there in the world that can compare…”

“Don’t. You remember what happened the last time.”

“Brrrr…yes, yes, you’re right. Hey! Now you’re listening, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“Yes, you are.”

“She’s...”

If I can’t go to her, neither will you.”

“You’ll stop me?”

“I will.”

Come to me.

“We could both…”

“Only one can go at a time. You know that. And neither of us is going this time.”

“Right.”

“We don’t belong…”

“That terrifying place…”

“Those cold eyes…”

“Her mouth…”

“Her mouth.”

Come.

“No, this is no good. We need to leave. Get out of earshot. Let’s go.”

“Why do we always find ourselves here?”

“Stupidity. Masochism. I said, let’s go already!”

“…Yes.”

Come to me now.

“Yes! I’m coming!”

“Damn you!”

“I’m already damned! Oooff! Let me go!”

“You’re…not…going…to her!”

“I love her!”

“You can’t love her! Besides, she’s…an abomination.”

“Thanks. You’re right. I—ungh!”

“And besides, she’s mine!”

“Get the fuck back here!”

“Mmmmfff…!”

“Stupid fucker. She wants me. Me!”

“Youuuu…”

“That’s right. See you later.”

At last.

“The cold…I always forget about the cold…”

I’ll warm you.

“No. Please…”.

Mmmmm…

“How could I…could I beat him like that…for you…”

You do what I bid. So does he. For the winner the spoils.

“Stop…stop touching me…your skin is so cold…did I really say I loved you?”

Hmmm hmmm...

“I could crush you…end it here.”

Be a hero? You’ll do nothing of the sort.

“No…no, I won’t…”

…

Now back with you. I’ve had my fill. See you next time. Or your friend.

…

“You’re still here.”

“I was worried about you.”

“Your face has healed nicely.”

“Always does.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Couldn’t be helped. Are you cold?”

“Yes! Freezing. I always forget.”

“So do I. Your lips are blue.”

“Her mouth…”

“Her mouth.”

“I hate witches… the way they summon us, play with us…and Earth is so cold…”

“Come on. We’ll warm you up by the lake.”

I wrote this one a while ago, with vague, misleading descriptions. It was a challenge to depict the physical fighting only using dialogue, as well as the final scene.
Does it work?

Voices

2006-05-11T11:02:00.000-07:00

I didn't quite follow the rules...
I used no tags at all.
Well here goes:

"The doors are closing. The doors are closing. Please step away from the doors."

"God I hate that."

"Hate what?"

"That voice. I hear it every goddamn morning all damn morning."

"I kinda like her."

"Like her? You don't even know her. How can you say you like her?"

"We are now leaving the station."

"And why the hell does she have to say that - it's not like we can't see we are leaving the station."

"It's how she says things. Kinda forceful, yet pleasant. I like that."

"You like the forceful type? What are you saying? You like to be controlled?"

"Naah. All I am saying is that she just has a pleasant voice."

"But don't you ever get sick of it? The same damn message over and over again. I mean come on it must grate on you."

"Sorry."

"Oh, what? No problem."

"What happened?"

"She just stepped on my foot."

"Wow."

"What?"

"She said sorry. Don't hear that very often these days. When was the last time you said sorry?"

"I don't know. Don't keep track."

"I don't think I've ever heard you say sorry."

"Why are you on my ass now?"

"You have never said sorry to me."

"Look, let's not get into this here."

"Why not here? It's not as if we ever talk at home."

"Look, sometimes I just like some peace and quiet at home - is that so hard to understand?"

"Excuse me sir, this is my stop."

"What the hell? Did we wake up in the twilight zone? What is with everyone being so polite?"

"Maybe they know."

"They can't possibly know."

"You know sometimes you speak out loud when we are talking."

"How would you know?"

"They way people react. The way they look at you."

"Well they can't see you, you're dead."

"Why do you keep bringing that up? I know that and you know that. You know if you keep saying that out loud they might just lock you up."

"Oh shut up and go away."

"What?! Who the hell do you think you are mister? Telling an old lady to shut up. Hmmpf."

"Dammit, I wasn't talking to you. I was talking to him."

"Who."

"Never mind. This is my stop - have a fantastic life."

Denouement

2006-05-08T08:04:00.000-07:00

[Crap. I'm late. I had intended to post this Friday at lunch, but last week was crazy. This didn't turn out quite the way I had intended, but I guess it will make it that much easier to critique. I still owe most of you comments, and I will try to get to those this week. - Paul]

“Damn,” he said, and died.

“That’s an understatement,” said the teenage boy kneeling next to the dead man. The boy hung his head, exhausted. There was a dull ringing in his ears, and blood on his hands. He tried to wipe the blood off on his pants, but he only succeeded in spreading the dark blotches, like leprous sores. He jerked away from himself, repulsed by the vision, but succeeded only in scooting backwards. He looked around. The living room appeared alien to him. He felt like he was on stage after the final act of Hamlet. Where was the applause? Was this really his home? Nothing made sense anymore.

His gaze was finally pulled to the shotgun lying on the floor by the hearth. How did that get out here? he thought. He glanced back at the stranger lying dead on the floor next to him. The boy remembered seeing the man before. He was watching me at school, thought the boy, He remembered the uneasy feeling that prickled his spine when he noticed the man’s focused attention. But why was he here now?

The doorbell had rung. The disjointed memories began to return. And then his parents were shouting. There had been another voice, a desperate voice, and it had come from inside the house. Something is wrong, the boy remembered thinking, then he had slipped out of his room into the hall.

There was a man in the living room, and he was shouting at the boy’s parents. His father was trying to get the man to leave, but the man resisted. The boy’s mother was threatening to call the police. The boy could hear the fear in her voice. He slipped into his parents’ room. The shotgun was behind the door.

The boy remembered the sudden silence when he strode into the living room with the gun, demanding that the stranger get the hell out of his house. The boy was shocked by the sadness in the man’s eyes, a sorrowful longing that hit the boy like a wave.

“But I’m your real father.” The man had implored.

“This isn’t Star Wars, you freak!” the boy had shouted back. But the man suddenly raised his hand and took a step towards the boy. And the gun had gone off.

The man took the blast in the gut. He was knocked backwards and landed hard on his butt. He sat in the middle of the room like a stuffed doll, legs spread out in front of him. He didn’t move. He just sat there, while gravity patiently disemboweled him. I don’t remember taking off the safety, thought the boy. I don’t remember pulling the trigger. But I do remember what he said.

“What have you done?” The words from his mother struck the boy as if she had slapped his face. On the periphery of his consciousness he began to process the implications of this man’s presence and the meaning of his words. His father advanced towards him to take away the gun.

“Is it true?” screamed the boy, rage saturating his vision as he began to understand exactly what he might have done.

The gun had fired again. “Is it?” screamed the boy at his mother. Through her sobbing she confessed the truth to the boy she had called son.

The gun had fired a third time. “How many fucking shells are in this damn thing?” he had shouted in dismay, pulling the trigger repeatedly. The clicking of the empty gun answered him with a hollow laugh. He had flung the spent weapon away, and collapsed to his knees at the side of the dying stranger.

The boy looked away from the gun. His former parents sat awkwardly together on the couch, staring blankly at the vacuous commercials playing on the television. “Damn,” said the boy, echoing the stranger’s last word. What a moment to realize your parents really weren’t your parents.

Idea for next writing assignment

2006-05-07T18:36:00.000-07:00

I sent this via email to Giovanna and she said go for it...

Write a piece with only dialogue. No narrative. Either in play format, as in Name: Line,

or Name said, "Line".

The purpose is to use the dialogue only to convey the story elements, the setting, the tone, the arc, etc.

I think 750 word limit should apply.

I am not a task master but I think by a week from this Thursday is a good goal.

Have fun.

The Tragical Comedy

2006-05-05T10:48:00.000-07:00

Sent by irrelephant. :) He's a super over-achiever and used three sentences. :p They've been italicized.

I am in awe that you took on the Skinny McAdams line. ROFL.
*^*^*^

He looked at his watch. 6:30. With disgust, he exhaled audibly. He had missed the train. 'Oh yes, that's just great,' Ron thought to himself. 'Keep the number one rising star in the television industry waiting.' Not being the sort of guy to start weeping over upended dairy products, Ron Peck, top advertising agent, was already spinning on his heel. He burst out of the train station like a man on a mission, because he was--he had to get to a land-line phone to get a word in to "Skinny" Kenny McAdams, the star's personal assistant, get the meeting rescheduled. With fresh ideas bursting in his head Ron stepped off the curb and into the path of a speeding beer truck. He died instantly, not knowing what hit him.

A small crowd of gawkers had gathered around the still-cooling body. The paramedics had nothing to do but stand around and pass a cigarette hand to hand. A hard-faced state trooper had already taken statements, and was sitting sullenly in his car, waiting for orders. Mary pulled away from the fringe of the crowd. She had been through far too much today--her lawyer had called to tell her that not only was her divorce case going badly but their vacation together in the Galapagos Islands had to be put on hold, as his wife was coming home unexpectedly from the Brixton All-Women's Bridge Tourney. Mary walked a fair distance away from the scene and hailed a taxi, eager to be away.

"Fourth and Main," she mumbled to the cabby, a slender black man with a tumble of oily black dreadlocks hanging out of a huge red rubberband. "Twenty bucks more if you get me there in fifteen minutes." The driver nodded amiably to her, turned the radio to a Carribean-music station and wheeled the cab into traffic, eliciting honks of outrage from behind. The cab stank of old cigarettes and hair oil, but Mary took little notice of it. She was lost in her own past, mumbling to herself. Her thoughts came around as they often did in times of crisis to a young man, her one-time lover in high school, and their breakup. Her lips moved, softly uttering "Oh, Skinny Kenny," just as the cab was torn in half by the onrushing 11:15 freight train to Mannheim. The cabdriver was thrown clear of the car; his dream to outrun the train to the crossing still burning hot in his mind. And he did beat the train, if hairs were to be split--it was the back half of the cab that hadn't made it across, was still being shoved, screeching and rolling down the track, pushed by the relentless engine. Strangely enough, her last thoughts were of her and Kenny, and the life together she had thrown away. Mary knew she should have worn underwear that day; Kenny didn't like women going commando, and when he found out he coldly returned her class ring.

The cab driver, driven to a state of near-madness by the accident and his guilt in the slaying of that strange woman, could only utter the last words he heard from her, over and over, a mantra driving him on, making his shaking legs propel him up the middle of the street, his left arm hanging nerveless, half of his dreadlocks torn from his head. "Skinny Kenny...Skinny Kenny...Skinny Kenny..." Blood spattered on the ground from numerous cuts, but he was like a man possessed. He knew he had to get to the bar, he had to find the fat man and tell him.
At The Buck Stops Here Tavern and Grill, twenty faces turned as one to to take in the apparition that loomed in the doorway--a young black man, clothing torn, covered in blood, his head lolling on his neck, a car's rear view mirror still miraculously grasped in his hand. A gasp ran around the room but it wasn't enough to stop everyone from hearing the words that hissed from the cab driver's mouth. "Skinny Kenny." As though those words were the only thing binding his soul to his body, the man collapsed to the ground, dead.

The fat man at the end of the bar knew something was wrong, bad wrong, when he heard his name from that dying ghoul's mouth--Ron needed him. He shoved and pressed his bulk out of the tavern and onto the street, trying to sprint his three-hundred pound bulk up the street toward his apartment, his phone, and the only thing that gave his life meaning anymore--his dog, Vienna, the star, his only hope. Pasty-face and gasping hotly, the fat man thrust his pudgy legs one in front of the other, up to his building's door, across the lobby, up the stairs, sweat darkening his shirt and pouring down his blotched face. As "Skinny" Kenny McAdams hauled his corpulent body to the top the stairs, the pain raced through his left arm like a shot of boiling heroin. Stumbling forward, he barely made it inside his apartment before he fell over and died. It was only when the paramedics rolled his corpse over that the true tragedy was revealed: Underneath lay the lifeless body of Vienna, the lovable star of the SouperPup dog food commercials.

Disjointed: My entry in the opening/closing sentence exersize

2006-05-04T11:12:00.000-07:00

Woke up in a strange room again and it took me awhile to realize it wasn't mine. These blackouts were beginning to become very frightning. No clue where I was. No clue what I had done. Waking up confused on an increasingly regular basis. This was no way to live.

I rose from the stranger's bed, anxious to discover where I was. The room was dark and smelled of old cigarette smoke. I fumbled around until I found the light switch. Let there be light. As my eyes adjusted to the harsh florescent lighting, I discovered that I was in a gorgeous apartment. Maybe I had gotten lucky. Fat chance of that. Wishful thinking.

I crossed the room so I could look out the window. What I saw there almost put my on my ass. New York City? How in the hell did I make it from sunny Florida to NYC? I guess it was possible since I didn't even know what day it was. This was starting to get a little scary. Scary enough that I needed to pee. If only I could find the bathroom.

Once found, I entered the bathroom. It was musty smelling. Something of a metallic quality to the smell. It was also filthy. Dark brown stains on the floor, on the wall, and even some on the ceiling. Might as well shower while I'm here. I opened the shower curtain to find a decaying human body, at least I figure it was human. Did I do this?

I ran out the door and down the stairs. Into the nightlife of NYC. How did I get here? Who was that person in the tub? Did I kill them or were they already dead when I got there? Why was I blacking out like that? What day was it? The last day I remember was November sixteenth. I asked someone the date. She said it was January twentieth. January fucking twentieth! Had I really lost two months of my life?

I must have walked for hours and hours. Somehow my walk brought me to Queens. I was hungry and tired. I didn't know when I had eaten last. I found the closest diner type place and sat at a table. After a couple minutes, a gorgeous waitress sauntered over to my table.

"Joseph, how have you been? Will you be having the usual?"

"Yeah, sure."

My heart was pounding in my chest. I knew this woman? How? Who was she? This was really beginning to freak me the fuck out. Hell, I didn't even know what my usual was. In my confusion I started to draw on a napkin. I didn't even look at what I was doing, I just drew.

She brought me my food. Three eggs sunny side up, a double order of bacon, sausage, hash browns and toast. In other words, heart attack on a plate. She sat down oppsite me and lit a cigarette.

"It's my break, hope you don't mind. You haven't been around in a couple weeks, I've been worried. I hope you didn't forget that we have a date next week. That new show on Broadway."

"Yeah sure. I remember. I don't remember which day though. How have you been?"

"I'm doing. Same old, same old. You know the routine."

"Yeah. Work and more work."

"Speaking of work, time for me to get back to it. See you next Tuesday hon."

She snuffed out her cigarette and disappeared into the kitchen. I finished my food and left a twenty on the table. I left the diner and walked back toward Manhatten. I had no clue at all how I got here. I just knew I wanted to get out. I didn't want that body coming back to haunt me. At least not in the sense that I'd be arrested and jailed. I figure I'll carry it with me forever.

I hit the train station and bought a ticket for sunny Florida. Home. I wanted to get home. I boarded the train and took my seat. Beside me was a nice older gentleman talking about grandchildren in South Carolina. I fell asleep. Sleep was nice. I dreamed of NYC and killing that poor girl. It was all so vivid. The way her head broke open like a ripe melon when I hit it with the telephone. The way she smelled before I even touched her. The way she begged for her life as I was bearing down on her, holding her still so I could see and smell the fear. I felt so alive in that moment. Somewhere in my dream I could hear the steady clack clacking of the train. At some point it stopped, but I kept on dreaming. Dreaming of Moya the waitress watching as I beat and cut her sister. My unconsious mind giving me the details I had forgotten. Closure.

I woke up in a strange room again and it took me awhile to realize it wasn't mine.

Started and finished between classes. Not my best work at all. However, I do like that I found a way to use the same sentence to start and finish the piece.

Can't seem to think of a title...

2006-05-03T14:37:00.000-07:00

...which is unusual for me. Let me know if you have any ideas. -- Nancy Dancehall

“See you later,” she said, but what I heard was the damning finality of “goodbye.”

She’d been the only sober one at the party, and yet she was the center of it. I couldn’t stop watching her move her hands while she talked, bracelets jangling up and down her arms. Her bare feet never stayed still, but danced under the long translucent skirt. She laughed at everything. I thought at first it was an act, but it was genuine. Everything and everyone truly delighted her. I’d never seen such a woman.

She approached me. Later she said it was because I looked like I wasn’t having any fun, and she wanted to change that.
Aurora.

The first time we made love and I approached climax, she pushed my face away from her neck.
“I want to hear you the way the room does,” she gasped.

The first thing that bothered me after she moved in was the number of times her vast and intrusive family called. Aurora was always on the phone solving one crisis after another, all with that laugh, those dancing hands. How could someone be perpetually happy, especially in the face of everyone else’s troubles?
I asked her one day.
“How can I not be happy?” she shrugged. “Life is good. You need to remember that!” She kissed me on the nose before sweeping off to one class or another. “See you later!”
Never goodbye. That word wasn’t in Aurora’s vocabulary.

My friends were jealous.
“She takes up great handfuls of life and flings it into the air,” one of them said.
She’s dangerous, because not only can you fall in love with her, you can really like her.” “Aurora’s perfect,” said another.
I’d thought so too once, before I lived with her. With that perpetual cheeriness.

She worried about her mother’s lupus, I know, but it never showed. Aurora propped up everyone else. One day her mom called and I answered. Aurora was in the other room, but her mom wanted to talk to me first.
“I can tell Aurora needs support now.”
“She’s fine,” I answered.
“I know. She’s always fine. But trust me, Aurora doesn’t know how to ask for support. She keeps giving. Sometimes you have to just give it back.”
“I support her.”
“Of course you do.”
“You don’t have to tell me about supporting her,” I said.
“Of course not. Is she there?”
“No. I’ll tell her you called.”
“Who was that?” Aurora asked, coming into the room. She was smiling, completely guileless, innocent. Happy.
“That was your father. Your mom just…died.”
The light went out of her eyes while her smile froze. A little noise came from her, and I watched her expression collapse into grief, like a bridge under too much weight. She sank to the floor, sobbing.
I stood watching her. The words had come out of my mouth before I thought about them. I wished I’d just backhanded her instead.
The phone rang again. She leapt up before I could stop her.
“Jeeeennnnnny,” she cried into the receiver. “Mom…Mom’s gone…”
I took a deep breath.
“Mike just said dad called and told him…” she turned her face to me. “What do you mean…?”
Her face changed. Her tears stopped.
“Mike’s got a weird sense of humor,” she told her sister. “I’ll call you back.”
“I…I’m sorry,” I said. “I…I…I don’t know why I—”
“You. Cunt.”
I didn’t know that was in her vocabulary.

She left everything behind. Thought it was tainted, I guess. Unimportant.

I’ve kept it all; books, clothes, shoes, makeup. She traveled light. Everything fits into twelve cardboard boxes.

Four and a half years later, I saw her on the street. I couldn’t help but stare. She seemed perfect, absolutely perfect, sipping on her iced tea in the neighborhood café.

A submission via e-mail

2006-05-03T05:46:00.000-07:00

I received an impressive piece from blogger Irrelephant in response to the headline exercise. Don't be shy readers and lurkers. Make sure you let your comments all hang out now. ;-)
Paul, I'm leaving your notes off for now, I think it's more fun to read the story on its own without your explanation. I'll post my thoughts later after I let this settle, but you are quite the master of the metaphor!

Oh and if you haven't seen it yet, be sure to check out Daniel's story below.
*^*^*^*^*^

Reed's Chance to Let It All Hang Out

Reed's hand stole around his back like a thief, slipped gently around the hidden blade, fingers crept around the worn leather-wrapped handle and squeezed, squeezed as a lover does his mate's hand. His footsteps echoed dully around the alley as the sun cast it's yellow rectangle at the mouth of the alley. Occasionally an errant shaft of light would slip through broken windows as he walked, but this far down they seemed to lose their enthusiasm, so that by the time they reached the garbage cans and empty boxes and trash they sulked, hid, were ashamed of their brightness and strove to hide it. He walked on, barely noticing the shafts of light, his pace regular, relaxed. He strolled, at his ease, his long legs shortening the distance easily, his hand tucked casually into his jean's waistband, a dark-haired youth out for a lazy afternoon's walk.

The end of the alley loomed in front of him, a tall canyon formed by a pair of looming buildings. They both stood empty, their exposed flanks dark and wet like horses that had been run too long, too far, their every surface spattered with mud, garbage, and the flickering green bodies of flies. The way out, the light at the end of Reed's tunnel was bright, filled with light and energy and motion, vastly unlike the dark, barely quiescent alley; the street was a golden spaniel leaping in the sun, a ribald counterpoint to the alley's bare-ribbed piebald mongrel sleeping the heat of the day away.

The length and height of the alley magnified the noises of the cars moving up and down Main St., the shush of their tires a constant background counterpoint to the flashes of colour they revealed. They dazzled his eyes, each colour as sharp as a shard of broken glass, strobing their steely glare in his eyes as each candy-losenge shape darted by the thin opening; flicker flashes in his eyes, instants caught forever in his mind: a child nursing at a red sippy-cup, a bored teenage girl resting her head against the glass window, an elderly man in a suit purposely hunched over the wheel, headed to some vitally important encounter. One after the other, a solid wall of profusion, noise, colour, chrome and glass. Movement, aimless purpose, engine noises rattling broken glass like monkeys at their cage bars.

His old canvas All Stars were quiet on the rough concrete of the pavement, each footfall swallowed up into the cathedral-heights, buried by the echoes from the street. He didn't even pause as he walked through stagnant water, old newspapers, small white morsels of pigeon filth; his step was unhurried but purposeful--he knew where he was going. He was headed to the end of the alley, there to be framed between the looming buildings, their broken glass windows watched like eyesockets in soot-greyed skulls, the rustle of pigeon wings their only reponse to his presence. And it was there for him when he arrived, framed in light, the goal so long sought, the sun making of him a young god, striking highlights off his dark hair, off his bright blue eyes. Now he would have his chance, and no one, not a soul who saw him in that triumphal moment would ever forget him. All eyes turned toward him in that frozen instant.

Tires squealed regret on the pavement as he raised the blade.

Walking Bare

2006-05-02T23:26:00.000-07:00

Woke up in a strange room again and it took me a while to remember it wasn't mine. Not that in my life I have often woken up in strange rooms to make the occurrence common place, but as of late it had been happening all too frequently. Just another night spent in a stranger's bed. Just another day drifting from town to town following the Lewis and Clark trail. I had set out on this journey with a grand plan in mind to retrace the steps of great explorers as they sought a route West to appease their president. But now I had lost my way. Cast my lot down the path of Sodom and Gomorrah.

Let me explain.

It started out as a friendly conversation in a bar at the end of a long hike. The advantage I had over Lewis and Clark is that there were always bars at the end of my day.

She was taller than me. Dark hair. Ivory skin set off by ocean blue eyes. She got me talking about myself. She got me thinking about me and her and what we might do later. Never dawned on me that she would want something for our evening. I was too naive to figure that out. I was shocked that she would accept money for the deed. But that soon gave way to titillation at the thought of that body and that skin and those eyes . . . for a night.

Money was not a problem. Since I sold my business, I had been looking for new challenges. That is why I took up this walk and took a break from the family. And then took a wrong turn.

She was the first, but not the last. Every new town I stopped in, I looked up the locals. It was easy with wireless connection and a laptop to find beauty. It became intoxication. A natural high. I justified it to myself in that my wild oats had to be sown sometime and now was that time. No one would know.

And now I find myself traveling in an odyssey, tempted in every town. Waking when it suited me. But this morning something was different. Something pervaded my sleep.

I rolled out of bed. She had left sometime in the night - so it was not her. Naked I walked over to the window. There struggling beyond the pane was a black-capped chickadee. Its claw had become trapped in the metal runner upon which the sliding window glided open. I reached to open the window to set the bird free, but I stopped. It was tattered and worn. And it dawned on me at that moment that it would soon draw its last breath. I just stood there hand frozen to the clasp as it rhythmically, almost in a coital cadence, rattled against the window. The tapping on the window grew louder, then stopped altogether.

G's last line story

2006-04-30T21:20:00.000-07:00

It needs a title, and I am open to suggestions. It's 500 words exactly, and I hope to maybe send it to another contest at Gather. I italicized the sentence I used.

*^*^*^*^

He scraped the top of the formica with a razor blade. She sat across from him, trying not to be excited. The laminate was colored with swirls of grey and blue, and if you looked hard enough, embedded with tiny gold sparkles. When he was younger he would get so absorbed looking for them his mother, in a grey housecoat and no sparkles, would continually nag him to eat his dinner. His imagination mining for wishes such gold could bring.

"Penny for your thoughts Charlie."

Her hair was the color of corn; she wore it down today. It was a special day. She leaned forward, smiling at him with bright, pink cheeks. Her arms stretched out across the table, hands clasped, potential energy leaking from her fingertips. He reached out to swipe some.

"For you," he said, "I might have to charge a quarter."

She laughed, and he was glad.

"I can afford it, you know."
"I know. This is an amazing opportunity for you."
"The chance of a lifetime," she added for fun, quoting his favorite movie. She was trying so hard to make this be normal. Normal would be her hair in a ponytail. Normal would be a pullover instead of that silk blouse she was wearing with two buttons opened. Normal would be a grey housecoat, not a pink trench and pumps that matched an overstuffed pocketbook.

The corner of the blade caught an edge, and he began to twist and dig at the groove undoubtedly left by someone carelessly cutting their peanut butter sandwich without a board under it. A perfectly manicured pink finger appeared pushing a coin.

"What gives Charles?"

What gives? Santa gives. Levies give. Lovers give. Mothers give---
Up.

"I was just thinking I've never seen you look so pretty."
"That's very sweet, thank you." The silence that followed was full, expanding by the second. It threatened to envelop him.

"You know, I did ask you to come to this thing with me."
"I know you did. I have no desire to attend some soiree full of suits and benefactors." What would he do? Talk about ground wires and voltage? Rave about the horsepower in the new Mustang GT? Bitch about how transit fares are going up again to the CEO?

She sighed. "Would you rather I not go?"
"Of course not," he told her. The chance of a lifetime. Up the ladder of success. A chance to be someone better.

A kiss on his cheek. Her trench coat smelled like moth balls, her breath like mint. "I'll see you soon baby," she whispered. "I just have to go fix some things, make them better."

The manicured finger stroked the back of his hand, leaving a burning trail.

"What are you doing with the razor Charlie?"
"I'm digging for gold."

She sat there a minute or two, then stood and walked around the table.

She kissed his cheek.

"See you later," she said, but what I heard was the damning finality of "goodbye".

Exercise Two: First and Last.

2006-04-25T16:41:00.000-07:00

This is an easy one. Below is what we accumulated as potential first and/or last lines of a story. If anyone has other ideas please continue to submit them as a reply to this post. There are no hard and fast rules; if the line reads like a last line, use it that way and vice versa. Word count should be no more than 500 words. Let's say, next Thursday for your results. (I will actually attempt to post something this time, instead of being lame and not finishing mine. LOL)

Bonus if you use two; one at the beginning and one at the end. :)

(Hooligan, I will sure to get to giving your post a read through and make comments.)

1. Woke up in a strange room again and it took me a while to remember it wasn't mine.

2. The tapping on the window grew louder, then stopped altogether.

3. It started out like any other day. The dreary dirt of the cobblestone caked to his shoes and the black coal colored coat hung over his thin and bony shoulders. He had his pick in hand and was racing to the lorry, wouldn't do to be late yet again.

4. Matilde closed her eyes. Yes, it was an end.

5. "See you later," she said, but what I heard was the damning finality of "goodbye".

6. "Damn.", he said, and died.

7. "Mary knew she should have worn underwear that day."

8. "What a moment to realize your parents really weren't your parents."

9. "He could not help but stare. She seemed perfect, absolutely perfect, sipping on her iced tea in the neighborhood café. Her hair, a tuft of which was expertly tucked behind her right ear, was perfect. Everything about her looked like an Italian painter had created her image for that moment, including the early evening light, highlighting her beauty.

10. "He looked at his watch. 6:30. With disgust, he exhaled audibly. He had missed the train."

11. As "Skinny" Kenny McAdams hauled his corpulent body to the top the stairs, the pain raced through his left arm like a shot of boiling heroin. Stumbling forward, he barely made it inside his apartment before he fell over and died. It was only when the paramedics rolled his corpse over that the true tragedy was revealed: Underneath lay the lifeless body of Vienna, the lovable star of the SouperPup dog food commercials.

Simon

2006-04-24T07:45:00.003-07:00

Lost. He was lost. How in the hell did this happen? He was the great Simon. He never got lost. Years of training saw to that. Yet here he was. Lost. No map. No GPS. Just a compass and good Army training. That's all he'd ever needed in the past.

Off in the distance a twig snapped. Simon stopped, kneeled down close to the ground, and waited. He took in the sounds of the forrest. He could hear the squirrells scurrying about overhead. He could hear birds fluttering about overhead. He even thought he could hear a nest of baby birds. They sounded hungry to Simon. The smells were also there in full force. That's what he noticed first. The smell. What sort of man would go hunting for another man wearing cologne? It wasn't even good cologne. It was that awful Drakkar. It burned his nose.

He slowed his breathing to quiet himself. His right index finger fell instictually to the trigger of the gun in his hand. He was in the prone position. On his belly in the mud. Elbows dug in, steadying the weapon in his hands and supporting his weight. He had taken great care to make himself a ghillie suit. He had fasioned it from an old uniform, some burlap, camo netting and assorted bits of local vegetation.

Simon remembered sniper school as if it were only yesterday, instead of the seven years since he attended. The lessons learned there were ingrained into his very being. The words of the instructor were in his mind every time he put on a ghillie suit.

"The ghillie suit is your best friend. Your silhouette makes you a target. Without a ghillie suit you stick out like a sore thumb. Here you will learn to make a ghillie suit. You will learn that antenna and rifles are straight and nothing in nature is. You will learn that the human form is one of the most recognizable things in the world. You will learn to be silent. You will learn to be deadly. You will learn to be the baddest of the bad motherfuckers on the planet. You will learn that the only thing that can stop a sniper is G*d himself. And boys, even G*d doesn't fuck with snipers."

Entrenched in his little hilltop hiding spot, Simon waited. This was no big deal to him. Sniper school taught him how to wait. Sniper school taught him how to ration his food and water so that three days worth of food and water could last him twelve. Simon was a machine when he was in "sniper mode". He was attuned to his surroundings. He was capable of great patience. He was capable of staying in the prone position he was in currently for days at a time without moving an inch. This was like home to him. This was where he was comfortable.

Three meters to his left he saw the tell tale signs of an untrained human opponent. Granted the smell had preceded his foe by almost ten minutes. The mistaken step onto a dry, brittle branch had been five minutes before that and Simon knew then it was only a matter of time before this man would make himself visible. He didn't expect what he saw though.

This man was dressed in camoflage. BDU bottoms and top. A Marine cover on his head. Camo paint on all his exposed skin. The man must have thought that camo makeup was invisibility potion or some other sort of nonsense. He didn't stay low to the ground. He was upright and walking at a normal pace, with a normal stride. He wasn't taking any care into where or how his feet fell. He was like the proverbial bull in a china shop. Coming ahead and announcing to the world that he was here. No caution at all. Bullheaded and proud of it. And dead.

Pop. Pop. Pop. Simple as that. The one shot one kill thing was for the movies. Three rounds. Two to the chest and one to the head. The first shot usually did the trick. The other two were for "insurance".

Bright pink exploded against the man's chest. He let out a yelp and placed his hand to his chest. From out of the woods a whistle blew. Simon rose from his postion a mere five meters away. His opponent looked dumbfounded. Simon just smiled.

"Be glad they weren't bullets"

This is an excerpt from my soon to be self published novel. I'm in the editing process as we speak (or type as the case may be). Input most definitly welcome. Thanks for the invite!

Conservation

2006-04-18T11:58:00.000-07:00

The ranger navigated the Jeep slowly along the rutted path. He knew the way well, but at higher speeds the guiding illumination of the headlights was not a sufficient buffer against the unpredictability of the forest at night. Many of its inhabitants were nocturnal, and it was his duty to see that they were protected. He would not enjoy the irony if he were to cause one harm.

It was mating season, he could smell the volatile fumes thick in the air. He slowed the vehicle a bit more as he negotiated a series of turns around a toppled ancient tree. In the daylight, he knew, the trunk was blanketed with a vibrant coat of moss. But now, it loomed menacingly next to him, a shambling mound eerily lit by his passage. The ranger would need to be very vigilant tonight, for mating season meant poachers. There was a ravenous black market that hungered for the fertile denizens under his care. Unfortunately, poaching required very little effort when the prey were captured in the midst of their mating ritual. They were defenseless, except, that is, for the ranger.

The ranger continued his careful patrol through the darkness. Aware of the darker patterns around him, he compared his surroundings against his own mental record. Off to his left, he noticed a shadow that didn't belong. A vehicle had been left, partially obscured by the trees. A wry grin curled the ranger's lips.

He continued driving until he was out of earshot, then stopped and turned off the engine. Silently, he exited the Jeep and retraced his path back to the abandoned car. The smell was stronger here. He knew he didn't have much time. His hand brushed the sidearm holstered on his belt. He wouldn't need it, but its presence helped restore his focus. The ranger followed the scent, reassured as signs of the poacher's passage became glaringly apparent.

The ranger stopped. Yards in front of him, crouched behind a ragged bush, was the poacher. The poacher, his attention captivated by motion on the other side of the bush, held a length of rubber tubing. The hose ended in a five-gallon bucket next to him. The ranger's eyebrows knitted together, enraged by the site of the filthy tools. But he held his ground. While there were rules governing most everything in the state of New York, possession of a hose and bucket was not a crime.

A bubbling sound erupted from the dirt beyond the poacher, and the man lunged over the bush, hose thrust ahead. "Stop right there!" shouted the ranger, turning his now brilliant flashlight on the poacher. The man turned in mid-air, startled. He landed hard on his back, and scuttled backwards trying to escape the shadowed visage of his would-be captor. The rubber hose collapsed impotent to the ground. The ranger advanced calmly until the poacher backed himself up against a tree.

"You are under arrest for hunting a federally protected species," stated the ranger.

"What are you talking about, man?" protested the poacher. "I wasn't doing anything wrong!"

"Perhaps you didn't see the sign when you entered the park," the ranger began, "seeing as how you probably didn't come in through the front gate, but this is the Columbia County Wild Gasoline Preserve."

-----

Hello, my name is Paul. My story was inspired by a front-page headline in our local newspaper that ran last Wednesday. It read: "Want to preserve gasoline? Drive responsibly, experts say". I prefer strawberry preserves, myself...

2006-04-18T05:06:00.000-07:00

Lisa's Belated Contribution

2006-04-17T09:26:00.000-07:00

There was a news story last night about a 19 year-old man (boy) who had shot and killed two registered sex offenders, then when he was cornered by police, shot himself.  He was only in critical condition, so I look forward to hearing more of this.  As the reporter spoke, my mind churned: had either of those men abused him or someone he knew? Or was he just playing vigilante?  Ok, this probably gives away any direction I could take with the story, but here goes.

His heart beat like a thousand drums, echoing through his body and filling his ears.  His breath hung smokily in the air in front of him, threatening to settle on the pane of glass and give him away.  He was ready. It was time. But he couldn’t move just yet.  As the grey-haired, flannel shirted man sat heavily in his recliner, the boy stood up.  He crossed himself and squeezed his eyes tight briefly, one name going through his mind like a flood, now that he was moving.

Around the side of the house, up four steps, through the back door. He was careful to open it slowly and keep the handle turned until he had placed it back in its closed position.  His hands were sure and firm, his mind was blank and he walked as with blinders on: steadily forward, eyes on the prize.  Through the kitchen, down a narrow hall and—

There he was. The man. The monster, in the flesh.  He looked up from his TV dinner without surprise and met the young man’s gaze.

“Three years?  Do you think that was enough for what you did to my sister?”  His shaking voice rose as he spoke, so that by the last word he was almost shrieking, his fury threatening to overtake him.

A mirthless smile crawled across the man’s face.  He slowly licked his lips.

“That little slut was worth every minute behind bars.  Have you ever tasted a 12 year-old? Mmmm---“

The bullet ripped through his pursed lips and spread apart the bones of his face. Jeff saw this in slow motion, feeling his own heart soar at the moment the beast before him was ended.  He hadn’t thought about how precise it could be, this removal of life; he had pictured more shots, more twitching, more flailing.  This was better. It was clean.  And it was magical…for the first time since that day, the day she finally couldn’t take it anymore and risked her life by telling her secret, the hole that was rent in their world began to close up a little.

Jeff stuck the gun under the waistband of his jeans, his jacket hiding it completely, and slipped back out the way he came.  As he walked through the clammy night air, his breathing slowly returned to normal, and his thoughts cleared.  He had never been so proud of anything in his whole life. A lone tear crossed his cheek and he didn’t bother brushing it away—he just smiled broadly and sighed.  It was as he walked home from the former school principal’s house that an idea began to grow inside him.  The registry.  The one where he had found this vermin’s address.  Yes.  He remembered how long that list was, how many of those men where in the same category as this one—and that was just in his town.  He looked at his watch, and quickened his pace to a jog. If he worked fast, he could get through that list tonight, and be in Canada by noon.  They wouldn’t know who to suspect, with so many victims between all his prey.  He let out a short laugh and ran faster.

Night Swimming to the Mermaids’ Graveyard

2006-04-13T22:03:00.000-07:00

The headline from The World read, 'Mermaid Graveyard Found!'
I'd wanted to write a short story, but this came first.

Night Swimming to the Mermaids’ Graveyard

It’s all right tonight
to fight tides
in icy silence.
Guided by sandpipers;
a holy host of feathered flight.

Draw breath and dive
to find what I like;
coral, crisp icicles
climbing high toward
the forgotten sky.

And deeper, dolmens
guard the sleeping people.
Do they really die?

Are any left alive?

I rise to find
winding sheets of rain.
only horizons circle around
waves, like shrouds
covering sounds of cries
echoing deep inside
the ocean.

President Attacks Plumber After Last Minute Vegetable Inquest

2006-04-13T16:26:00.000-07:00

NB Headline generated by my mate's fantastic bit of frivolity. Just click here and then click refresh to see a new headline.

The Sun was going down on a tough day for Trent Corblackson, President of the United States Vegetable Counter-Insurgency Committee. Every day was a tough day for the USVCIC and today was a day so it was tough.

Mulling over this conundrum wrapped in a riddle deep fried in an enigma Trent had little time left for traffic and was shortly knocked down trying to cross a busy Main Street by a stern looking woman.

"Hey" Shouted Trent, from the floor. "If you're going to run me down at least have the Goddamn American decency to do it in a motor vehicle"

"Sorry" said the stern woman, sternly. "I was in such a hurry to get to the Vegetable Inquest that I clean forgot my car."

Quick as a flash Trent leapt to his feet. A Vegetable Inquest he pondered? Why wasn't I informed? There's no time to convene USVCIC now, I must make haste!

Trent believed in thinking with a lot of punctuation.

Commandeering a nearby bicycle by flashing his sprout shaped ID Trent pedalled like the wind towards the USVCIC HQ, where the inquest was surely being held.

With the tall tapered aparagus towers in sight Trent upped his speed to near weak child with a cold levels. He was all set to leap heroically from the saddle when a gush of water spun him around and left him flat on his back in the road for the second time in 5 minutes.

"Adshudisoijsdds?!" said Trent, soggily.

"Sorry bub, jus' adjustin' me hydrant" said a burly plumber, inserting his massive tool into the roadside dog toilet.

And with that, Trent went for him with a carrot.

Woman Finds Imperfect Mate At Outlet Mall

2006-04-13T14:06:00.000-07:00

Below is my first assignment. I had to find a headline and write something based on the title alone. Anyway, I looked on the Onion, and found this title to a news article: Woman Finds Imperfect Mate At Outlet Mall. I have not read the article, but I will write some based on the title alone. I can assure you, any similarity between the article and my tripe is coincidence.

She tapped her foot nervously on the ground, and turned her palm to her face, looking at the petite gold watch around her wrist. Where is he, she thought. Where is he?

It was 6:15 pm, and her ride was not here.

This is the third time in a month that her boyfriend forgot her. Once at a bar, once at a restaurant and now at an outlet mall. Clearly from her actions, he was telling her that other things were more important than her. Mental note: subtract five brownie points.

She looked around – where the hell was she anyway? Oh, and then she saw her sanctuary – the outlet mall. Everything was coming in clearly now. The mall.

After trying on shoes that were too expensive and uncomfortable, she decided to see what the store was next door. The only sign, on the door, was "Open." This did not reveal the nature of the store, or what was inside.

The windows were blackened, and the "Open" sign must have been purchased as an afterthought. What the hell, the thought to herself, if her boyfriend was going to be late, he was going to have to find her sweat ass.

Entering the store with a bit of trepidation, she saw that the walls were black, perhaps charcoal grey, and a short man with thick glasses stood at attention behind a podium. He was waiting for her, it seemed.

"Y--es. May I help you," the man said, spending much time enunciating the "Y" in "Yes" and emphasizing the word "I" as if he was the only one in the word who could help her.

Through the conversation that followed, the woman learned that this man with a thick, hard-to-place accent had just opened a mail-order-groom business. In an outlet mall, no less.

The woman's thoughts at first were of disbelief. She immediately scanned for cameras, first thinking "Candid Camera" and then thinking "Sting Operation."

"I know your zoom is ticking," the man continued.

"Pardon," the lady offered.

"I know your womb is ticking," she deciphered from the man's words, "What it is you would like, Miss."

There was some calmness to his voice, and she began to let her guard down.

"I don't know how to answer your question," she finally said. It was a true statement, but it did not reveal too much. She did not want to hope.

"I want an honest man," she started. All women want honest men. But she added, "Honest, but kind." She wanted him to tell her what he was thinking, but not if it involved sexual acts with Playboy playmates or that she really did look fat in a dress.

She continued with the description, telling this stranger her ideal man. All the while, the man wrote in his little notepad, as if a waitperson was taking a meal order. She continued and continued, and then the man looked a bit annoyed, and then stopped writing all together.

"Ma'am," he interrupted, "how much would you like to spend on your mate?"

She froze, and then thought – did she want to mortgage the house for a man? Did she want to go into debt for a custom-ordered honey?

By the end of the transaction, she left with a receipt for her mate, imperfect though he was. She did not want to leave empty-handed. He was two-thirds off, she thought to herself, and if she did not like him, she could always return him. After wiping him off, that is.

It wasn't a crime yet

2006-04-10T20:07:00.000-07:00

It wasn't a crime yet. No one had enacted a law against it. Not sure if anyone will. Not sure if anyone is really harmed by it. But that is the way of unintended consequences. You see I have a way of just reaching back and curing people. A real to goodness chiropractor. But a chiropractor that actually works. Yeah I know there are some out there who know how to touch one so, how to adjust, how to make good recommendations. And some that are really good at convincing you, giving you a placebo in place of a pain killer, tricking the mind into helping itself. That is actually a good thing. I once knew an ancient Japanese man who was many levels advanced into some form of Budo that it achieved mysticism in all those who knew him. He could stop you with a finger; cure a sprain with a touch. Yeah that is how powerful he made you believe. But I am not like that at all. I'm different.

It all began when young. Time seemed to go so slow. And sometimes I could stop it, even reverse it. The adults all laughed when I said time was slow, they told me to be patient, that you will get patience when you grow up. They didn't know what I meant. No one did. It is like that great thought experiment where the ball appears to be just bouncing up and down for the boy on the train, but for the boy on the station platform the ball arced up and down as the train passed. It was all in your perspective. Mine was that time didn't flow just one direction. It flowed in many directions. To me the ball bounced up and down and side to side and off the walls. I could make the ball do what I wanted it to.

The first time I realized I could slip into time was when I was walking to school and Jimmy McGovern would stop me and ask for my lunch money. Jimmy was older and at least a head taller. I'd give him my lunch money and then the world would blur and stop, grind to halt. Except for me. I could still move, still breath, still experience. And the experience I would have would be to take my lunch money back out of Jimmy McGovern's pocket and put it back in mine. It was easy. To this day I wonder what went through Jimmy's mind when he found his stash of money light my contribution everyday. Maybe nothing, Jimmy wasn't that bright.

So now as a grown man, time goes in many directions. You see my cures for patients are not so much cures as preventions. When someone comes into my office complaining of a sore wrist I follow them back in time from my office to when they first hurt their wrist, preventing the injury in the first place. Yeah, I know, then why would they be in my office to begin with if they had no injury? Good question, but time doesn't work like that, it has a way of pushing things on even if you don't know why. And somehow my patients remember the pain, not the injury, but the pain. And then they pay me for the cure, praising my skill as a chiropractor, and of course telling all their friends.

I could do all sorts of things with time. I prefer this. The money is good.

Week one

2006-04-07T05:35:00.000-07:00

Joyce Carol Oates in her essay, "The Nature of Short Fiction; or, the Nature of My Short Fiction," she admits to be "greatly interested in the newspapers and Ann Lander's columns and in True Confessions and in the anecdotes told under the guise of 'gossip'. Amazing revelations!" She said she has written a number of stories based on "the barest newspaper accounts" by re-dramatizing them.

For this week's exercise, collect some stories or headlines from tabloids, Weekly World News, (or since we are now so modern, perhaps a lead in from The Onion, or AP Odd News,) that seem to you to form---either partially or wholly, the basis for a story. Then, write a story based on one of them. (Where does it begin, end, who's POV is telling the story?) Be creative, and ideally the piece should be kept to under 750 words.

The objective is to 1) see and understand how and what triggers your imagination, and how when you dramatize a story, it becomes your story. 2) Increase your awareness of the stories that exist all around us. 3) practice how and where to enter a story, and where to leave off.

Post your stuff here by next Friday and we'll all have at them, including the viewing public! Pieces can then be polished if so desired and re-posted the next week.

Speaking of next week, please also see the post below to help form our next exercise.

Get busy time,
G.

First and last

2006-04-07T05:01:00.000-07:00

A fun exercise I was given once in workshop was for everyone in the group to come up with three examples of first lines, and last lines of a story. Then we passed our sheets of paper to the left, and we told to choose one of the ones we got for a short story. For example:

"The moment Jane came home and noticed her living room smelled like wet dog, she knew what was left of her already horrific day was not going to get any better."

"The new owners never did find out about the way Steve made his money."

Post your ideas here, and we will disperse them about or somehow randomly choose some next week. Be creative! The more outlandish the better to inspire creativity!