Okay, sorry, I was genuinely concerned because it seemed like everyone was following Timedog's short story, so I had no clue how things worked. Felt like I was getting looked over.
Also, how does the voting process work? Am I supposed to wait until Thurs-Sat?
Yeah, voting starts after the challenge closes. There are usually at least a few last minute entries, and we do ask anyone who wants to vote to read all the entries first.
If you check out our FAQ, all the previous challenges are linked to at the bottom. If you look through one of the more recent ones, you'll get a good idea how it all works.
As for Timedog's story--it was choose your own adventure, so people had to respond right then. Or else risk someone else getting to choose their own adventure, which would be intolerable. :O
Okay, sorry, I was genuinely concerned because it seemed like everyone was following Timedog's short story, so I had no clue how things worked. Felt like I was getting looked over.
Also, how does the voting process work? Am I supposed to wait until Thurs-Sat?
Yeah, several of the regulars, myself included, have a habit of posting their stories in the final few hours. So, voting usually doesn't start until Thursday,
Critiques, on the other hand, are accepted whenever.
Hi, I just wanted to let everyone know that I updated my entry originally posted last week. It's now just about 1800 words, features some significant edits and additions, and even boasts a link to YouTube.
I've still got nothing other than a couple ideas that haven't panned out and a few scraps, but I will have something. I just don't know what. :lol
And the family friend seems to be doing better. There's not been any swelling in the brain so far, but he's still in a drug induced coma. So, here's hoping.
I definitely want to contribute something to this. I've been writing alot of music lately and working on some short films, so this could really help keep the streak going. I'm just nervous, I don't know much about form I just like to write.
I dunno how I feel about my piece. Like I said before I think it's a bit of a paradox. I think that if you're not mormon you wont get the emotional impact of it. But then if you are it will most likely offend you. It's a no win situation. Either way I just got to edit and put the pieces together and I'll be done.
I've got something about half-written myself, but it feels a lot... simpler than my usual stuff. I'm just struggling with whether it's the *good* kind of simple or not. Lots of dialogue, but I've tried to dial the descriptions back a little bit. Prevent them from getting too wordy or prosaic.
Same here. :/ I've been struggling with this one. Especially since I'm doing a speech tomorrow at my Toastmasters club on the Running of the Bulls... all my story concepts ended up revolving around bulls or running or both. Argh.
Finally just ended up winging a story that needs some serious cleanup.
Are deadline-beating entries typical? I was hoping to start critiquing before I went to sleep, but I can probably only stay up another hour or so.
Yes, I could start with what's written, but I'd like to read all entries, write my critiques, and vote in one fell swoop. But if people need all the time to polish their entries, I obviously understand (as I've been tweaking my own story in the last couple of hours).
Are deadline-beating entries typical? I was hoping to start critiquing before I went to sleep, but I can probably only stay up another hour or so.
Yes, I could start with what's written, but I'd like to read all entries, write my critiques, and vote in one fell swoop. But if people need all the time to polish their entries, I obviously understand (as I've been tweaking my own story in the last couple of hours).
Yeah, I'm pretty sure they delay just so they can be the last ones in. I don't think you can surpass DnD's perfect timing with the last entry though. That one was right on the spot...
I was kidding about DumbnameD trying to be last on purpose, but I just went and checked and he was the last entry 7/9 times in the last 9 challenges. The two times he wasn't he got beat posting his story the same minute as the last person, and the other time he got beat by 3 minutes. HIGHLY SUSPICIOUS.
Yeah, I've somehow attached myself to these threads and become the annoying junior of the "group". Therefore, I say stupid stuff, act lame, and whatnot.
Yeah, I've somehow attached myself to these threads and become the annoying junior of the "group". Therefore, I say stupid stuff, act lame, and whatnot.
"There it is." Emma said to herself looking at the gray flash cutting through her wet red hair like a maggot eating through an apple. She mussed it vigorously with a towel as if she could erase the gray like chalk off a board. After a few seconds she stopped, sighed dejectedly, and brought her face close to the mirror carefully studying herself like a biologist with specimen.
"And here I am." She intoned. Emma had never been a woman that looked beautiful naturally. Years of practice with makeup taught her how overcome nature. Yet as she studied the crow's feet at the edges of her eyes, the laugh lines by her lips and the slight circles under her eyes she felt nostalgic for an imagined time when beauty came effortlessly to her.
She leaned away from the mirror looking at her body hidden beneath a towel tightly wound about her armpits. She looked around the room and listened for signs of life throughout the house, but heard nothing. There was a time that her showers were a time of solace, the only time she had to herself. Now she found herself alone nearly all the time. Her children were either on missions or in college, her husband was busy with work and his important calling for the stake. Ironically just a few years ago she would've given anything for peace and quiet, now she found the peace and quiet of her life increasingly unsettling. She tried to keep herself busy, certainly her calling as Relief Society President took a fair bit of time. But even on days that she filled her schedule to the brim she still felt alone.
She listened again for any noise but only heard the purr of the air conditioner. She lifted a hand and let the towel that hid her fall to the ground. Her first instinct was to go to her drawer for her garments and get covered. But she looked at herself in the mirror, taking in her body as if it were the first time she were seeing it in years, and, in essence, it was.
Her eyes traced outlines over her naked body, noting wrinkles, blemishes and imperfections. Her arms were flabby, her stomach scratched with faded stretch marks earned through her three pregnancies, and her breasts that were once perky sagged tiredly. She ran a finger in between her breasts tracing one and then the other lightly with the slightest touch of her fingertip. Sensation stirred within her.
"I'm not that old." She said to herself as she lowered her hands to the counter ashamed, "I'm only 45."
She forced a smile at her mirror-self, but it quickly slid off once she saw the gray in her hair again. She thought of other women her age, a lot of them were still out there dating, having fun, others were just settling down, while others making strides in their careers, others still were finding a rekindled romance with their husbands. But she was done, used and past her prime. Spent. She got married when she was twenty, actually a little later than most of her friends. She dropped out of college to start a family with her husband. It wasn't a big loss for her, she had mainly gone to college to find a husband, it was expected and not a sacrifice. The fiery passion between her and her husband burned out quickly and it was mainly a sense of duty that brought their second and third children to them. With that passion gone she had set all her energies on her children's upbringing. Pre-school, PTA, volunteering, she threw herself into it completely. But the kids were grown now, independent. She was alone with a few phone calls on weekends to keep her company.
She looked at the area between her legs. It had been a long time. It seemed unjust. She knew she was still vibrant, and alive. But that too would go to waste. She and her husband had a rocky relationship at best; one that she knew was mostly built on the fact that at one point they had a large amount of passion for each other. But he had never really loved her. Lusted after her? Certainly. Once. But loved? No. She knew that now. They were a partnership and nothing more. She had realized it a few months into the marriage but an eternal marriage is not something to walk away from. At times she wondered if she would've been better off just leaving back then. Her fingers began to trace the stretch marks on her belly as she chided herself for believing in lasting romantic love.
Her fingers stopped as she remembered she was wrong. The Leones were a part member family. The wife, Cindy, was a Mormon and Emma's age, her husband was not a Mormon, their three kids were unbaptized. When Emma became Relief Society President she decided to make Cindy and her family a project. She visited Cindy and her family every other week for months. At every visit it was evident that Cindy and her husband were very much in love even after years of marriage. Cindy and her husband were cordial and pleasant but they never made any progress towards him becoming a member. Finally after a few months Emma looked at Cindy after explaining the plan of salvation and said in her best missionary voice, "Isn't it wonderful? That God has this plan so that our families can continue in the afterlife? Don't you want your family to be an eternal family?"
Emma was certain that was the moment she would finally get Cindy's husband to convert but was surprised when it was Cindy that spoke up first. "My husband and I love each other." Cindy began, "And it is the most powerful thing in the world to me. It took me a long time to find it. But I love him as he is, just like he loves me as I am. If God would deny us our love in the after life simply because my husband didn't sit in the right building on Sundays, then God's more petty than I am, and not worthy of worship."
Emma was stunned. Cindy had more faith in the love between her and her husband than she did in her entire religion. She didn't need rituals, papers, temples, tithes, sacraments, counseling or anything, to Cindy her love was a palpable thing, more true to her than even God and she had found it outside of the church.
It wasn't fair. Emma had done everything she was supposed to. Went to a church college, kept herself "pure", solely dated return missionaries that were popular, athletic and good Mormons, had a short engagement, followed by a temple wedding and had kids right away. It was a fairytale Mormon story; everything was done as it should be. Yet she was the one sitting in the empty house with gray in her hair while Cindy had a love between herself and her husband that transcended even God.
She stepped away from the mirror and blinked back tears. The gray streak seemed larger. She was becoming an old woman and what did she have to show for it? Her husband had his work and his friends, her children had their love interests and eventual spouses, but there was no one to love her above all others, and that was the deepest of cuts. She walked to her drawer searching for a pair of garments to put on. She had had enough of her "alone time" it was time to do some service, or check up on some sister. She rummaged through the dresser as tears plunked into the drawer. Finally she found a pair of garments, grabbing them she threw herself onto her bed.
"I'm only 45." She said between sobs. "45."
She longed for someone to come and hold her, someone to comfort her, but all she had was an empty house. Finally she resigned herself again to the fact that she had chosen her path long ago and she would have to walk it alone and "endure to the end" as so many liked to say. Her future held an empty house and an empty marriage, not everyone could live like Cindy. Emma felt trapped, jailed in a house full of memories and silence, prisoner to a mind full of regrets, chained to a man who did not love her, doomed to watch her body lose its sensuousness unused like an uneaten fruit.
She sat up in bed one of her hands brushed up between her legs. A warmth like a hot drink on a cold day filled her. It had been months, and even then it was only a few minutes before her husband fulfilled his need and rolled off her. Her hand lingered a second and she quickly pulled away. That was not something Mormon women did, that was something people were sent to the bishop to for repentance. But her chest was still warm from the fleeting moment. She set down her garments and ran a finger around her breasts again.
"I'm only 45." she repeated to herself as her finger trailed from between her breasts down her stomach. Never in her life had she contemplated what she was about to do, it was dirty and sinful. She had heard of it from a few other sisters, a few on the fringes of the church her "projects". They discussed it in giggles at parties and gatherings. She looked down on them for lack of self control, but still her hand moved down. Down. Down. "Perhaps I can learn to live for myself." She thought as her hand brushed past her navel. A few errant stands of her gray hair fell across her face. "There is time. I'm only 45." Her fingers flitted down to their destination and she set herself free.
The pendulum swung back and forth, endlessly. Surrounded by its large bell cage, the endless monotony of the sound dulled the senses, drove normal people mad. Once insanity settled in, they became mindless drones, controlled by the tick-tock rhythm of the bell. Atop its high tower, guarded by droves of soldiers, the sound never stopped. All day and all night the people could never stop hearing the sound. If one could describe it in everyday terms, the ringing of that bell was akin to some sort of twisted church harmony, one that played the same notes over and over, forever.
The city that the bell tower was a centerpiece for was rather small, on the northern fringes of France. Most of the city spoke a mixture of English and French, creating some sort of bastard form of language that melded the two in strange, enigmatic ways. The people would frequently delve into French if they felt angry, but for any other emotion, English. The regulation of language seemed to be in tune with the bells, as seemingly everyone experienced the same emotions at once. If one person was angry, all were angry; likewise for the other emotions. Much of the city was terraced due to its positioning on a hillside, with three different layers that divvied the classes based on economical prowess, much like any other city of its nature.
For a few, though, respite could be found from the incessant noise. At the lowest layer of the city stood a temple, whose stone and granite construction blocked out the sound almost entirely. Inside the temple was a man, who usually went by the name Keran. He was a rugged man dressed in leather hauberk, gloves, boots, and pants. Slung across his back was a large hammer, which he used to forge weaponry as a blacksmith in his spare time. His face was a dense forest of mustache and beard, and his hair was long and unkempt. Not many fraternized with him, mostly due to his appearance. He had other names, but chose to disregard them over time. He sat cross-legged in a room immersed in candles. Each minute flicker cast thousands of shadows around the room that danced in a boisterous frenzy, battling each other for supremacy over the scarce space that wasn't illuminated by light. He sat there pondering, wondering if there was a way to stop the noise. The city seemed caught in a regimental structure with which it had no escape. He waited for a sign, every time that he meditated here. Some sort of gift from the gods that would let him save the small village from its perpetual hell.
A small moth somehow found its way inside his small meditation room. It flitted between candles, scared of the flame, but sickeningly drawn to it at the same time, a constant struggle between love and hate. Charring one of its wings upon a candle, it flew over to him, landing on his shoulder. The moth was a vapourer moth, common to the area, its given name a mystery to the man. The species, he knew, was unique in that the female was flightless, attached to its cocoon and subsequent eggs for the entirety of its brief lifetime. The contrast between the genders in the species amused him. The moth flitted its wings before taking flight again, drawn to another flickering candle. It burned a whole through its good wing, and as it tried to take flight again it simply fell, immolated in the candle's flames. If he was its size, he could hear its tiny shrieks. This moth tried to battle its primal urges, tried to fight back against the system it was chained to. Or maybe the moth was an idiot that thought a good idea was to throw itself into the flames. Maybe that's what I have to do.
Keran left the small temple, the quickness with which the door was forced ajar blowing out the candles in the room almost instantly. He closed his eyes as the ringing returned. Looking towards the tower up above, he could see the bell and all of its immensity. The bell was easily larger than most houses in the village, colored black and crimson. Each ring dictated life throughout the village. As he walked up the stairs leading to the second level of the city, where the merchants, artisans, and the market bazaar could be found, he watched and observed how each ringing of the bell would stop and start their life at every moment. He often wondered why it did not affect him, but he likened that to the fact that he could escape its sound within the confines of the temple.
Cinq francs, putain! A man yelled at a woman, who was dressed in prostitute's attire.
Baisses-toi! She yelled back. She was on her knees, apparently begging for more money.
The man slapped her across the face, blood welling from her nose. The bell rung at that instant, and his anger evaporated. He casually offered her fifteen more francs than she had apparently deserved. The whore went off on her way, walking past Keran and giving him an evil glare. She stopped soon, and half-turned to him.
Do you want to fuck? She asked.
No. I don't want to be where many, many other men have been before.
Merde d'tete! She responded, throwing a franc at Keran's head.
He turned to her, and as the bell resounded once more, she bowed to him.
Je suis desoleé, monsieur!
Keran turned his back to her, continuing his ascent upwards to the belltower.
The middle level of the city was awash with merchants and vendors all begging and bartering for people to accept their business. Their goods were of top-quality, of course, but only certain vendors received business at certain times, thanks again to the regime. People would move only at certain times, as if playing some sort of twisted game of 'Red Light, Green Light', only all the time. He could feel as he got closer to the belltower that its incessant sound was beginning to get to him. It began to fill his mind, blur his thoughts, make his muscles twitch. He fought it back as much as he could, trying to block it out with the raucous sounds of the bazaar. He waded through the crowd, shoving people around only to watch them resume their exact place once more. The stairwell up to the richest part of town, which in its middle held the belltower, was a fanciful, golden place that most undesirables, like most of the population of the town, could never fully behold. The town stretched far past the belltower, of course, but even the outer reaches were still under the monotonous spell.
The richer folk of the city, within ground zero of the tower, were the ones that were most controlled by its resonance. The people here fed off the static influx of business done by the lower reaches of the city. Sitting atop their four and five-story mansions, their lives were nothing more than restricted luxury Keran watched as a rich, older gentleman with a monocle constantly enter and leave his balcony, taking one long breath of the fresh air each time, subsequently returning to his wealthy, serf-manufactured chambers ad infinitum. This lower section of the upper-class level was one long avenue that branched off only once, the middle road leading to the rest of the village and the tower itself. He did not make it halfway down the street before a guard stepped out of an alley to stop him. The man was dressed in chainmail, and he was taller than Keran by a foot. The man wore a cap that was embroidered with a red cross. He had a small, hooked nose, and a bushy moustache. His beady, black eyes glowered at Keran.
State your business. The man said, his French accent heavy, making his English hard to understand.
J'ai aller a la clocher, j'ai les affaires là.
Keran's French had always been a bit rusty, he was not born in the area and therefore he picked up what he could as he went along, but he hoped that that would be enough to convince the guardsman.
The area is... euh... off-limits? The guardsman said, as if asking Keran if it was correct.
Another reverberation struck Keran's ear canals. This time he did not resist. Drawing his hammer from his back, he swung it upwards, catching the man in the jaw, shattering the lower half of his face, blood spurting everywhere. The guardsman was flung backwards, a crumpled heap of a man now forever disfigured. I can no longer waste time.
He shouldered the hammer once more, the blood from the guardsman dripping down his back and splattering the back part of his legs. He ran down the long avenue, turning left when it branched, and then turning left again as the belltower entrance was not far off. The belltower itself had a large garden in front of it, therefore two entrances were made, one to the tower itself, and an exterior one to its garden. The exterior door was locked. Keran unshouldered his hammer once more and broke the lock easily with one swing. Kicking open the doors, he jogged across the garden, three guardsmen standing in front of the tower. The sonorousness of the bell's sound began to pound through his brain, making it hard to focus.
Monsieu--- The guardsman who uttered the phrase had his face completely smashed in with a hammer swipe. Both guardsmen drew swords, but were not nearly quick enough. Keran swung the hammer into one guardsmen's chest, shattering ribs and sternum easily. Pulling the hammer back, he blocked a swordswipe, catching it on the shaft of the hammer. He moved to the right, twirling the hammer around him and slamming the flat of it into the man's face, shattering every single bone there. All three men fell over dead. Keran kicked the doors open and began to climb the tower's spiraling steps. With each level, the sound grew greater, his ears beginning to bleed heavily.
Reaching the top, the sound became absolutely unbearable. He stumbled forward, raising the hammer above his head, ready to bring it down on top of the bell and crack it. Just then, a man in priest robes stepped out from behind the bell.
Keran, this is a fight you will never win. Go ahead, keep walking. You'll do this again in a few days.
Bewildered, he continued to walk towards the bell. Raising the hammer, he swung it downward. Just before it connected, he lowered it, and walked out of the room.
JACK opened its fingers, and the upper half of the man dropped to the floor of the living room. JACKs optical mechanics whirred, and its goggle eyes locked onto the other half, legs sprawled and knees crooked, 10.458 feet away, in the kitchen.
Open TalOS.SmartConsole
Load File: Interrogation.ini
Writing
Save File: Interrogation.ini
Saving OK!
Iprint File: Interrogation.ini
No time for real editing, sadly! Even the title is sort of... last minute. But I'd feel bad if I didn't post what I had.
Sacred Ground - 1795 Words
"I always used to puke on these," said Walter, expelling a stream of smoke. The butt of his cigarette was the only light burning under the open night sky. He sat low in the old Tilt-A-Whirl cab, one leg slung over the side.
"Not me! I've got an iron constitution!" Jules exclaimed, tapping her stomach. She leaned forward in her seat, peering down into the abyss of the old ride's drive train. The lap bar had long since rusted off the ancient machine. "Can't say this was ever my favorite ride, but it was the only one Momma would ever ride, being afraid of heights and whatnot."
"Yeah, well. Ten seconds in and I'd be sprayin' chunks right over the edge." Walter arced his arm towards the side for effect. "Hated these fucking things. Kinda like revenge sittin' here like this now." He kicked the side of the cab hard enough to make a dent.
"Hey! Don't be rough!" Jules shouted. She shot him a look, which he returned with a defeated shrug. "You know, Walt, you could be sitting in some gen-u-ine antique barf right now!"
"Ohh fucking gross!" Walter leapt out of his seat, stumbling on the uneven platform and nearly dropping his cigarette in the process.
Jules giggled. "I was just teasing, you know!" She patted the seat next to her. "Why don't you come over here and keep your sister company for awhile?"
"Fine. But I'm standin'! God knows what vile shit you chose to sit in!" He hobbled over amd leaned on the outside of Jules' cab.
"You know, I'm glad we came out here tonight," she sighed.
"I guess it's kinda peaceful," Walt said, taking another drag, "Creepy. But peaceful. Like some kind of crazy carnival graveyard."
"I was talkin' to Momma before she passed, of course even when she moved out here, this place was a dump. Still open, I guess, but in its dyin' days. About six months later, they finally decided to close the place down."
"Put it out of its misery, huh?"
"Something like that, yeah. But she told me, and this was the strangest thing, that the day they were gonna come and shut the doors for good, a whole buncha people showed up."
"Really, now?" Walter feigned interest. The cigarette had burnt out and he was already fumbling in his jacket for another one.
"Yeah! All kinds of people from in town and the surrounding area. I guess they couldn't really support a thing like a theme park anymore, 'specially once tourism dried up. I mean, there're only so many times you can go before you get bored, right? Well, you know Momma, had to know what was goin' on. So she asked this one lady, who turned out to be the one who put this whole tribute together. She always had a keen eye for who was in charge."
"One of the old bat's few talents, I suppose."
"Oh shut up, Walt! She's gone now, ain't it time for you to stop bein' such a goddam rebel?"
"Well, she liked you."
"She cared for you, too, but you were so damn busy being a horse's ass the second your pubes grew in to notice! She even left the house here for us! Couldn't you be positive about her for once? See the silver linin' for all the dark clouds stuck over your head?"
"What the fuck ever, Jules." Walter spat on the ground.
She rolled her eyes in disgust. It wasn't worth her time to butt heads with her stubborn brother and she knew deep down how he truly felt. "Anyway, it wasn't a protest or nothin', just a bunch of locals come to honor the old park that had been such a big part of the community for so long. She never did see that lady again, though. Not even a name in the paper when they covered it."
"Yeah, well. Maybe it's a good thing they're finally going to pave it over. What an eyesore!"
"I thought you said it was peaceful?!"
"Yeah, at night. Daytime, it's a shithole!"
The property had sat relatively untouched for the past eight or nine years until a development company took interest in the lot and started tearing things out. As sad as she felt for it, she couldn't deny that the old park was a certifiable heap at this point.
"Hey, let's get outta here," said Walter. "I'm on my last cig and I'd like to hit the gas station 'fore they close."
He turned away from the cab and started walking towards the old, tattered midway. Jules decided it actually was getting pretty late and leapt down from her perch to follow. She kept her eyes to the ground so that she wouldn't trip over any lingering debris in the darkness.
Walter stopped at the corner of the buidling that marked the front end of the midway, head cocked to the side. The cigarette continued to smolder idly inbetween his fingers.
"Hey! What are you doing?" called Jules.
"Did you hear that?"
"Hear what? I didn't hear nothin'."
"It was like... a metal sound. Like someone messin' with a lock."
"Maybe the one up front? You don't think someone called the cops?"
"I don't think anyone knows we're out here, Jules. 'Sides, what're they gonna do to us anyway?"
Walter pressed himself up against the back of the building, shuffling over to the edge so he could peer around.
"Shh!" he said in a hushed tone, "Look."
There was a lone woman walking down the path. She was small, with long grey hair and clad in the attire of a forge worker. Dingy over-alls covered most of her skin and her eyes were hidden behind a thick pair of blast goggles. She had a large, black bag slung over her shoulder which caused her to stumble a little as she moved towards the other end of the midway.
An aura surrounded her, unseen but certainly felt. There was an intimate attachment between the woman and the grounds here.
"Hey!" Walt called.
"What are you doing?!" Jules yelled, surprised by his outburst.
He was up and running before she got all the words out of her mouth. This might've been the strangest thing she'd witnessed in her liftime, but whatever compelled Walt pulled her along, too.
The woman, however, paid no attention at all, simply continuing down the path towards some unfathomable goal. Just as soon as Walt caught up, she stopped, dropping the heavy sack to the ground. He quickly pulled back the hand he was about to lay on her shoulder. She looked up, and Jules couldn't help but follow her gaze.
The skeleton of an ancient beast laid before them, mostly in silhouette at this time of night. But parts of its twisted frame still glistened in the moonlight.
"The Silver Line," the woman started, "Ride it into the heavens. The very first steel rollercoaster on this side of the country."
Walt was both baffled and entranced. As she turned to face the pair his mouth opened to form words, but they shut as the woman lifted the goggles from her eyes.
"They're blue..." he whimpered.
"I know, Walt. For a moment, I thought so, too." The pain of mistaken identity stung in Jules' gut.
"I was born here, you know," the woman continued, ignoring their exchange, but nonetheless addressing them directly now. "My father worked at the park. The chief ride architect. And this... this was his pride," she said, motioning behind her. "He worked so hard on it. The height of technology at the time. Was supposed to bring people from all over the world. And it did, for a time. So much laughter, so much joy was had here! And unlike other rides constructed in the same era, The Silver Line caused not so much as one injury. It was... perfect."
Jules nodded. Her voice was soothing, convincing. The pain was gone, replaced with warmth and a sense of reverence.
"Even after my father's death, I spent nearly every day here. It was home. But people stopped showing up, and then it was closed for good. People gathered here to give the park its last respects, but few could understand what it really meant. I'm sure your mother told you about that."
Jules stifled a gasp. She wasn't nearly as surprised as she thought she should have been. Walt remained bewildered.
"But I couldn't expect them to, you know. I came to accept it, that few people had the connection with this place that I did. Honestly, I organized it for dad. I wanted his work to have a proper send off. It was supposed to outlast him, last forever."
The woman bent down to unzip the bag and, reaching in, produced a sledgehammer that looked far too big and heavy for her tiny frame. A new determination showed on her face.
"Demolition begins tomorrow, but it isn't theirs to deal with! These are our memories to reconcile! Our dreams to reclaim! And now that you're here, you two can help me."
She motioned to the bag, still laden with tools.
"Let's do it. Let's help out," Walter said, coming to realizations only slightly later than his big sister.
Jules bowed her head in agreement.
The three of them took to the lower beams of the steel giant, beating them over and over again until they began to buckle. The beast creaked and moaned and something creaked and moaned inside of them, too. Something was about to break and collapse within their hearts, but in doing so, release them from burden.
Jules drove one last time into the steel beams, knowing deep inside that this would be it. She tossed down the hammer and began to reel backwards, Walt following in suit. It bent and cracked and slid down out of its bracket. And then gravity took over. A mighty din filled the air as the remains of the coaster spilled in on themselves.
Such destruction was exhilirating, cathartic. Any sane person would have run as far from the collapsing structure as they possibly could, but Jules and Walter could do nothing but stand aside and watch.
It was only after the dust settled that they realized the woman was nowhere to be found. And somehow, that didn't matter.
"She is where she wanted to be," said Jules.
"Yeah," said Walter, smiling for the first time in years. He looked up at Jules, "We better jet before the cops show up, huh?" Sirens had already begun to blare in the distance.
He slung his arm around his sister's shoulder and they both walked away from the wreckage, free to move on with their lives.
Sera, the guardian angel, had debts. All kinds of debts. Electricity bill, credit card bill, phone bill. She was even indebted to humans, because she hadn't been Guardian Angeling any, which was her purpose in life. And even if she was, Guardian Angeling didn't pay very much.
She was in the living room trying to get things together, including searching for a new job, when the door rang. It was Yvonne, her best friend.
"Hi, darling," said Sera, and they hugged.
Sera led Yvonne into the lounge, and prepared tea and biscuits
"Oh, Yvonne. I'm so broke," she said, sitting at the table.
"Not poor enough to fill the biscuit tin, clearly," replied Yvonne.
"They're the cheap market brand," she said. "And they're not that bad too -- the sawdust taste goes if you dunk it long enough."
"Hmm, I could think of one thing that would give you a bit of extra money," said Yvonne.
"No!" said Sera. "I can't believe you would even suggest something like that, Yvonne."
"But Sera, it's not as if you use it." Yvonne was right -- Sera's halo was nothing more than an ornament. The dusty trinket sat on the mantelpiece, and a can of fly-killer stood in the middle.
"You have wings, Sera. You could just fly through the chimney of a bank and grab a note or two!"
"I couldn't fly through the vault though, could I?" Sera bit into the biscuit, made a face, and said. "Let's change the subject."
And they talked about things such as useless politicians, high street bargains, and current soap opera storylines. The subject of debts came up again, and Yvonne suggested that Sera sell things on ebay.
When Yvonne left, Sera decided to go into the loft and look for junk she could sell. She tucked her little wings into her gown, so she wouldn't get dusty, and got out the ladder. Look at me, I have wings, and I'm using the ladder, she thought. What a useless Guardian Angel.
Lofts were never straightforward. A trip to obtain an old TV cord usually ended up in a navel gazing session at the discovery of an old family photo. In Sera's case, behind an old amplifier she was considering for eBay, she found a box full of her grandfather's things. Her grandfather had Lived Through The War and had been a part of The Golden Arrows, a group of guardian angels who leaped onto the windows of aircrafts, scared the living life out of pilots and brought them down. That made Sera feel a bit inadequate. Then she found an interesting letter. It read,
Dear Phyllis,
Today, I brought down two Dornier Do 217s while thinking of you. There's a gold mine -- or silver mine -- rather, up here. In between the action, I've been cutting silver from the clouds and making a fortune! It sounds a bit dodgy, but I've replaced the silver with cloth so nothing bad happens. I've 'enclosed' some with this letter, and here's hoping that Greg, who I've sent as messenger, doesn't steal it, that greedy swine!
Toby
Silver in the sky? It sounded quite ridiculous to Sera, but she might as well check. She climbed down the ladder, and with a roll tinfoil tucked under her arm, she marched to her balcony and took off into the sky.
As she flew higher, the city below her shrank to little blocks of luminous Lego. Sera's stomach churned -- she had never flown so high before. This stemmed back to her youth, when she read the Icarus myth and the idea put her off. This was convenient for her parents, as it meant that they had to be careful with their parenting. After all, the offspring of a Guardian Angel doesn't merely run away, they fly away. This is why parents of the angel kind are careful, as a rebellious child could end up in Cambodia after an argument over brussel sprouts.
Clouds were, of course, clouds, and Sera had been flying through them for a while until she had realised that she was flying a tad too high. So she descended a bit. Silver lined the clouds in subtle strips. When she plucked at them, bits and pieces of cloud flew everywhere. She caught some cloud, which was like air, but... malleable. She rolled some into a ball and flicked it away like a piece of bogey, and came to the conclusion that someone who didn't have debts could have a lot of fun up here at the expense of cloud watchers. She filled her rucksack with silver and accidentally descended in the part of the city that was quite far from her home, and she took a night bus back. She thought of all the ways she could spend the silver, before realising that this wasn't the medieval times and that you couldn't simply dump a load of silver on the department store counter.
Not being able to contain her excitement, she invited Yvonne over the next day.
"I have a secret," said Sera. "Can I trust you? Can't tell anyone"
Yvonne leaned over to the side as if to look at Sera's wings. "Do you need to ask?"
"OK, remember our discussion last time? You were absolutely spot on, and I've used my wings to alleviate my debt."
Yvonne gasped.
"No, wait -- you haven't gone and -- Oh, Sera! What if they caught you on the security camera?!"
"Huh? I didn't steal anything, you soggy biscuit," said Sera. "I'm not a thief." She went into the shelf draws and pulled out a filled Wal-Mart bag.
"You robbed Wal-Mart!"
"No!"
Sera told her the story about clouds. Yvonne's face went in all different directions.
"Here, have some silver. I imagine that you'll be able to pay off the mortgage with that. And fit in a holiday." she grinned.
Yvonne, whose imagination was bad enough before her perception of reality was warped by discovering that Sera had wings, said, "You can't just steal silver from
clouds! Zeus will punish you!"
But she took the bag anyway, and stuffed it in her own handbag.
"So, do I just go to the bank and deposit this, or..." asked Yvonne.
****
Sera had a fantastic time saying "All of it!" when the various customer services people asked her how much of her debts she wanted to pay. Perfect, she had paid her debts, given the wings a much-needed work out, and bingo! had just found a way to fulfill her purpose on Earth, to be a guardian angel.
She decided to become a loan shark.
Except the shark bit, of course. Her idea was to sell the silver, and grant the public money to pay off their debts. She used one of the spare rooms as an office, and advertised in dodgy areas such as phone boxes. It didn't take long for the punters to come in.
To be eligible for some a grant, you had to bring in a bag full of tinfoil, clingfilm, bubblewrap, things like that. After the trade was initiated, she would fly up and cut more silver and replace it with the tinfoil. Saved her from trips to the supermarket and fiddling around with wholesalers.
Her first customer was a tired looking man who filled the house with the putrid smell of alcohol. He had issues with the mortgage. Sera looked deep into his eyes, smiled, and said, and handed over a wad of money that amounted to, about ten thousand pounds? Sera thought the man pathetically cute as he stared at the money in disbelief, his cracked lips trembling and bloodshot eyes watering. And there were a hundred more desperate people of his kind. A gambling man who wasted his money on lottery tickets (Sera gave him lecture on that one -- "You're more likely to see a pig fly than win the lottery" she said). A woman who had rented an entire entertainment centre from a catalogue. Students with student loan issues. She resolved their issues by throwing money at them.
She felt like a guardian angel.
And what's more, a contemporary guardian angel. dealing with today's issues such as depression and anxiety. Forget saving clumsy people from being run over by trucks -- that's what traffic lights were for. She bought a nice white dress to celebrate.
But happiness left as soon as it came. Days became shorter. It rained every day. People bickered on the streets. Trains were delayed for hours at a time, and thousands of people were sacked. Businesses closed. Homelessness increased. Marriages ended with bitter divorces. Musical legends died. And Sera's white dress became a sickly yellow one. Yvonne phoned and said that her bookcase had fallen over, knocking over the iron which fell on the TV which fell onto the cat, and that, combined with the rapidly increasing queues aggregating at Sera's free money business but she had no more silver to sell, that Sera had realised that things had gotten out of hand. She expected trumpets to blow at any minute.
**
The waiting room was boiling hot. I wonder if this how Icarus felt, thought Sera. The screen beeped, and her name appeared in LCD. She got up, pushed open the double doors, when she really felt like Icarus. Flames surrounded her. Yvonne, when confronted with open ovens, always said "I'd hate to be in there." Sera could confirm her fears when she got back.
The red man was stirring a pot.
She handed her halo to him. "I'd like it melted, please."
"In exchange?" he said.
She pointed to her wings.
And then suddenly, the halo was covered in flames. It became a squashed donut, then a pool of gold.
"I'd like it in thin strips, please," she said.
The demon gave her A Look.
"This isn't the butchers, you know."
She looked at the screaming souls being damned to eternal torture, and silently begged to differ. She reached behind her right shoulder and pulled off her right wing, then did the same with the left, and replaced them with black ones that the red man's assistant handed her. She thanked the red man, and went back to the surface, and from the surface she went into the sky. Sighing, she tore off the cheap material from each cloud that she had vandalised, and replaced it with the golden strips.
The night came and passed, and instead of bringing a grey morning, the sun shined like it didn't do for quite a while. Everything was restored to normal, and the sun shined again. Yvonne's cat survived.
Sera shut up shop, and soon her life was back to how it was before. Yvonne asked her what she was going to do next.
"Hmm, I'm not sure," Sera said, looking at the sky. "Maybe become a cheese connoisseur?"
Cheyenne awoke from an uncomfortable dream about a spider and found herself face-to-face with the real thing--on the wall above her head crawled an enormous black specimen.
She shrieked and flung herself off her bed. She couldn't help it, the thing was massive--practically a tarantula. But the spider shrank; as she scrabbled backwards on the floor, it became closer to daddy-long-legs sized. As she stared, it continued to shrink, through daddy-long-legs to normal spider to small spider to nothingness.
She stared, mouth open. She must have been dreaming. That was it. She simply hadn't fully awoken, and a dream image had chased her toward wakefulness. She shivered, and shook her head.
She suddenly realized she was sitting on her pillow. This was the third night in a row it had fallen off the bed--maybe that was why she kept having strange dreams. Or maybe it was just the fact that Marcus was off on a business trip. She wasn't used to sleeping alone any more.
She pushed herself to her feet, and made a vague motion toward the bed, but stopped herself. There was no way she'd get back to sleep now, with that much adrenaline pumping through her. And it was--she glanced at her alarm clock--2 AM. Wonderful.
Time to go on a walk.
Cheyenne tossed her robe on the bed, pulled on an old, faded pair of blue jeans and a comfy t-shirt, and laced up her sneakers. She headed out the front door.
And headed straight back inside to grab a jacket.
She shivered as she walked down Tortuga towards the main road, but she didn't mind. This was better than trying to get back to a fitful sleep.
It was a cold, bright night. A near-full moon hung in the sky, dappling the rooftops and sidewalks with bands of silver. The light from the streetlamps seemed almost pitiful by comparison, barely reaching halfway up the nearest driveways.
She reached the end of Tortuga and turned right onto Park, more out of habit than anything else. This was the way she usually went on her evening walks. It was nice to have a set route, so she could walk without thinking about it, and free her mind to think about other things.
Things like Marcus.
Cheyenne felt trapped. If she was being honest, she had felt trapped for a while now. Marcus was a good man. She really believed that. But he had such a need for being in control that it sometimes frightened her. He wasn't abusive--never that. But she had begun to realize over the past few months just how much control he had taken over her life. It had started oh-so-subtly. He'd slowly, one by one, driven away her close friends, so that the only people she saw now were his friends or their mutual friends. He'd even chased off her sister--well, no. She smiled ruefully. She'd done that all on her own, even if he'd helped.
She turned left at Arrow. The street here was darker, as oaks, pines, and redwoods shoved their way toward the sky. The flickering streetlamps couldn't quite make up for the diminished moonlight.
Marcus meant well. "Chey," he'd told her, talking about one of her friends. "That girl is no good. She's not a real friend. She only hangs around because you give her someone to complain to. But as soon as your back is turned, you think she doesn't do the same, complaining about you to her other friends? She's no good." Maybe he'd even been right. But he'd said similar things about and even to her other friends, until slowly, one at a time, they'd stopped calling, stopped visiting, stopped going out. It simply couldn't be true that all her friends had been no good. Could it?
She turned onto Wright, a looping side street. The trees cleared out here, and moonlight speckled the sidewalk once more.
Then there was the job question. She'd been itching to quit her job as a bookkeeper for months now--it was deadly dull, and her boss hated her. Well, maybe he didn't hate her, but he certainly liked her two co-workers a whole lot better. She always seemed to get the short end of the stick compared to those two. The atmosphere at work was stifling and poisonous, and had been nearly as long as she'd worked there. But Marcus refused to let her quit. "Chey," he'd said. "You can't quit that job. You just can't! Not in this economy. There's no prospect for anything better, and we need the money." He'd looked into her eyes, and seemed so serious and worried, that she'd told him right away she wouldn't quit. And every time she brought it up now, he made a face and told her that she'd promised she wouldn't do that. She shuddered at the thought of going back to work tomorrow.
Wright looped back to Arrow, and she turned right to head back home. The chilliness was starting to get to her feet, even though the rest of her felt perfectly warm. She flexed her toes, trying to warm them up.
She looked up at the silhouetted tree branches. It wasn't like she couldn't quit her job anyway. It wasn't like Marcus really could control her actions--he just always manipulated her, with half-said things and angry expressions and annoyed grunts. Until she gave in and just did what he wanted her to. Well, maybe she just had to be away from him for a little while. Long enough to collect her thoughts, gather up her resolve, and do something. "Cheyenne," her father had once told her. "I don't want to see you unhappy in your work. No daughter of mine is going to go through life hating what she does. Your grandpa always said, if you don't like where you're going, stop and go somewhere else." That had only been a few years before he died.
Of course, it was easy to say that you should just quit your job if you hated it, and a lot harder to actually do it. They did need the money, and she didn't have a lot of prospects. Marcus was right about that. Still--if she didn't quit now, would she ever?
She turned right onto Park. Clouds were drifting across the moon, dimming its light. It would be nice if it rained.
She stared at the clouds. Getting her friends back might be more difficult. But then, the lack of contact went both ways. It wasn't as if she'd actually tried very hard to get in touch with any of them recently. Maybe they'd be glad to hear from her. Maybe they were thinking about her right now, wondering if they dared call her. That cheered her up for a minute, even if it was silly--they would definitely be asleep at this time of night. And as for her sister--well, that was a different matter. Speaking to her sister again would mean swallowing her pride. A difficult prospect indeed. But, "blood is thicker than water," Mom had always said. Mom would have been horrified to see Cheyenne and her sister not speaking.
But maybe, just maybe, she could at least get back in touch with her friends. It would be prickly, awkward. But she could tell them the things she'd been thinking about. Tell them she was sorry.
She turned left onto Tortuga.
Marcus wouldn't be back for another two days. She had a sudden vision, a vision of a Marcus-free future. A future where she could leave her job if she wanted, could talk to her friends if she wanted. Where she didn't have to deal with endless emotional games. It was strangely exhilarating. Exhilarating and scary.
Cheyenne walked up the drive and through the front door. She'd forgotten to lock it again, but at least Marcus wasn't here to yell at her. Small favors. She slipped off her sneakers and started the kettle boiling for a pot of tea, then went back to her room to get back into her pajamas.
She was going to do it. This time she really was. She was going to quit her job. She was going to call her friends, and even--well no, not her sister. Not yet.
She was going to break up with Marcus.
Maybe by the time the morning rolled around, she'd have changed her mind. Maybe she'd chicken out in the clear light of day. But for now she was resolved. No more being trapped; no more being manipulated.
She looked over at the spot on the wall where the dream-spider had vanished, and smiled.
The walls sighed and the doors were indifferent as eight-year-old Delilah crept into the apartment. The movers had just finished a few hours earlier. The boxes were piled high like watchtowers ensuring any soul unfortunate enough to find herself in this place would never again know the world that had been left behind. This was her home from here on.
She found her way to her new room and frowned. It was so small that the dresser obstructed the door from opening all the way. The moonlight poured in from solitary window that was opposite the door. She peered outside and saw only a million more little windows not unlike her own. It was a poor comparison to the prismatic vistas of the old house.
Delilah's mother appeared in the doorway. "Hey. I was thinking pizza for dinner, okay?" She nodded with the little spirit she could manage. Her mother sighed. "What's the matter, sweetie?"
"I hate it here."
"I don't like it much either, but it's all we can afford right now. We've got to do the best with what we've got, even if it's not much. Besides, when school starts up next week I'm sure you'll make lots of new friends and then things won't seem so bad."
"But I don't want new friends! I want Lily and Caroline and all of my old friends!" There was little point in arguing. Her world had been broken and there was no tool that would fix it.
"Well, maybe they can come visit for a slumber party once we're all settled in, all right?" Delilah knew the likelihood of that happening were slim. It'd taken three hours to drive here. The ceiling laughed at her. It knew that none of her former friends would come. This was a land for lost souls. Only she could count themselves amongst their ranks.
The eight-year-old faked a smile which was enough to reassure her mother. "All right then. I'll go and see about getting us some pizza. Your books and your Nintendo should be in that box if you're looking for something to do for the rest of the night."
* * * * *
The moon had given up its watch for the night as Delilah lay in bed struggling to sleep. The sound of her mother's sobbing soaked into the air, haunting the little girl. She tried to ignore it, but it had dripped into her heart. She slid out of bed and made her way to her mother's room. The floors whined underneath her with every step.
The weeping stopped just before Delilah entered. "Mom?"
"What's the matter, honey?"
"You were crying."
"I know. I'm sorry. Did I wake you?"
"No, it's not that." The funeral was the first time Delilah had ever seen her mother cry. Now it seemed like she'd never stop. Destined to wail for her late husband for all eternity like some creature of old. "I miss Dad."
"Oh, Delilah," her mother pulled her in close and planted a kiss on her forehead. "I do, too. I miss him so much."
The apartment held its breath in respect of their privacy. Delilah could feel the tears trying to force their way out, but she fought them back. "Will it ever stop hurting?"
Her mother submerged herself into Delilah's eyes in search of a clue on how to fill such a huge question with what little answers she had. "It takes a very long time, but eventually things will be okay again. I promise." It was the first time her mother had ever lied to her.
Delilah soon made her way back to her room, ignoring the chatter that had erupted amongst the walls. They'd been listening even though they'd done a good job of pretending not to be.
As she lay down once more her mind drifted back tot he day of the funeral. It was a terrible ritual. Spending the last day with your loved one surrounded by strangers who considered themselves friends. Showmen. Impostors who pretended to grieve for a day and then went back to life as usual.
Delilah had refused to let herself cry in front of those people. Not like her mother, who'd bawled her eyes out during the entire ceremony. Delilah's tears were for her father, not them. She'd waited. Held back with all of herself until she could be alone with him and, then and only then, gave them to him.
Her bed, her old friend, whispered to her. Its words made her realize that she was the strong one. It was her mother that was fragile. The two of them had been discarded in this place, but that didn't mean they had to roll over and accept it. Not without a fight anyway. She'd learn the language of the stairs and the floorboards. The rhythm of the asphalt and lamp posts.
If this was to be her home then she would tame it.
==================================
I'm kind of kicking myself over this because I had this idea about 5 days ago and didn't actually sit down to write it until about 3 hours ago. Such a procrastinator, I am.
