hey_monkey
Banned
I'm two-thirds through my first rewrite and I want to rewrite again now from a different POV. Dammit, Cyan, you're testing me!
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NeoGAF Creative Writing Challenge #52 - "Tested"
- Thread starter Cyan
- Start date
- Status
Tim the Wiz
Banned
Family Bonding - (~1200 words)
There comes a time in all our lives when we howl in the dark. We go out and grasp the unknowable, but the answer is always sure to be mute. The dark cannot answer, because there is nothing there. It is what I believed growing into my youth. Nothing had answered after my parents died from wounds and burns caused by rampant fire and blast. Nothing had answered while I sat on my bed, a height removed from a nest of rats and cockroaches, inside the dormitory host to a town's orphans. It did not stop me. One night, years before I tasted a woman and scant weeks since I began craving the taste, I ran into the street, howling in the dark - the wolf inside me screaming its terror and rage - and waiting for reply.
There is nothing in the dark. This is what the children and adults in the orphanage believed. There is nothing great or generous about this world or beyond it, they said. I believed them.
But that night, the dark answered back, and, in the process, became the light. It came for me, because I sought it out. And it let me enter.
This is how I became who I am.
"Vasily!" The night of a thousand moons ago disappeared. "Vasily!"
I woke to the cawing of the inbred whore's son who happened to be my partner. The boy was, however, royalty. Or, to be frank, the dregs of royalty. Francisco was the nephew of a higher-up. Born into favor and indulgence, he stretched it to an incredible degree. He was tall and skinny, and always wearing a stupid grin, puffy eyes hidden behind sunglasses and clothes with designer tags. He was holding out the phone to me. Slowly and gingerly, I rose to sit up in bed.
"Stop lazing around," said Francisco. "The boss wants you."
"Alright, alright." I snatched the phone out of the boy's hands and pressed it to my ear. "Hello?"
"Is the boy still there?" the voice said at the other end of the line.
"Get out, Francisco." I said. "Confidential."
"What'd I tell ya?" The stupid grin came out again. "Call me Frankie." Frankie was addicted to Scorsese.
"Sure, Frankie." I rolled my eyes. "Now move it."
Frankie walked out of the room, casually checking his mobile phone for messages from one of the girls too stupid not to fall for his game.
"He's gone," I said.
"Good." The voice crackled over the land-line. "The job we talked about? It's on."
"Where?"
"The beach house." A pause. "We expect it to be done by the end of the day."
I thought it over again. "Are you sure?"
"Since when do you question me, Vasily?" the voice asked.
It was stupid, but I flinched. "Never, sir. I'm sorry." I swallowed. "It's just, this could cause problems, the ramifications -"
"Have already been considered." The voice smoothed out. "Good luck, little wolf." Click. The conversation was over.
"How the hell did I get stuck with a boring son of a bitch like you?"
My grip on the wheel grew tighter. It was almost a spasm. The trip to beach house would be difficult. Being stuck in a car with Frankie for more than ten minutes was always difficult.
I grunted. "Fate."
"Bullshit," Frankie said. "My uncle planned this out. He never tires of punishing me. It's not like I don't do things -"
"Hey, not in the car, idiot," I said. "Never talk in the car."
"See? Harping on about this and that. Always serious." Frankie sighed. "All of you guys from the old country are like that."
"If you'd been there, you would understand."
"Me in Russia? I would die of boredom," Frankie said.
"I take it Italy is a different story?"
"My mother is always trying to take me there, to her childhood home." Frankie grimaced. "But why would I want to go? Everything I need is right here in America."
"Adventure?" I suggested. "Women? Family?"
"Family?" Frankie laughed. "Everything I need is here. Life is good, man."
Sunlight was scarce when we arrived at the beach house. We got out of the car silently, Frankie and I, and stood on the gravel which marked the front driveway. The sound of lapping waves and the touch of a cool breeze sapped away some of the nervous energy rolling around my insides.
I snapped the silencer onto my pistol and twisted. "Let's go."
"Is anyone here?" Frankie said. He was beside me as we sneaked up to the front door. "Maybe we missed the target."
I shared a glance with him. "Maybe." I surprised both of us and patted him on the shoulder. "We check inside first. I'll cover you."
Frankie opened the door silently and slipped inside. I gave him a minute and went in after. Frankie stood in the middle of the lounge with a glass of whiskey in one hand and a remote for the wall-mounted plasma television in the other. He flicked it on and flopped backwards onto a beige couch. The opening scene of a Dexter episode played out on screen, the speakers blaring the eerie music. The irony.
"Where were you, coward?" Frankie said. "No-one's home. Pull up some couch and enjoy the show, you miserable bastard."
I walked up behind him and bent down so I could whisper to the back of his head, "I'm sorry".
Frankie turned himself around absentmindedly. "What?"
The bullet took him between the eyes. Blood sprayed into a fine mist which smelled revoltingly sweet.
"Frankie," I said to the crumpled body hugging the couch. "I'm sorry."
I remembered that night of many moons ago.
The dark answered my howling - which could have been near wailing - with a sharp call. "Is that a wolf I hear?"
A door opened and light bled out into my vision. The sudden glow was bright enough to startle me. But after the initial shock, I saw a man standing in the doorway.
"Come inside, wolf," he said.
I didn't linger. Anything was better than where I came from. I was inside a house with a warm, roaring fire and I smelled meat - real fucking meat. The man looked at me expectantly and I said the first thing which came to mind. "That smells fucking good."
He laughed. "It does, doesn't it?"
I looked around the place. In the far corner, I saw a woman naked for the first time. She was handling something white with a piece of metal. On a table nearby was a gun, like I had seen in comics. I looked back at the man. He looked hungry for some reason, staring at me that night.
"I know where you're from," he said.
"You do?"
"I came from there, too." I must have looked doubtful. "No, I really did. But then I joined a family."
"A family?" I said, barely believing.
"What is your name?" he asked.
"Vasily."
"Vasily." He smiled. "Welcome to my family."
There comes a time in all our lives when we howl in the dark. We go out and grasp the unknowable, but the answer is always sure to be mute. The dark cannot answer, because there is nothing there. It is what I believed growing into my youth. Nothing had answered after my parents died from wounds and burns caused by rampant fire and blast. Nothing had answered while I sat on my bed, a height removed from a nest of rats and cockroaches, inside the dormitory host to a town's orphans. It did not stop me. One night, years before I tasted a woman and scant weeks since I began craving the taste, I ran into the street, howling in the dark - the wolf inside me screaming its terror and rage - and waiting for reply.
There is nothing in the dark. This is what the children and adults in the orphanage believed. There is nothing great or generous about this world or beyond it, they said. I believed them.
But that night, the dark answered back, and, in the process, became the light. It came for me, because I sought it out. And it let me enter.
This is how I became who I am.
"Vasily!" The night of a thousand moons ago disappeared. "Vasily!"
I woke to the cawing of the inbred whore's son who happened to be my partner. The boy was, however, royalty. Or, to be frank, the dregs of royalty. Francisco was the nephew of a higher-up. Born into favor and indulgence, he stretched it to an incredible degree. He was tall and skinny, and always wearing a stupid grin, puffy eyes hidden behind sunglasses and clothes with designer tags. He was holding out the phone to me. Slowly and gingerly, I rose to sit up in bed.
"Stop lazing around," said Francisco. "The boss wants you."
"Alright, alright." I snatched the phone out of the boy's hands and pressed it to my ear. "Hello?"
"Is the boy still there?" the voice said at the other end of the line.
"Get out, Francisco." I said. "Confidential."
"What'd I tell ya?" The stupid grin came out again. "Call me Frankie." Frankie was addicted to Scorsese.
"Sure, Frankie." I rolled my eyes. "Now move it."
Frankie walked out of the room, casually checking his mobile phone for messages from one of the girls too stupid not to fall for his game.
"He's gone," I said.
"Good." The voice crackled over the land-line. "The job we talked about? It's on."
"Where?"
"The beach house." A pause. "We expect it to be done by the end of the day."
I thought it over again. "Are you sure?"
"Since when do you question me, Vasily?" the voice asked.
It was stupid, but I flinched. "Never, sir. I'm sorry." I swallowed. "It's just, this could cause problems, the ramifications -"
"Have already been considered." The voice smoothed out. "Good luck, little wolf." Click. The conversation was over.
"How the hell did I get stuck with a boring son of a bitch like you?"
My grip on the wheel grew tighter. It was almost a spasm. The trip to beach house would be difficult. Being stuck in a car with Frankie for more than ten minutes was always difficult.
I grunted. "Fate."
"Bullshit," Frankie said. "My uncle planned this out. He never tires of punishing me. It's not like I don't do things -"
"Hey, not in the car, idiot," I said. "Never talk in the car."
"See? Harping on about this and that. Always serious." Frankie sighed. "All of you guys from the old country are like that."
"If you'd been there, you would understand."
"Me in Russia? I would die of boredom," Frankie said.
"I take it Italy is a different story?"
"My mother is always trying to take me there, to her childhood home." Frankie grimaced. "But why would I want to go? Everything I need is right here in America."
"Adventure?" I suggested. "Women? Family?"
"Family?" Frankie laughed. "Everything I need is here. Life is good, man."
Sunlight was scarce when we arrived at the beach house. We got out of the car silently, Frankie and I, and stood on the gravel which marked the front driveway. The sound of lapping waves and the touch of a cool breeze sapped away some of the nervous energy rolling around my insides.
I snapped the silencer onto my pistol and twisted. "Let's go."
"Is anyone here?" Frankie said. He was beside me as we sneaked up to the front door. "Maybe we missed the target."
I shared a glance with him. "Maybe." I surprised both of us and patted him on the shoulder. "We check inside first. I'll cover you."
Frankie opened the door silently and slipped inside. I gave him a minute and went in after. Frankie stood in the middle of the lounge with a glass of whiskey in one hand and a remote for the wall-mounted plasma television in the other. He flicked it on and flopped backwards onto a beige couch. The opening scene of a Dexter episode played out on screen, the speakers blaring the eerie music. The irony.
"Where were you, coward?" Frankie said. "No-one's home. Pull up some couch and enjoy the show, you miserable bastard."
I walked up behind him and bent down so I could whisper to the back of his head, "I'm sorry".
Frankie turned himself around absentmindedly. "What?"
The bullet took him between the eyes. Blood sprayed into a fine mist which smelled revoltingly sweet.
"Frankie," I said to the crumpled body hugging the couch. "I'm sorry."
I remembered that night of many moons ago.
The dark answered my howling - which could have been near wailing - with a sharp call. "Is that a wolf I hear?"
A door opened and light bled out into my vision. The sudden glow was bright enough to startle me. But after the initial shock, I saw a man standing in the doorway.
"Come inside, wolf," he said.
I didn't linger. Anything was better than where I came from. I was inside a house with a warm, roaring fire and I smelled meat - real fucking meat. The man looked at me expectantly and I said the first thing which came to mind. "That smells fucking good."
He laughed. "It does, doesn't it?"
I looked around the place. In the far corner, I saw a woman naked for the first time. She was handling something white with a piece of metal. On a table nearby was a gun, like I had seen in comics. I looked back at the man. He looked hungry for some reason, staring at me that night.
"I know where you're from," he said.
"You do?"
"I came from there, too." I must have looked doubtful. "No, I really did. But then I joined a family."
"A family?" I said, barely believing.
"What is your name?" he asked.
"Vasily."
"Vasily." He smiled. "Welcome to my family."
Tim the Wiz
Banned
Complex opening paragraph and a largely introspective protagonist. I think I was close to X's style, but I had to write most of it in the last two hours because I've been studying for an exam most of this time - which happens to be occurring today of all days - so it became somewhat minimalistic. Oh well, back to the exam cramming grind.
Calm Ethereal
Word Count: 1,173
Merg stood motionless, his old body leand hard against his giant broadsword, which was now imbued distinctly with the chalky ochre rust of half a lifetime of disuse. His decrepit body felt heavier in the sand; each inhale was even more pained than it otherwise ought to be due to the accompanying grit of saline vapor. The air here was a sponge, and each night it further absorbed more of whatever youth and vigor Merg had left. It was approaching dawn, and the crabs and the gulls were freshly stirred and once again witnessing Mergs solemn ritual, whose frequency was as dependable as the rotation of the sun around the earth.
Usually, there were only two noises available to the beach before sun up. First was the calm, cyclic lapping of white-tipped emerald waves on fine grey sandthe sound of the sea. There was also a secondary sound, the one for which Mergs shabby, wooden joints stood motionless. From somewhere beyond the horizon originated a songmarvelous and intricate and deliciously sopranospun from lungs that seemingly never aged. The wind carried Her song to shore slowly and effortlessly on its creaky back, and off again and into the eons. Each note caused Mergs blade to vibrate sympathetically, relocating again in his bones, the transduction immersing his body in some forgotten ancient strength and wisdom.
At last, Merg muttered aloud as the first glint of sunlight peaked over the horizon, the words causing his white-tufted chest to quiver and send a great ball of phlegm hurtling towards the now shimmering, glassy earth. The gulls cawed in sharp reaction to the sound of this foreign tongue, for it was rare to hear Merg talk during his ritual. True warriors speak with their sword, Merg always thought. As it were, very few still living had memory of Mergs pure, unrestrained voice. His blade was twence folded iron and it was forged over a span of decades by the shitty little dwarves that lived in the Caves in the Southern Continent. The handle fit his hand perfectly by cause of wizard enchantmentit had never unwillingly lost his grip. A terrible, violent, walking beast of a man, Merg his former self was.
With the sun up, Merg gave a quick prayer to Poseidon, and plodded into the shallows of the quiet surf, accompanied by a self-made raft. His toes touched saline for the first time in decades, and possibly the last. Most men didnt dare take tread in the sea, and the more superstitious refused to even gaze in its direction. It was said that a long, long period past, in a realm far, far remote, the seas had been cursed by rune of sorcerer. None but he had the temperament to give attention long enough to hear Her voice. As Merg began his journey, the sky initiated an almost imperceptible gradation into darkness.
Despite his age and disease, the makeshift but sturdy oakwood oar Merg used to propel his makeshift but sturdy vessel looked almost an extension to his body. His arms were still thick and sinewy, marred proudly with scars that echoed the action of some abstract omnipresent battle whose climax had always yet to come. As the shoreline shrank almost into oblivion, Merg finally noticed the smoketone change overtaking the sky, which was quite unusual for this season. Evergrowing capillaries ominously nipped abeam to starboard, and whipping cream froth from the angry surf wet his garments.
Onward, Merg rowed, towards the voice, until the Continent sank forever behind him into the depths. The wind began to howl, distorting Her voice into something more apt for that day, a slightly cursed sound that stung the ears much like the mixture of salt and surf stung Mergs lungs and nostrils. The man had little time left, maybe not even a day; for months he felt his insides being supplanted by mush. Crimson vomit, fever-ridden sweat soaked nightsit was a battle he was not going to win. There was an urgency to this voyage. One last dance.
Just then a wave slammed hard into the front of the raft, sharply narrowing Mergs focus. In front of him another appeared and promptly disintegrated against bow, sending a stinging spray across his face, not unlike the arcs of enemy blood he at one time was accustomed to seeing, feeling, tasting. The memory of battle flashed once again into his mind, before being knocked ajar as another curl crashed into him, this one hard enough to knock the oar clean from his hands. An oar was of no use in this type of engagement.
A smile crept onto Mergs face and his eyes flashed red for a brief second. Shaking, cold, and wet, Mergs hand reached for his side and found hold of the hilt. His left arm held steadfast to the ropes the held the wooden parts of his vessel collective, and his right arm clutched his blade confidently. The brand acquired a green glow as it was unsheathed. The sea beneath him recoiled almost as if in reflex, and the waters surface turned into the chaos of a battlefield. Now, She screamedpursed her lips and erupted in a deafening death knell that reverberated to and from every direction all at once on a black ocean paired with a black sky.
The warrior screamed too, crying for bloodshed, and cutting a path for his raft through each ascending crest with his sword, which was the only source of light in a sea of darkness. With each terrible blow, a wave exploded as if impacted by gunpowder, sending surf dozens of feet into the air, and carving way for Mergs ship. In the bleak, black surroundings the spray was bloodhis mind finally at ease in the chaos.
The onslaught continued, neither side relenting for a moments breath. Wave after wave assaulted the raft, some taller than trees, only to be ripped apart by the powerful blade. Merg held on, and lashed out with a strength saved up for decades. Soon the darkness grew so black it threatened to overtake even the light from Mergs cursed sword. The swell was now large enough that Merg could barely see the crests in the everfleeting green light. The next one, which was fast approaching, seemed large enough that it must have had the volume of half an ocean, like some last ditch effort from the deep to keep him from finding Her. Merg closed his eyes tight, and thrust forward once more with whatever fury he had left in his old bones.
Mergs blow was so mighty that it destroyed not only the giant wave, but the wood comprising the raft was blown to smithereens from the force. He lost grip of his sword, relinquishing his legacy to the depths with a finality that for a brief moment alarmed him, but not for long. For the sea was now glass, and Merg was floating, at rest and eyes still closed, waiting once again for Her song to resume.
Word Count: 1,173
Merg stood motionless, his old body leand hard against his giant broadsword, which was now imbued distinctly with the chalky ochre rust of half a lifetime of disuse. His decrepit body felt heavier in the sand; each inhale was even more pained than it otherwise ought to be due to the accompanying grit of saline vapor. The air here was a sponge, and each night it further absorbed more of whatever youth and vigor Merg had left. It was approaching dawn, and the crabs and the gulls were freshly stirred and once again witnessing Mergs solemn ritual, whose frequency was as dependable as the rotation of the sun around the earth.
Usually, there were only two noises available to the beach before sun up. First was the calm, cyclic lapping of white-tipped emerald waves on fine grey sandthe sound of the sea. There was also a secondary sound, the one for which Mergs shabby, wooden joints stood motionless. From somewhere beyond the horizon originated a songmarvelous and intricate and deliciously sopranospun from lungs that seemingly never aged. The wind carried Her song to shore slowly and effortlessly on its creaky back, and off again and into the eons. Each note caused Mergs blade to vibrate sympathetically, relocating again in his bones, the transduction immersing his body in some forgotten ancient strength and wisdom.
At last, Merg muttered aloud as the first glint of sunlight peaked over the horizon, the words causing his white-tufted chest to quiver and send a great ball of phlegm hurtling towards the now shimmering, glassy earth. The gulls cawed in sharp reaction to the sound of this foreign tongue, for it was rare to hear Merg talk during his ritual. True warriors speak with their sword, Merg always thought. As it were, very few still living had memory of Mergs pure, unrestrained voice. His blade was twence folded iron and it was forged over a span of decades by the shitty little dwarves that lived in the Caves in the Southern Continent. The handle fit his hand perfectly by cause of wizard enchantmentit had never unwillingly lost his grip. A terrible, violent, walking beast of a man, Merg his former self was.
With the sun up, Merg gave a quick prayer to Poseidon, and plodded into the shallows of the quiet surf, accompanied by a self-made raft. His toes touched saline for the first time in decades, and possibly the last. Most men didnt dare take tread in the sea, and the more superstitious refused to even gaze in its direction. It was said that a long, long period past, in a realm far, far remote, the seas had been cursed by rune of sorcerer. None but he had the temperament to give attention long enough to hear Her voice. As Merg began his journey, the sky initiated an almost imperceptible gradation into darkness.
Despite his age and disease, the makeshift but sturdy oakwood oar Merg used to propel his makeshift but sturdy vessel looked almost an extension to his body. His arms were still thick and sinewy, marred proudly with scars that echoed the action of some abstract omnipresent battle whose climax had always yet to come. As the shoreline shrank almost into oblivion, Merg finally noticed the smoketone change overtaking the sky, which was quite unusual for this season. Evergrowing capillaries ominously nipped abeam to starboard, and whipping cream froth from the angry surf wet his garments.
Onward, Merg rowed, towards the voice, until the Continent sank forever behind him into the depths. The wind began to howl, distorting Her voice into something more apt for that day, a slightly cursed sound that stung the ears much like the mixture of salt and surf stung Mergs lungs and nostrils. The man had little time left, maybe not even a day; for months he felt his insides being supplanted by mush. Crimson vomit, fever-ridden sweat soaked nightsit was a battle he was not going to win. There was an urgency to this voyage. One last dance.
Just then a wave slammed hard into the front of the raft, sharply narrowing Mergs focus. In front of him another appeared and promptly disintegrated against bow, sending a stinging spray across his face, not unlike the arcs of enemy blood he at one time was accustomed to seeing, feeling, tasting. The memory of battle flashed once again into his mind, before being knocked ajar as another curl crashed into him, this one hard enough to knock the oar clean from his hands. An oar was of no use in this type of engagement.
A smile crept onto Mergs face and his eyes flashed red for a brief second. Shaking, cold, and wet, Mergs hand reached for his side and found hold of the hilt. His left arm held steadfast to the ropes the held the wooden parts of his vessel collective, and his right arm clutched his blade confidently. The brand acquired a green glow as it was unsheathed. The sea beneath him recoiled almost as if in reflex, and the waters surface turned into the chaos of a battlefield. Now, She screamedpursed her lips and erupted in a deafening death knell that reverberated to and from every direction all at once on a black ocean paired with a black sky.
The warrior screamed too, crying for bloodshed, and cutting a path for his raft through each ascending crest with his sword, which was the only source of light in a sea of darkness. With each terrible blow, a wave exploded as if impacted by gunpowder, sending surf dozens of feet into the air, and carving way for Mergs ship. In the bleak, black surroundings the spray was bloodhis mind finally at ease in the chaos.
The onslaught continued, neither side relenting for a moments breath. Wave after wave assaulted the raft, some taller than trees, only to be ripped apart by the powerful blade. Merg held on, and lashed out with a strength saved up for decades. Soon the darkness grew so black it threatened to overtake even the light from Mergs cursed sword. The swell was now large enough that Merg could barely see the crests in the everfleeting green light. The next one, which was fast approaching, seemed large enough that it must have had the volume of half an ocean, like some last ditch effort from the deep to keep him from finding Her. Merg closed his eyes tight, and thrust forward once more with whatever fury he had left in his old bones.
Mergs blow was so mighty that it destroyed not only the giant wave, but the wood comprising the raft was blown to smithereens from the force. He lost grip of his sword, relinquishing his legacy to the depths with a finality that for a brief moment alarmed him, but not for long. For the sea was now glass, and Merg was floating, at rest and eyes still closed, waiting once again for Her song to resume.
Cyan,
Can we at least get a list of who is participating in the secondary objective?
Anyhoo. Let's begin:
Alf: You started in a tavern? WTF? Try to be more efficient. For example you said the tavern owner had a mustache that traced his mouth then later in the same sentence you say it framed his mouth. No need for both. I don't see the need to begin where you began. It's like you had something planned and abandoned the idea but left the scene there. You didn't need to start it until the negotiations began at the earliest and I'd say probably even later than that. Some of the descriptions of the woman seem heavy handed. I was sorta left with a feeling of "that's it?" Let's see if you were mimicking someone I'd say Aaron is a good choice, but Crow's also a good guess.
HotFuzz: Really wonderful beginning. Told us exactly what we needed to know without a bunch of backlog. Though you do seem to lose a bit of your efficiency as the story went on. I really like the light tone you maintained through the whole thing, which is why the ending sorta came out of nowhere. This seems very Scribble-esque to me. Though it could be Cyan as well. He's had a few like this.
Can we at least get a list of who is participating in the secondary objective?
Anyhoo. Let's begin:
Alf: You started in a tavern? WTF? Try to be more efficient. For example you said the tavern owner had a mustache that traced his mouth then later in the same sentence you say it framed his mouth. No need for both. I don't see the need to begin where you began. It's like you had something planned and abandoned the idea but left the scene there. You didn't need to start it until the negotiations began at the earliest and I'd say probably even later than that. Some of the descriptions of the woman seem heavy handed. I was sorta left with a feeling of "that's it?" Let's see if you were mimicking someone I'd say Aaron is a good choice, but Crow's also a good guess.
HotFuzz: Really wonderful beginning. Told us exactly what we needed to know without a bunch of backlog. Though you do seem to lose a bit of your efficiency as the story went on. I really like the light tone you maintained through the whole thing, which is why the ending sorta came out of nowhere. This seems very Scribble-esque to me. Though it could be Cyan as well. He's had a few like this.
Sure thing. The folks that I know of who are participating:ronito said:
Cyan
hey_monkey
Tim the Wiz
Irish
ronito
Ashes1396
AnkitT
Timedog
Scribble (riiiiight?)
Dresden (banned, unclear if he'll submit or not)
If anyone else is doing the secondary but isn't on the list, let us know!
RevenantKioku
PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS oh god i am drowning in them
There's nothing wrong with some writing hemorrhoids. Feels good, man.Yeef said:
evilpigking
Member
Ugh...I'm not really liking my story which is always a bad sign. Oh well.
Ignis Fatuus (1950)
The air of the bar was hazy--not with smoke, but with the ghost of smoke; the memory of smoke. A phantom that seeped from the oak-lined walls and into the air, like that feeling you get in a room where someone died. You know there's nothing there, nothing that could be measured, but you can feel it anyway. You know it in your bones.
I scanned the room surreptitiously. I didn't match the clientele. A little too old, a little too unfashionable, maybe a little too out of practice at being single in a bar. I stood out, a cactus in the middle of a forest.
If this were an actual mission, I'd be in trouble. As it was, I'd probably lose marks for underpreparation. I shook my head. John Bradley, my mentor, was an old spook. One of those Cold War dinosaurs whod somehow survived the meteor strike that was the Berlin Wall coming down. Deep down, he still believed we were at war with the Russians; he always kept one eye open for the reds. And like many of his cretaceous contemporaries, he was leery of new-fangled, sissy training methods. Bradley put his faith in in-the-field exercises--hence, tonight's hands-on pop quiz.
My pocket buzzed in the pre-arranged pattern. I looked around behind me, and spotted the girl. Red minidress, sleek raven hair, and the kind of expert makeup work that made itself invisible. She was the sort of girl who immediately becomes the center of gravity of the room--the men, at full attention, were compass needles with her as magnetic north. The women pretended not to notice her, looking at their drinks, at their friends, at their nails, anywhere but at her; it was a silence that shouted. Everyone in the room subtly and subconsciously began to orient to her, to measure themselves in relation to her.
She sat at the end of the bar as the room shifted and fell into orbit around her.
So this was my target. Bradley could pick em. I looked down the bar from where I sat; at her, at the bartender who was as focused on her as all the other men were, pouring her out a beer. Without warning, she turned her head and caught my eye with a bright and penetrating gaze. Everything stopped. The background receded; the flapping gums, the gurgling of beers, the soft thwip thwip of darts hitting the dartboard, all faded to silence. There were only her blue eyes and red dress and the slight upward tilt to her lips.
She looked away. I tapped twice on the top button of my shirt, where the microphone was; a return signal to Bradley. I knew who the target was. Nothing for it now but to make my move.
One of the things you learn in my line of work is the importance of acting without hesitation. That's not to say you act without thought, or without planning; but when the moment is right, you act immediately and without pause, before the sands shift under your feet and the moment vanishes.
I left my perch, carrying my pint of stout, and drifted down the gravity well towards the girl. The eyes of the other patrons, watching/not watching, followed me. "Hi," I said, taking the stool next to hers. The bartender nodded at me, and moved on to make another drink.
She glanced at me, then back down at her beer. "Hi," she said. It was an unenthusiastic syllable, compressing irritation and boredom into a single, two letter word. Had I missed my moment? She took a sip of her drink.
"You don't fit the atmosphere here." She was too classy for this place, was what I meant. Maybe she liked being the center of it, liked the covert attention of the men and the jealous non-attention of the women.
"Yeah." Somehow the word took on the characteristics of a sigh. Another sip.
I'd missed the moment, or maybe imagined it, but I couldn't give up now. Bradley would chew me up and spit me out, then chew me up again. "Uh, you come here a lot?"
She finally looked at me. "Seriously? That's, like, the most tired line out there."
It was true, I was flailing. But at least I'd gotten her attention. "You an expert at lines, then?"
"Sure." Another sip. She was staring at her drink again.
"All right, let's hear your best pickup line."
"Uh." She goggled at me, clearly taken aback. Now I had her full attention. Her eyes flipped to high-beam.
"Come on, think fast. I'm the hottest guy ever and you want to pick me up. Best line, go!" I sat up straight, looked away from her.
"Uh." She gestured helplessly for a moment, then blurted, "your father must be a musician, because you've got--you've got--shit." I turned back toward her again, lips twitching. For a moment, we just looked at each other, then we both busted up laughing. "Ok, ok," she said, still laughing. "It's not so easy. Um. So, you come here a lot?"
We both laughed again, and she sipped her drink--something pink with an umbrella in it. "I'm not even local. Here on a business trip. Modeling conference." At her skeptical glance, I clarified. "I'm a sock model. You know those ads you see in catalogs, for men's socks? Yep, those are my ankles."
I should probably explain that I like to tell stories. I like the ebb and flow, the give and take, the play of emotions. I like the way you can make a story writhe and wriggle and chase around in zig-zags. I like how you can bend the truth so much it starts eating its own tail. It's sort of a game I play with myself, to see how much I can get somebody to believe before they figure out I'm making it all up. There's something wonderfully enticing about tall tales, a sort of adrenaline that overtakes you and leads you further and further on, deeper and deeper into the center of your own web. If you're good, your listener gets pulled right along with you, dragged in by the strands of your lies, entwined around and trapped. If youre not, well--you make a mistake, and the strands start pulling apart.
She laughed. "Sock model, huh? I'm so impressed." She didn't believe, but she was nibbling at the bait. I had to set the hook.
I smiled, a carefully measured thing. "Yeah, I get that a lot. Other models get all the glory. Some of us have good ankles, some of us have nice hands. But the pretty faces get the attention." I let my smile fade a bit, like a sky progressing towards sunset. "Causes tension at shoots, sometimes."
"I guess so." The hook had been set; her eyes still showed doubt, but it was being eclipsed by curiosity. She leaned in, touched my shoulder, and a shock like a splash of cold water, no, like a forest fire, hot and hungry and powerful, roared through my body. "You know any big-time models?"
I blinked away the shock, forced myself to breathe normally. "Big-timers? Me, a humble sock model? Ha!" I took a sip of stout, hand trembling slightly; she sipped at her pink drink. It was time to reel her in. "Nah, big-timers are like rock stars. Or famous actors. You ever see any of those model reality shows?" She nodded. "Big-timers are all like that. Fussy prima donnas, too good for the little people." I laughed; so did she. "I mean, I model socks. To them, I might as well be dirt."
"I never realized it was like that."
"Oh yeah." I sighed. "You get paid millions, you start thinking you're better than everybody."
"I guess so." Her eyes were large, now, the windows open and the curtains thrown wide. She believed. Point, me.
I shook my head, snapped out of story mode. I'd lost track of why I was there. You'd think that being a practiced liar would be useful in a field like mine, that the skill would suit my role. But my stories were a will-o'-the-wisp, often as not. Somebody once said that theres a truth at the heart of every story. Well, the truth at the heart of my lies was desire for control. Control of what other people thought of me and of themselves, of their emotions and reactions, of all the little strings that dangled from their heads, waiting to be tugged. I'd start telling a story, and forget my goals, forget the mission beyond the immediate satisfaction of successfully lying to someone, of yanking those strings inside them, taking control without their ever noticing.
"So," I said, trying to regroup, taking a sip of stout. "What do you do?" I looked away for the first time, back out at the other patrons. The room still rotated about a center, but now it was a binary system. I had made the girl smile, I had made her laugh, and so my own gravity well had deepened, had combined with hers. We're social animals, we humans. We're bees, buzzing around the hive in an intricate dance with all the other bees, knowing where we stand by seeing how everyone else stands and how all those standings bounce off one another and refract in every direction. We all have our own gravitational pulls, our own arcs and orbits, and we all get pulled and tugged around by each other, doing our own pulling and tugging in turn. It's what computer scientists call a hard problem; impossible to calculate, except on the most powerful computer ever made--real life. Powerful, but not infallible; that system is as manipulable as the people who comprise it.
She looked at me, and smiled as if at a private joke. "You already know what I do."
"Yeah?" I was feeling unaccountably vague. The room really was rotating now, physically spinning around me, trying to pull me outward and inward and downward. I shook my head to clear it; it didnt help.
She mimed shooting at me with her finger. "Bang. You're dead."
"What?"
She nodded at my pint of stout. I peered down, but the glass receded from my sight; it seemed about a mile away. There was something wrong with the air. It wasnt just hazy; it solidified in front of me like jello, thick and translucent, giving everything a wavering, underwater cast. The girl smirked at me, the expression traveling slowly across her face, lips to cheeks to eyes. "You lose." Her voice seemed to elongate, each syllable stretching like taffy.
I felt a buzzing in my pocket, one of Bradwell's coded patterns. Failure.
Shit. I looked back at the girl, trying to think through the fog blanketing my brain. It was like wading through treacle. She must be another of Bradwell's students. And she'd clearly passed her assignment with flying colors: drug the idiot trying to hit on you. I started to laugh, but choked on it. I couldnt even remember what my goal had been, now. My brain was moving in slow motion, stumbling after thoughts that outran it with contemptuous ease. What had been my goal? The briefing with Bradwell seemed so far away.
The drug, whatever it was, had taken a hole-punch to my brain. The room dimmed around me; my thoughts went from stumbling to crawling to fetal position. All that time I'd been telling an elaborate story, she'd been wordlessly telling me one of her own; and I'd bitten, hard. I drooped forward over the bar. Point, her.
I just wished I could've gotten her number.
The air of the bar was hazy--not with smoke, but with the ghost of smoke; the memory of smoke. A phantom that seeped from the oak-lined walls and into the air, like that feeling you get in a room where someone died. You know there's nothing there, nothing that could be measured, but you can feel it anyway. You know it in your bones.
I scanned the room surreptitiously. I didn't match the clientele. A little too old, a little too unfashionable, maybe a little too out of practice at being single in a bar. I stood out, a cactus in the middle of a forest.
If this were an actual mission, I'd be in trouble. As it was, I'd probably lose marks for underpreparation. I shook my head. John Bradley, my mentor, was an old spook. One of those Cold War dinosaurs whod somehow survived the meteor strike that was the Berlin Wall coming down. Deep down, he still believed we were at war with the Russians; he always kept one eye open for the reds. And like many of his cretaceous contemporaries, he was leery of new-fangled, sissy training methods. Bradley put his faith in in-the-field exercises--hence, tonight's hands-on pop quiz.
My pocket buzzed in the pre-arranged pattern. I looked around behind me, and spotted the girl. Red minidress, sleek raven hair, and the kind of expert makeup work that made itself invisible. She was the sort of girl who immediately becomes the center of gravity of the room--the men, at full attention, were compass needles with her as magnetic north. The women pretended not to notice her, looking at their drinks, at their friends, at their nails, anywhere but at her; it was a silence that shouted. Everyone in the room subtly and subconsciously began to orient to her, to measure themselves in relation to her.
She sat at the end of the bar as the room shifted and fell into orbit around her.
So this was my target. Bradley could pick em. I looked down the bar from where I sat; at her, at the bartender who was as focused on her as all the other men were, pouring her out a beer. Without warning, she turned her head and caught my eye with a bright and penetrating gaze. Everything stopped. The background receded; the flapping gums, the gurgling of beers, the soft thwip thwip of darts hitting the dartboard, all faded to silence. There were only her blue eyes and red dress and the slight upward tilt to her lips.
She looked away. I tapped twice on the top button of my shirt, where the microphone was; a return signal to Bradley. I knew who the target was. Nothing for it now but to make my move.
One of the things you learn in my line of work is the importance of acting without hesitation. That's not to say you act without thought, or without planning; but when the moment is right, you act immediately and without pause, before the sands shift under your feet and the moment vanishes.
I left my perch, carrying my pint of stout, and drifted down the gravity well towards the girl. The eyes of the other patrons, watching/not watching, followed me. "Hi," I said, taking the stool next to hers. The bartender nodded at me, and moved on to make another drink.
She glanced at me, then back down at her beer. "Hi," she said. It was an unenthusiastic syllable, compressing irritation and boredom into a single, two letter word. Had I missed my moment? She took a sip of her drink.
"You don't fit the atmosphere here." She was too classy for this place, was what I meant. Maybe she liked being the center of it, liked the covert attention of the men and the jealous non-attention of the women.
"Yeah." Somehow the word took on the characteristics of a sigh. Another sip.
I'd missed the moment, or maybe imagined it, but I couldn't give up now. Bradley would chew me up and spit me out, then chew me up again. "Uh, you come here a lot?"
She finally looked at me. "Seriously? That's, like, the most tired line out there."
It was true, I was flailing. But at least I'd gotten her attention. "You an expert at lines, then?"
"Sure." Another sip. She was staring at her drink again.
"All right, let's hear your best pickup line."
"Uh." She goggled at me, clearly taken aback. Now I had her full attention. Her eyes flipped to high-beam.
"Come on, think fast. I'm the hottest guy ever and you want to pick me up. Best line, go!" I sat up straight, looked away from her.
"Uh." She gestured helplessly for a moment, then blurted, "your father must be a musician, because you've got--you've got--shit." I turned back toward her again, lips twitching. For a moment, we just looked at each other, then we both busted up laughing. "Ok, ok," she said, still laughing. "It's not so easy. Um. So, you come here a lot?"
We both laughed again, and she sipped her drink--something pink with an umbrella in it. "I'm not even local. Here on a business trip. Modeling conference." At her skeptical glance, I clarified. "I'm a sock model. You know those ads you see in catalogs, for men's socks? Yep, those are my ankles."
I should probably explain that I like to tell stories. I like the ebb and flow, the give and take, the play of emotions. I like the way you can make a story writhe and wriggle and chase around in zig-zags. I like how you can bend the truth so much it starts eating its own tail. It's sort of a game I play with myself, to see how much I can get somebody to believe before they figure out I'm making it all up. There's something wonderfully enticing about tall tales, a sort of adrenaline that overtakes you and leads you further and further on, deeper and deeper into the center of your own web. If you're good, your listener gets pulled right along with you, dragged in by the strands of your lies, entwined around and trapped. If youre not, well--you make a mistake, and the strands start pulling apart.
She laughed. "Sock model, huh? I'm so impressed." She didn't believe, but she was nibbling at the bait. I had to set the hook.
I smiled, a carefully measured thing. "Yeah, I get that a lot. Other models get all the glory. Some of us have good ankles, some of us have nice hands. But the pretty faces get the attention." I let my smile fade a bit, like a sky progressing towards sunset. "Causes tension at shoots, sometimes."
"I guess so." The hook had been set; her eyes still showed doubt, but it was being eclipsed by curiosity. She leaned in, touched my shoulder, and a shock like a splash of cold water, no, like a forest fire, hot and hungry and powerful, roared through my body. "You know any big-time models?"
I blinked away the shock, forced myself to breathe normally. "Big-timers? Me, a humble sock model? Ha!" I took a sip of stout, hand trembling slightly; she sipped at her pink drink. It was time to reel her in. "Nah, big-timers are like rock stars. Or famous actors. You ever see any of those model reality shows?" She nodded. "Big-timers are all like that. Fussy prima donnas, too good for the little people." I laughed; so did she. "I mean, I model socks. To them, I might as well be dirt."
"I never realized it was like that."
"Oh yeah." I sighed. "You get paid millions, you start thinking you're better than everybody."
"I guess so." Her eyes were large, now, the windows open and the curtains thrown wide. She believed. Point, me.
I shook my head, snapped out of story mode. I'd lost track of why I was there. You'd think that being a practiced liar would be useful in a field like mine, that the skill would suit my role. But my stories were a will-o'-the-wisp, often as not. Somebody once said that theres a truth at the heart of every story. Well, the truth at the heart of my lies was desire for control. Control of what other people thought of me and of themselves, of their emotions and reactions, of all the little strings that dangled from their heads, waiting to be tugged. I'd start telling a story, and forget my goals, forget the mission beyond the immediate satisfaction of successfully lying to someone, of yanking those strings inside them, taking control without their ever noticing.
"So," I said, trying to regroup, taking a sip of stout. "What do you do?" I looked away for the first time, back out at the other patrons. The room still rotated about a center, but now it was a binary system. I had made the girl smile, I had made her laugh, and so my own gravity well had deepened, had combined with hers. We're social animals, we humans. We're bees, buzzing around the hive in an intricate dance with all the other bees, knowing where we stand by seeing how everyone else stands and how all those standings bounce off one another and refract in every direction. We all have our own gravitational pulls, our own arcs and orbits, and we all get pulled and tugged around by each other, doing our own pulling and tugging in turn. It's what computer scientists call a hard problem; impossible to calculate, except on the most powerful computer ever made--real life. Powerful, but not infallible; that system is as manipulable as the people who comprise it.
She looked at me, and smiled as if at a private joke. "You already know what I do."
"Yeah?" I was feeling unaccountably vague. The room really was rotating now, physically spinning around me, trying to pull me outward and inward and downward. I shook my head to clear it; it didnt help.
She mimed shooting at me with her finger. "Bang. You're dead."
"What?"
She nodded at my pint of stout. I peered down, but the glass receded from my sight; it seemed about a mile away. There was something wrong with the air. It wasnt just hazy; it solidified in front of me like jello, thick and translucent, giving everything a wavering, underwater cast. The girl smirked at me, the expression traveling slowly across her face, lips to cheeks to eyes. "You lose." Her voice seemed to elongate, each syllable stretching like taffy.
I felt a buzzing in my pocket, one of Bradwell's coded patterns. Failure.
Shit. I looked back at the girl, trying to think through the fog blanketing my brain. It was like wading through treacle. She must be another of Bradwell's students. And she'd clearly passed her assignment with flying colors: drug the idiot trying to hit on you. I started to laugh, but choked on it. I couldnt even remember what my goal had been, now. My brain was moving in slow motion, stumbling after thoughts that outran it with contemptuous ease. What had been my goal? The briefing with Bradwell seemed so far away.
The drug, whatever it was, had taken a hole-punch to my brain. The room dimmed around me; my thoughts went from stumbling to crawling to fetal position. All that time I'd been telling an elaborate story, she'd been wordlessly telling me one of her own; and I'd bitten, hard. I drooped forward over the bar. Point, her.
I just wished I could've gotten her number.
Man, the wait for the deadline just doesn't feel right when you've already submitted your piece. Normally, I would have just started writing at this time and hopefully have it finished within four hours. I don't usually rewrite or edit my pieces (First Drafter here), so that extra pressure kinda helps me try to get a lot of it done properly the first time.
evilpigking
Member
Our Story (1155 words)
The story of the first time we met isn't anything special I guess. It was my final year of college and the first session of the "Introduction to Entomology" lab I was taking to fulfill the last lab credit for my major, our meeting was as simple as her sitting down next to me. I looked up from the book I was reading at the time, some Sci-fi novel, I can't recall exactly what it was anymore, she had brown hair, brown eyes, a slim body, and was just stunning in my eyes. As the semester progressed we talked, joked, went out collecting insects together, and occasionally walked together on the way home. I was smitten but too scared to ever say anything, sometimes she would give me these smiles that hinted maybe, just maybe, she felt the same way but I never could muster the courage to act and risk scaring away her heart. I wonder if some of the pain I feel now could have been avoided if I had just managed to confess my feelings for her at that time?
The next semester we didn't have any classes together and like so many others in my life she became just another shade in the depths of my memory. It wasn't long before I saw her again though, I had arrived early and chosen an empty row to sit in for commencement. I was busy filling out the photographer's card with my name and address information when I heard her: "Oh hey." All the feelings that had faded to the background surged back to the forefront as I stared into her eyes: "Hey, it's been awhile." We spent the next twenty minutes just talking about our semester and post graduation plans. She was getting a job with the state's Fish and Game Department and I was heading back out West for medical school. Equipped with that information what reason did I have to confess my heart? I simply put a smile on my face, wished her happiness, and said farewell for what I expected to be the last time.
Obviously it wasn't or there would be no point to me recalling this story. It must have been about 9 years later when I transferred back to the Midwest and began working in an HIV clinic. I won't say "I loved my job" because that might give the wrong impression. It was the kind of job that sometimes fills you with joy and sometimes with despair. I always felt that the strength and spirit of those that fought to survive in part transferred over empowering me as well. On the other hand, everyday I could see the pain and suffering on the faces of the patients and every time a regular missed a visit, a part of me prayed that they were stuck in traffic, though I knew better than to put my hope in faith. In any case, it was around four months after I began working in the clinic that chance brought her to my figurative doorstep...as a patient.
I'd like to say Father Time had treated her well because she was still gorgeous, but it is probably pretty clear already that he bitched slapped her upside the face. Although I recognized her instantly, at first she didn't seem to remember me and not wanting to make things awkward I chose not to broach the subject. She became a regular patient and months went by with me treating her as I would any other patient, except for maybe a bit of added brightness in my eyes. Occasionally I dropped a hint or two about our shared connection but if she caught on she never admitted it until one day she came in with a bug on her shoulder.
"Looks like you brought a friend today."
"What?"
"On your shoulder, you brought in a miridae, I can tell by the little bend in the wings due to the cuneus"
She gave me an odd look, I was expecting that, then her eyes grew wide.
"We had class together didn't we, back in college."
"Yes"
"I'm so sorry. I didn't remember you...how long have you known?" She actually looked ashamed of herself. A suave man could have come up with something clever but I'm not that man.
"From the moment I saw you sitting in the examination room." She averted her eyes towards the floor, in an effort to offer her a way out I continued, "but you shouldn't feel bad, it's been almost a decade, we only had one class together, I wouldn't even expect my former roommates to remember me."
It didn't seem to have much effect, I just smiled at her and renewed her prescriptions as usual.
We ended up talking more and more during visits about the last few years and ourselves. She still worked for Fish and Game and had gone through quite a few relationships until the one night stand that resulted in her current condition. Afterward, understandably it was much more difficult for her to enter a serious relationship. I did my best to cheer her up with anecdotes from my training and residency periods, anything to put a smile on her face.
You can probably guess where this is going, the more we talked the more I liked her, and in my foolishness I thought everything would be fine because I had knowledge regarding her situation despite warnings from family and friends. Eventually my confidence worked and she transferred to another doctor so we could start a relationship. Since she was relatively healthy we could do pretty much anything normal couples could do without worry. We went to the movies, the amusement park, and to cheap hole in the wall restaurants that serve food that tastes better than places twenty times more expensive. Reflecting back, these years shine the brightest against a background of social stigma and criticism. We continued on this way for two years before I took the final step and, ignoring the advice of those who chose to follow their minds instead of their emotions, asked her "the question," she said "yes."
Despite the biological imperative to produce offspring we were happy and the next five years were lived without equal. Even after her condition began deteriorating and she could no longer continue her work in the field, we spent our time with no regrets. I did everything in my power to assist her but some battles simply can not be won. Up until the end continued to go out and I kept finding new ways to surprise her. In my eyes the only thing that had changed since the first day I met her was I no longer felt the need to be careful with my words and feelings towards her, I no longer feared scaring away her heart no matter what I confessed...because she had already given it to me completely.
The story of the first time we met isn't anything special I guess. It was my final year of college and the first session of the "Introduction to Entomology" lab I was taking to fulfill the last lab credit for my major, our meeting was as simple as her sitting down next to me. I looked up from the book I was reading at the time, some Sci-fi novel, I can't recall exactly what it was anymore, she had brown hair, brown eyes, a slim body, and was just stunning in my eyes. As the semester progressed we talked, joked, went out collecting insects together, and occasionally walked together on the way home. I was smitten but too scared to ever say anything, sometimes she would give me these smiles that hinted maybe, just maybe, she felt the same way but I never could muster the courage to act and risk scaring away her heart. I wonder if some of the pain I feel now could have been avoided if I had just managed to confess my feelings for her at that time?
The next semester we didn't have any classes together and like so many others in my life she became just another shade in the depths of my memory. It wasn't long before I saw her again though, I had arrived early and chosen an empty row to sit in for commencement. I was busy filling out the photographer's card with my name and address information when I heard her: "Oh hey." All the feelings that had faded to the background surged back to the forefront as I stared into her eyes: "Hey, it's been awhile." We spent the next twenty minutes just talking about our semester and post graduation plans. She was getting a job with the state's Fish and Game Department and I was heading back out West for medical school. Equipped with that information what reason did I have to confess my heart? I simply put a smile on my face, wished her happiness, and said farewell for what I expected to be the last time.
Obviously it wasn't or there would be no point to me recalling this story. It must have been about 9 years later when I transferred back to the Midwest and began working in an HIV clinic. I won't say "I loved my job" because that might give the wrong impression. It was the kind of job that sometimes fills you with joy and sometimes with despair. I always felt that the strength and spirit of those that fought to survive in part transferred over empowering me as well. On the other hand, everyday I could see the pain and suffering on the faces of the patients and every time a regular missed a visit, a part of me prayed that they were stuck in traffic, though I knew better than to put my hope in faith. In any case, it was around four months after I began working in the clinic that chance brought her to my figurative doorstep...as a patient.
I'd like to say Father Time had treated her well because she was still gorgeous, but it is probably pretty clear already that he bitched slapped her upside the face. Although I recognized her instantly, at first she didn't seem to remember me and not wanting to make things awkward I chose not to broach the subject. She became a regular patient and months went by with me treating her as I would any other patient, except for maybe a bit of added brightness in my eyes. Occasionally I dropped a hint or two about our shared connection but if she caught on she never admitted it until one day she came in with a bug on her shoulder.
"Looks like you brought a friend today."
"What?"
"On your shoulder, you brought in a miridae, I can tell by the little bend in the wings due to the cuneus"
She gave me an odd look, I was expecting that, then her eyes grew wide.
"We had class together didn't we, back in college."
"Yes"
"I'm so sorry. I didn't remember you...how long have you known?" She actually looked ashamed of herself. A suave man could have come up with something clever but I'm not that man.
"From the moment I saw you sitting in the examination room." She averted her eyes towards the floor, in an effort to offer her a way out I continued, "but you shouldn't feel bad, it's been almost a decade, we only had one class together, I wouldn't even expect my former roommates to remember me."
It didn't seem to have much effect, I just smiled at her and renewed her prescriptions as usual.
We ended up talking more and more during visits about the last few years and ourselves. She still worked for Fish and Game and had gone through quite a few relationships until the one night stand that resulted in her current condition. Afterward, understandably it was much more difficult for her to enter a serious relationship. I did my best to cheer her up with anecdotes from my training and residency periods, anything to put a smile on her face.
You can probably guess where this is going, the more we talked the more I liked her, and in my foolishness I thought everything would be fine because I had knowledge regarding her situation despite warnings from family and friends. Eventually my confidence worked and she transferred to another doctor so we could start a relationship. Since she was relatively healthy we could do pretty much anything normal couples could do without worry. We went to the movies, the amusement park, and to cheap hole in the wall restaurants that serve food that tastes better than places twenty times more expensive. Reflecting back, these years shine the brightest against a background of social stigma and criticism. We continued on this way for two years before I took the final step and, ignoring the advice of those who chose to follow their minds instead of their emotions, asked her "the question," she said "yes."
Despite the biological imperative to produce offspring we were happy and the next five years were lived without equal. Even after her condition began deteriorating and she could no longer continue her work in the field, we spent our time with no regrets. I did everything in my power to assist her but some battles simply can not be won. Up until the end continued to go out and I kept finding new ways to surprise her. In my eyes the only thing that had changed since the first day I met her was I no longer felt the need to be careful with my words and feelings towards her, I no longer feared scaring away her heart no matter what I confessed...because she had already given it to me completely.
evilpigking
Member
Got to love stories that end up being only slightly related to what you intended when you started.
I was shooting for Cyan originally, but I couldn't maintain it. Probably why the story loses focus as it goes on. I threw in the surprise ending to counter that a bit. I've been very distracted by other things lately, so I couldn't sink into this as much as I would have liked.ronito said:
hey_monkey
Banned
Piper (985 words)
She was eating. Her head, bent over the plate, bobbed like a crocus. Her hair hung ragged, as though she had refused to sit still for the stylist, and it fell in soft streaks, yellow at the center, the yellow of roots, of new growth, and then ripened into purple. Around her everything faded, sucked into glorious depths of that color. Julian pushed a something across the tablesomething small, black, basic, a boxand the sound of it, velvet scraping linen, two smooth things crashing, colliding, the sound dragged Elle back to the surface. Back to the table, to Julian, his dark eyes shifting, lighting on his drink, the box, the television at the bar, the news tickers and financials. But then Elle kept going, further, falling back into forgotten feelings.
Plum Passion. The name floated in the well of memory and Elle reached for it. Pulled it close. Remembered the squat little tub with the black plastic lid. Remembered the feeling of rubbing purple paste through Piper's hair. Remembered the violet fingerprint smudges on the flushed skin of her neck. Purple for Piper, though she tasted of copper, of pineapple and chili peppers, and the little orange candies she kept hidden in her backpack. Piper, with the beauty mark that rode the crest of her lip like a speck of persistent dust.
She was eating salad. She moved her fork from her mouth to her plate, and her jaws and fingers moved in tandem, chewing, stabbing.
"Ellie?"
Elle looked back; Julian looked at his watch. He plucked at the smooth, sleek blue of his suit, pulled the sleeve up just so. No wrinkles. "Open your gift," he said; beside the table, he shook his arm. Straightened the sleeve. On the plate in front of him a sliver of chicken lay nested on a bed of harvest colors. His fork, beside the plate, had not been moved. What had he ordered? Why? Elle looked back at the box, at the way the light sank into the black velvet and disappeared.
To the right, she was eating salad and drinking water so clear and pure the glass looked empty, as though she was only pantomiming. Her drooping eyelids and hunched shoulders made me think she was unhappy, but when I looked at her she smiled. Her mouth split open and her teeth burned bright, so white Elle had to look down. Turn her head. Close her eyes.
"Ellie?"
"I'm sorry, darling" she said, eyes open. "I just cannot seem to concentrate on anything today." Her fingers found the box and without direction, they worked, hinges moving, velvet parting. Earrings, bigger than the pearls that hung in her earlobes, pearls that matched the pearls hanging heavy around her throat. She held them up, stones in the light, turning to admire them, but turning too so she could smile back at the girl who looked so young, so bright, like Piper had looked. Holding the box, her fingers seemed so old, so thin and dry, as though something essential had been drained away. Just beyond those husks, the girl with the purple hair and the crooked part shined like the diamonds in her hand. "Beautiful."
"Happy anniversary," Julian said.
"Thank you." A voice that was assuredly hers but never sounded like it should be. Never like the voice in her head. "A wonderful choice."
"Well," Julian said, and his voice popped like champagne. He reached across the table and took her hand. They stood together. "Enjoy the rest of your lunch. I'll see you this evening."
"Late?"
The skin between his eyebrows folded together and then relaxed, quick as a breath. "This time of year"
"Yes, darling, I know. Everyone is very busy. It's fine." Her mouth felt loose, but the smile she put on was perfect. Charming. She could feel it. "Really, I understand."
Julian squeezed her fingers. "See you tonight, then." Elle's hand, where he had touched it, was cool, as though it had been dipped into chilled water and dried quickly. The ghost of a feeling. She flexed her fingers and he was gone, a slim blue shadow slipping out of the restaurant, gone back to meetings and racquetball and drinks with the boys.
She was eating salad and rolling her eyes at the man sitting next to her, almost certainly her father. His hair, gray and somber, bore no relation to the purple light shining beside him. He was gray fading into black and then into disappointment, with furrowed brows and heavy hands clenched on his silverware. Elle could imagine the conversation. That hair is ridiculous. When are you going to grow up? What must people think of you? Don't you realize the effect this could have on my career?
Elle picked up her glass and put it down again without drinking. She wanted to sweep in and touch the girl's cheek. She would smile; she would say something empowering. And there would be magic. Everything would work out just fine. She reached for the glass again and brought it to her nose, breathed in the swirling sour fruit. Fairy godmothers were plump and benevolent. They believed in the magic. She finished the wine, though it blazed a dark trail down her throat. She felt it burn all the way into her stomach.
She was eating salad still, though nearly finished, rolling her eyes at her father and laughing. Elle stood, straightening her skirt, settling on her heels, moving her chair; she tipped her head toward the sound, and the girl's laughter sparkled in the air like rain. Elle felt small then, small and empty, and the hands moving over her skirt rattled like bones. Such a confident sound. It should have cheered her, given her some promise for the future, but she walked away from it, back through the restaurant, through the lobby, and out into the blinding white afternoon.
She was eating. Her head, bent over the plate, bobbed like a crocus. Her hair hung ragged, as though she had refused to sit still for the stylist, and it fell in soft streaks, yellow at the center, the yellow of roots, of new growth, and then ripened into purple. Around her everything faded, sucked into glorious depths of that color. Julian pushed a something across the tablesomething small, black, basic, a boxand the sound of it, velvet scraping linen, two smooth things crashing, colliding, the sound dragged Elle back to the surface. Back to the table, to Julian, his dark eyes shifting, lighting on his drink, the box, the television at the bar, the news tickers and financials. But then Elle kept going, further, falling back into forgotten feelings.
Plum Passion. The name floated in the well of memory and Elle reached for it. Pulled it close. Remembered the squat little tub with the black plastic lid. Remembered the feeling of rubbing purple paste through Piper's hair. Remembered the violet fingerprint smudges on the flushed skin of her neck. Purple for Piper, though she tasted of copper, of pineapple and chili peppers, and the little orange candies she kept hidden in her backpack. Piper, with the beauty mark that rode the crest of her lip like a speck of persistent dust.
She was eating salad. She moved her fork from her mouth to her plate, and her jaws and fingers moved in tandem, chewing, stabbing.
"Ellie?"
Elle looked back; Julian looked at his watch. He plucked at the smooth, sleek blue of his suit, pulled the sleeve up just so. No wrinkles. "Open your gift," he said; beside the table, he shook his arm. Straightened the sleeve. On the plate in front of him a sliver of chicken lay nested on a bed of harvest colors. His fork, beside the plate, had not been moved. What had he ordered? Why? Elle looked back at the box, at the way the light sank into the black velvet and disappeared.
To the right, she was eating salad and drinking water so clear and pure the glass looked empty, as though she was only pantomiming. Her drooping eyelids and hunched shoulders made me think she was unhappy, but when I looked at her she smiled. Her mouth split open and her teeth burned bright, so white Elle had to look down. Turn her head. Close her eyes.
"Ellie?"
"I'm sorry, darling" she said, eyes open. "I just cannot seem to concentrate on anything today." Her fingers found the box and without direction, they worked, hinges moving, velvet parting. Earrings, bigger than the pearls that hung in her earlobes, pearls that matched the pearls hanging heavy around her throat. She held them up, stones in the light, turning to admire them, but turning too so she could smile back at the girl who looked so young, so bright, like Piper had looked. Holding the box, her fingers seemed so old, so thin and dry, as though something essential had been drained away. Just beyond those husks, the girl with the purple hair and the crooked part shined like the diamonds in her hand. "Beautiful."
"Happy anniversary," Julian said.
"Thank you." A voice that was assuredly hers but never sounded like it should be. Never like the voice in her head. "A wonderful choice."
"Well," Julian said, and his voice popped like champagne. He reached across the table and took her hand. They stood together. "Enjoy the rest of your lunch. I'll see you this evening."
"Late?"
The skin between his eyebrows folded together and then relaxed, quick as a breath. "This time of year"
"Yes, darling, I know. Everyone is very busy. It's fine." Her mouth felt loose, but the smile she put on was perfect. Charming. She could feel it. "Really, I understand."
Julian squeezed her fingers. "See you tonight, then." Elle's hand, where he had touched it, was cool, as though it had been dipped into chilled water and dried quickly. The ghost of a feeling. She flexed her fingers and he was gone, a slim blue shadow slipping out of the restaurant, gone back to meetings and racquetball and drinks with the boys.
She was eating salad and rolling her eyes at the man sitting next to her, almost certainly her father. His hair, gray and somber, bore no relation to the purple light shining beside him. He was gray fading into black and then into disappointment, with furrowed brows and heavy hands clenched on his silverware. Elle could imagine the conversation. That hair is ridiculous. When are you going to grow up? What must people think of you? Don't you realize the effect this could have on my career?
Elle picked up her glass and put it down again without drinking. She wanted to sweep in and touch the girl's cheek. She would smile; she would say something empowering. And there would be magic. Everything would work out just fine. She reached for the glass again and brought it to her nose, breathed in the swirling sour fruit. Fairy godmothers were plump and benevolent. They believed in the magic. She finished the wine, though it blazed a dark trail down her throat. She felt it burn all the way into her stomach.
She was eating salad still, though nearly finished, rolling her eyes at her father and laughing. Elle stood, straightening her skirt, settling on her heels, moving her chair; she tipped her head toward the sound, and the girl's laughter sparkled in the air like rain. Elle felt small then, small and empty, and the hands moving over her skirt rattled like bones. Such a confident sound. It should have cheered her, given her some promise for the future, but she walked away from it, back through the restaurant, through the lobby, and out into the blinding white afternoon.
hey_monkey
Banned
Ashes1396 said:
Man. My PIE has an awesome avatar. But no one will guess 'em.
That's awesome.
Man, it's totally cool to see how people took slightly different angles on adopting style. Some are more thematic, some more about word use and sentence structure, and some more holistic.
Mine definitely wasn't as fully into my PIE's head as some of you guys have done--it was more about use of particular writing tools.
Fun stuff!
Edit: I'll definitely be interested to hear people's thoughts on doing this objective. How people approached it and such.
Man, it's totally cool to see how people took slightly different angles on adopting style. Some are more thematic, some more about word use and sentence structure, and some more holistic.
Mine definitely wasn't as fully into my PIE's head as some of you guys have done--it was more about use of particular writing tools.
Fun stuff!Edit: I'll definitely be interested to hear people's thoughts on doing this objective. How people approached it and such.
RevenantKioku
PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS oh god i am drowning in them
Cyan said:
Just read mine.
Mike Works
Member
201 god damn words!
hey_monkey
Banned
My PIE is not a regular. At least, not currently, to my regret.
RevenantKioku
PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS PEINS oh god i am drowning in them
That's what you get for crushing me in Words With Friends.Mike Works said:
KissMeI'm: Hrmm.....you know one of these days you're probably going to write a story about a bunch of guys building an airport and finding out that they have too much runway, because you're going to get sick of me saying it...but...too much runway. You have a very poetic/detailed way of writing. But just like composition is all about what notes to leave out, writing is all about what you don't write. Also it felt there was too much to it, while not being enough either. It's difficult to explain, but I'll try. You spend all this time building up to the crash and all that, in that sense I felt it was too much. But at the same time I didn't feel a deep connection with the characters so as to care a whole lot about what did happen. In that sense it was too little. I'm having a hard time placing this style. Seems a little like Ashes a little like Ward too.
hey_monkey
Banned
ronito said:
Me too. Would be happy to talk about it.
Greg was always fascinated by the education industry. The university that the was a student of was notorious for the overbearing bureaucracy which was Xeroxing itself in triplicates across the nation. Certainly not a new phenomenon, but brought to his attention by the media circus around the transiently calcified "issue". His disdain was fanned by his hate for complications.
As he walked to the university doors that morning, he felt the warm spring air calming him. The air was laced with the ammonia smell characteristic of the river nearby broke that illusion soon enough. The first day of the new semester guaranteed that there would be very little, if any, of his friends on the campus. A red herring, but he couldn't have deduced that given the circumstances.
Greg looked around for the correct block. He had been called into one of the newer blocks, which were under construction during the vacation time. The sweeper crews were still at work on the steps of the neatly placed marble mirage erected out of thin air in so little time. He noticed that only one of the blocks were host to a constant in and out flow of people, some of whom he recognized. There was a media crew set up outside this block, and the obviousness of the choice connected.
Wading through the stream of people on the flights of stairs, Greg reached the outliers of the office. The plaque read "Head of Institute(Engineering & Technology)", but was obfuscated by the congregation around the office. He noticed that the secretary wasn't there. The secretary, Wilson, was the one who had called Greg, and was a good friend of his. Wilson had told him that he needed to get his stamp paper forms in and get it signed by the HOI. Greg didn't have all three forms, since the notice had been sent out only a few days back. There were no mass emails sent out by the Chancellor, and most students wouldn't be aware of it, had it not been for some students who were doing their internship in the college.
Wilson came back after an hour, a look of despondence on his face. Greg talked to him and asked him about the forms and the media presence.
"I don't have the second and third form, and is it really necessary"
"It is necessary, but as always, no time frame on this one"
"Ah, expected as much. Not many students in here, are there?"
"It takes time for things to get to normal. Also, the HOI is back, but not regarding these forms -"
"Has to do with the media, I presume? Anything interesting going on?"
"Yeah, let's sit down and I'll bring you up to speed"
They both paced down to the basement coffee shop. The coffee shop was the first thing to open when the university opened up, always the hub of activity, now eerily lay deserted.
"The media is here because of the association of the HOI with our Chancellor"
"Is this a legitimate investigation unlike the last ones that we've been having since 2004, the early days of the university?"
"Too early to tell, but these people are getting aggressive. Not very likely that the HOI would come here this early for bullshit."
"That for sure, this is the first time I've seen him back this early!"
"Apparently, it is the 'indemnity bond' thing that tipped them off"
"What is this indemnity-"
"It's the forms that I called you in for"
"Oh, well, the fruits of bureaucracy, I guess..."
"Haha, maybe! Let's get your forms sorted out then"
They went to the library to get the forms. A torrent of people gushed up and down the hallway, mostly internship students.
"Form 2B and 3C, please"
The overworked librarian handed over the form promptly. They both then made their way back to the HOI office. The media crew was there with the HOI being grilled by the reporter. For the first time in 3 years, Greg felt sorry for his HOI. Wilson probably didn't share the sentiment, but acknowledged the sympathy proxy.
"You think you can get a signature?" Wilson said jokingly.
Greg smiled "Probably should get it now, before he gets arrested right?"
Greg left for lunch together since there seemed to be no end in sight. Wilson proposed to join him later. The cafeteria was closed, so Greg went back to the basement coffee shop. He looked over the forms and read over them. He didn't know what was written, just that it had some rare semblance to anti-hazing in some fragments. Odd, since hazing was a very rare phenomenon, one which Greg hadn't experienced himself, and neither did his friends. But in wake of news articles proclaiming how lives have been ruined by the psychological scars from hazing, the college was probably trying to cover all bases and avoid the ever frequent law suits that were carpet-bombing the lucrative money printing business that the university had going on. Wilson came in after an hour.
"The boss is pissed, more than I've ever seen him"
"Is that... good?"
"Not for me, but probably for the students"
"Heh, that's what they said for the last HOI!"
"They're planning a whole restructuring of power"
"Ah fuck it, nothing good is coming off it, just more paperwork"
"True, and I'll probably get fired, celebrations!"
Greg consoled Wilson to the best of his ability. But he was insulatedly happier with the verdict.
5 months passed by, another semester went forth. Greg was getting his mark sheets from the Examination departments, when he was informed by Wilson, now Head of Examination, that there was a discrepancy in his paperwork.
"What's wrong with my 'paperwork'?"
"You haven't filled out forms 2B and 3C"
"I did it way before anyone else did"
"Check it again, I certainly did!"
"Oh, wait, here are the forms, you don't have the sign of the HOI here though"
"Don't you remember what happened?"
"Hey, don't drag me into this, I already had a lawsuit filed against me earlier this month"
"Oh for God's sake, I got it signed from the new HOI, remember?"
"Sorry, that isn't valid in all forms submitted before 3rd March last year, you can't register for next semester, I can't help you out here, the paperwork doesn't lie"
The system had forsaken Greg, and there was nothing more he could do here. His fascination with the education industry ended in that escaping moment.
As he walked to the university doors that morning, he felt the warm spring air calming him. The air was laced with the ammonia smell characteristic of the river nearby broke that illusion soon enough. The first day of the new semester guaranteed that there would be very little, if any, of his friends on the campus. A red herring, but he couldn't have deduced that given the circumstances.
Greg looked around for the correct block. He had been called into one of the newer blocks, which were under construction during the vacation time. The sweeper crews were still at work on the steps of the neatly placed marble mirage erected out of thin air in so little time. He noticed that only one of the blocks were host to a constant in and out flow of people, some of whom he recognized. There was a media crew set up outside this block, and the obviousness of the choice connected.
Wading through the stream of people on the flights of stairs, Greg reached the outliers of the office. The plaque read "Head of Institute(Engineering & Technology)", but was obfuscated by the congregation around the office. He noticed that the secretary wasn't there. The secretary, Wilson, was the one who had called Greg, and was a good friend of his. Wilson had told him that he needed to get his stamp paper forms in and get it signed by the HOI. Greg didn't have all three forms, since the notice had been sent out only a few days back. There were no mass emails sent out by the Chancellor, and most students wouldn't be aware of it, had it not been for some students who were doing their internship in the college.
Wilson came back after an hour, a look of despondence on his face. Greg talked to him and asked him about the forms and the media presence.
"I don't have the second and third form, and is it really necessary"
"It is necessary, but as always, no time frame on this one"
"Ah, expected as much. Not many students in here, are there?"
"It takes time for things to get to normal. Also, the HOI is back, but not regarding these forms -"
"Has to do with the media, I presume? Anything interesting going on?"
"Yeah, let's sit down and I'll bring you up to speed"
They both paced down to the basement coffee shop. The coffee shop was the first thing to open when the university opened up, always the hub of activity, now eerily lay deserted.
"The media is here because of the association of the HOI with our Chancellor"
"Is this a legitimate investigation unlike the last ones that we've been having since 2004, the early days of the university?"
"Too early to tell, but these people are getting aggressive. Not very likely that the HOI would come here this early for bullshit."
"That for sure, this is the first time I've seen him back this early!"
"Apparently, it is the 'indemnity bond' thing that tipped them off"
"What is this indemnity-"
"It's the forms that I called you in for"
"Oh, well, the fruits of bureaucracy, I guess..."
"Haha, maybe! Let's get your forms sorted out then"
They went to the library to get the forms. A torrent of people gushed up and down the hallway, mostly internship students.
"Form 2B and 3C, please"
The overworked librarian handed over the form promptly. They both then made their way back to the HOI office. The media crew was there with the HOI being grilled by the reporter. For the first time in 3 years, Greg felt sorry for his HOI. Wilson probably didn't share the sentiment, but acknowledged the sympathy proxy.
"You think you can get a signature?" Wilson said jokingly.
Greg smiled "Probably should get it now, before he gets arrested right?"
Greg left for lunch together since there seemed to be no end in sight. Wilson proposed to join him later. The cafeteria was closed, so Greg went back to the basement coffee shop. He looked over the forms and read over them. He didn't know what was written, just that it had some rare semblance to anti-hazing in some fragments. Odd, since hazing was a very rare phenomenon, one which Greg hadn't experienced himself, and neither did his friends. But in wake of news articles proclaiming how lives have been ruined by the psychological scars from hazing, the college was probably trying to cover all bases and avoid the ever frequent law suits that were carpet-bombing the lucrative money printing business that the university had going on. Wilson came in after an hour.
"The boss is pissed, more than I've ever seen him"
"Is that... good?"
"Not for me, but probably for the students"
"Heh, that's what they said for the last HOI!"
"They're planning a whole restructuring of power"
"Ah fuck it, nothing good is coming off it, just more paperwork"
"True, and I'll probably get fired, celebrations!"
Greg consoled Wilson to the best of his ability. But he was insulatedly happier with the verdict.
5 months passed by, another semester went forth. Greg was getting his mark sheets from the Examination departments, when he was informed by Wilson, now Head of Examination, that there was a discrepancy in his paperwork.
"What's wrong with my 'paperwork'?"
"You haven't filled out forms 2B and 3C"
"I did it way before anyone else did"
"Check it again, I certainly did!"
"Oh, wait, here are the forms, you don't have the sign of the HOI here though"
"Don't you remember what happened?"
"Hey, don't drag me into this, I already had a lawsuit filed against me earlier this month"
"Oh for God's sake, I got it signed from the new HOI, remember?"
"Sorry, that isn't valid in all forms submitted before 3rd March last year, you can't register for next semester, I can't help you out here, the paperwork doesn't lie"
The system had forsaken Greg, and there was nothing more he could do here. His fascination with the education industry ended in that escaping moment.
Mike Works
Member
The Water (1998 words)
Jamie, I dont want to do this, Paul said.
Paul, how long has it been since you and Jessica broke up?
A little less than two years.
And more importantly, how long has it been since youve had sex?
A little more than two years...
Look, I know its tough, but sooner or later you gotta be willing to put yourself out there, man. Sometimes you have to take a risk.
When Jamie had first informed him of his plan to get Paul back in the dating game using a dating website, feelings of nervousness and apprehension flooded his tall, lanky frame. That apprehension soon transformed into abject terror when Jamie insisted they use Pauls laptop. In the three years that they had been roommates, Jamie had never once touched Pauls laptop. Now, as the two men sat on their ratty living room couch, Paul found his eyes occasionally darting up the screen and looking at the Bookmarks bar.
You see, after a few weeks without sex, a man in his mid-twenties gets bored with normal porn. His preferences go through minor phases, maybe changing from brunettes to blondes or from cheerleaders to secretaries. Fairly standard stuff.
And after a few months without sex, that same man exhausts those channels. At first he may just find himself preferring women with shorter hair or perkier nipples, but eventually those preferences grow stale and before you know it, its the middle of October and you have an entire folder dedicated to interracial nun abuse.
Paul had gone without sex for more than two years.
As he stared at that Bookmarks bar, Paul began to think that maybe this dating site might not be such a bad idea.
Fine, Paul said. Ill give this a shot.
Cool, now-
But, Paul interjected. If this doesnt work out, then you drop it. I delete my profile off the site and you dont bring up Jessica again. Ever.
Paul, you cant expect to just-
Thats the condition to me doing this, Jamie. I give this one try. Take it or leave it.
Jamie cast a hard stare into Pauls eyes and got nothing back.
Alright, Jamie said. Now, what do you want your username to be?
I dont know how about Soulmate Searcher? Can it be two words?
Jamie stared at Paul.
Are you fucking serious?
Whats wrong with that? Paul said. Jamie leaned forward and began to type.
Your nickname is QBPaul84, Jamie said.
QB? As in quarterback? I dont play football.
Thats not what your profile says.
Dude, do I look like a football player? Im not built like you, Jamie.
Dont worry, well take your shirt off and snap a couple of pictures of you from the chest up. Everyone looks built when they flex their traps.
You want to take my shirt off so you can take pictures of me? Jamie, you sound like a pedophile.
So, under 'interests', do you want me to put pedophile jokes before or after football?
Okay, okay, sorry, Paul said. What do we do next?
We have to answer some questions. Ah, here we go, this is good one: Do you want kids?
Um no, Paul said.
Bzzt, wrong answer bud, Jamie said.
Do not put yes there.
Im not going to select yes, Jamie said. Im going to pick an even better option.
Which is
Open/Undecided. A smile slowly formed on Jamies face as he selected the option from the menu. Its fucking beautiful, isnt it?
I dont get it. Why is that better than saying yes or no?
Saying that youre undecided is like a fucking challenge to women, Paul. They read that and they cant help themselves, theyre drawn to that potential for commitment like like Jamie turned and faced Paul. Open/Undecided is like catnip for cunts.
Im sorry, did you just make a sex-catnip analogy without using the word pussy?
Paul, fucking focus, this is good advice Im giving you.
So Im a 155 lb football player who just cant decide if hes ready for kids, Paul said. Oh, if only the right woman could come along and change me!
Thats the spirit, Jamie said with reborn enthusiasm.
Jamie, I was being facetious. This is god damn idiotic beyond all-"
Do you remember that redhead I brought home a few weeks ago, Jamie asked.
Well yes. That girl was insanely gorgeous.
I met her through this site. She said she liked my profile.
Jamie and Paul sat for a moment in silence.
God damnit, Paul said as he began to take off his shirt.
*
It was a beautiful sunny day and Paul was walking with what could only be described as a skip in his step. As he strutted through the neighborhood, puddles of euphoria and confidence splashed up through his body.
Paul had spent weeks dealing with stupid girls sending him stupid messages about football and yoga and Glee and whatever the hell else Jamie had written in his profile. Hed had to sift through dozens of so-called glamour shots of them pursing their lips as they took a picture of their reflection in a bathroom mirror. Or even better, the high angle shots with the contrast of the picture turned up high enough to mask any blemishes, scars, or signs of god damn human life. There was nothing redeemable about any of them.
Granted, there was that one girl who sent him erotic poetry a few days ago, but she didnt have any pictures in her profile. There was no way he was taking that risk.
Paul was ready to give up. And then...
Anna.
From the moment he saw her profile, Paul knew she was different; none of her pictures were taken in some nightclub bathroom with whoreish friends. Every shot of Anna and her cute curly red hair featured her making a goofy expression. In her Interests section, she had put Nutella and Alfred Hitchcock. Quirky. Paul loved it.
She laughed at his jokes (even Paul didnt laugh at most of his jokes), and after a little online back and forth, he took a chance and asked her if she wanted to meet up. Before he knew it, Paul had his first date in years. Anna suggested that they meet up at her place and take her pet Kiki for a walk. Casual. Comfortable. Perfect.
Of course Jamie didnt agree.
Dude, no, stay away from that one, were the first words out of his mouth.
What? Why, Paul had replied.
Do you see how she has that special custom wallpaper around her profile?
Yeah
You can only get custom wallpaper for your profile if you buy a VIP membership through the site. Only the really, really desperate girls do that. This girls cute, Ill give you that, but that just makes the fact that shes desperate all the more worrying. Im telling you man, that custom wallpaper is like bright orange spots on a frog.
Jamie, youre being-"
You do know what bright orange spots on a frog mean, right Paul?
Dude, you havent even-"
You dont want to lick that bitch.
A heated argument ensued, but the two of them were back to watching Band of Brothers together again by the weekend.
And now, wearing a nice collared shirt and a smile the size of Kansas, Paul knocked on her door. It opened and there she was. Her light yellow blouse rippled as a gentle breeze moved in through the doorway. The tips of her amber red curls dangled in the air. Paul was potentially smitten.
Hi Paul! Before he could open his mouth to say anything, she leaped forward and threw her arms around his skinny neck. Its great to finally meet you in person. She smelled like mango. Officially smitten.
Y-yeah, likewise, Paul managed to utter. Likewise? Christ.
Let me just get Kiki and we can head out. Anna disappeared into her house, leaving Paul alone with his thoughts.
Okay, he whispered to himself, dont slouch, make eye contact.. shit, what else did Jamie say? Oh, touch her arm a lot, but make it seem natural. Act confident and cocky, but not too cocky. Compliment her sometimes, but insult her sometimes too.
Though he found a lot of Jamies advice to be contradictory, if not flat out confusing, there was one suggestion which he agreed couldnt go wrong.
Compliment the dog.
Anna appeared at the doorway, lightly pulling at a long, thin leash that extended down into the hall.
Cmon Kiki, she said.
Paul crouched down, ready to give the dog the compliment of its fucking life.
Aww, he said, thats the single cutest-
Out walked a small blue parakeet with the end of a tiny leash wrapped around its neck.
um bird. Paul slowly stood up. Kikis a bird.
She sure is, Anna said in a voice usually reserved for addressing oxygen-deprived infants. Paul watched as she fell to her hands and knees and began kissing the bird on its beak. Shes a good little girl! Arent you Kiki? Yes you are!
Q- quirky
Were going to be walking your bird?
Of course!
So will it just fly around us while we walk? Like a.. tetherball?
Oh no, Kiki doesnt fly. Anna slowly raised to her feet, turned her head, and stared directly into Pauls eyes. I dont let her fly.
Oh. Paul said.
My, Paul thought.
Good. Paul said.
God, Paul thought.
As they slowly made their way down Annas front stairs, Paul struggled to simultaneously put the absurdity of the bird out of his mind while actively avoiding stepping on the damn thing. Apprehension began to flood into his chest. As Paul considered ending the date there and then, Jamies voice suddenly entered his head.
Sometimes you have to take a risk.
With those words fresh in his mind, Paul decided to give Anna a second chance.
So, Anna, why dont you tell me a little about yourself?
Well, as you may have figured out, Anna said, Im an animal lov-
Anna immediately cut herself off when she saw it: a fat orange tabby was crouched on her neighbors lawn, wiggling its hind legs up and down. It was seconds away from pouncing on what would have been the easiest catch of its life.
Anna shrieked. Though a nearby flock of crows ironically flew away at the sound of her scream, Kiki inexplicably remained frozen in place. Paul wondered if the bird was exercising the Jurassic Park T-Rex principal.
Still, he thought, this was a perfect opportunity to impress Anna. All he had to do was quickly pick up the bird, shoo away the cat, and he would come off looking like the worlds greatest-
Anna ran up and punted the cat in the stomach.
It was around the moment that the tabby flew into a hedge that Paul considered the date officially over.
*
So what the hell did you do next, Jamie asked with an incredulous expression on his face.
I ran. I figured even if she could run fast enough to catch me, that bird sure as hell couldnt.
Though part of Jamie had the urge to laugh, he found himself overwhelmingly concerned for his friend.
Look, Paul, I know it didnt work out this time, but that doesnt mean-
Save it, Jamie, Paul said as he walked into his room and closed the door behind him.
Jamie slumped back into the couch. Fuck.
Paul sat down at his desk and opened his laptop. The dating site- which he had enthusiastically set as his home page- popped up onto the screen. Thoughts of Jessica and Anna lorded over him as he typed in his username and password. Thoughts of rejection, of failure. Hurt. Paul found what he was looking for on the site and clicked it. After taking a deep breath in, he placed his fingers over the keys.
Hi, he typed. Sorry its taken me so long to get back to you.
Paul exhaled.
I liked your poem.
Jamie, I dont want to do this, Paul said.
Paul, how long has it been since you and Jessica broke up?
A little less than two years.
And more importantly, how long has it been since youve had sex?
A little more than two years...
Look, I know its tough, but sooner or later you gotta be willing to put yourself out there, man. Sometimes you have to take a risk.
When Jamie had first informed him of his plan to get Paul back in the dating game using a dating website, feelings of nervousness and apprehension flooded his tall, lanky frame. That apprehension soon transformed into abject terror when Jamie insisted they use Pauls laptop. In the three years that they had been roommates, Jamie had never once touched Pauls laptop. Now, as the two men sat on their ratty living room couch, Paul found his eyes occasionally darting up the screen and looking at the Bookmarks bar.
You see, after a few weeks without sex, a man in his mid-twenties gets bored with normal porn. His preferences go through minor phases, maybe changing from brunettes to blondes or from cheerleaders to secretaries. Fairly standard stuff.
And after a few months without sex, that same man exhausts those channels. At first he may just find himself preferring women with shorter hair or perkier nipples, but eventually those preferences grow stale and before you know it, its the middle of October and you have an entire folder dedicated to interracial nun abuse.
Paul had gone without sex for more than two years.
As he stared at that Bookmarks bar, Paul began to think that maybe this dating site might not be such a bad idea.
Fine, Paul said. Ill give this a shot.
Cool, now-
But, Paul interjected. If this doesnt work out, then you drop it. I delete my profile off the site and you dont bring up Jessica again. Ever.
Paul, you cant expect to just-
Thats the condition to me doing this, Jamie. I give this one try. Take it or leave it.
Jamie cast a hard stare into Pauls eyes and got nothing back.
Alright, Jamie said. Now, what do you want your username to be?
I dont know how about Soulmate Searcher? Can it be two words?
Jamie stared at Paul.
Are you fucking serious?
Whats wrong with that? Paul said. Jamie leaned forward and began to type.
Your nickname is QBPaul84, Jamie said.
QB? As in quarterback? I dont play football.
Thats not what your profile says.
Dude, do I look like a football player? Im not built like you, Jamie.
Dont worry, well take your shirt off and snap a couple of pictures of you from the chest up. Everyone looks built when they flex their traps.
You want to take my shirt off so you can take pictures of me? Jamie, you sound like a pedophile.
So, under 'interests', do you want me to put pedophile jokes before or after football?
Okay, okay, sorry, Paul said. What do we do next?
We have to answer some questions. Ah, here we go, this is good one: Do you want kids?
Um no, Paul said.
Bzzt, wrong answer bud, Jamie said.
Do not put yes there.
Im not going to select yes, Jamie said. Im going to pick an even better option.
Which is
Open/Undecided. A smile slowly formed on Jamies face as he selected the option from the menu. Its fucking beautiful, isnt it?
I dont get it. Why is that better than saying yes or no?
Saying that youre undecided is like a fucking challenge to women, Paul. They read that and they cant help themselves, theyre drawn to that potential for commitment like like Jamie turned and faced Paul. Open/Undecided is like catnip for cunts.
Im sorry, did you just make a sex-catnip analogy without using the word pussy?
Paul, fucking focus, this is good advice Im giving you.
So Im a 155 lb football player who just cant decide if hes ready for kids, Paul said. Oh, if only the right woman could come along and change me!
Thats the spirit, Jamie said with reborn enthusiasm.
Jamie, I was being facetious. This is god damn idiotic beyond all-"
Do you remember that redhead I brought home a few weeks ago, Jamie asked.
Well yes. That girl was insanely gorgeous.
I met her through this site. She said she liked my profile.
Jamie and Paul sat for a moment in silence.
God damnit, Paul said as he began to take off his shirt.
*
It was a beautiful sunny day and Paul was walking with what could only be described as a skip in his step. As he strutted through the neighborhood, puddles of euphoria and confidence splashed up through his body.
Paul had spent weeks dealing with stupid girls sending him stupid messages about football and yoga and Glee and whatever the hell else Jamie had written in his profile. Hed had to sift through dozens of so-called glamour shots of them pursing their lips as they took a picture of their reflection in a bathroom mirror. Or even better, the high angle shots with the contrast of the picture turned up high enough to mask any blemishes, scars, or signs of god damn human life. There was nothing redeemable about any of them.
Granted, there was that one girl who sent him erotic poetry a few days ago, but she didnt have any pictures in her profile. There was no way he was taking that risk.
Paul was ready to give up. And then...
Anna.
From the moment he saw her profile, Paul knew she was different; none of her pictures were taken in some nightclub bathroom with whoreish friends. Every shot of Anna and her cute curly red hair featured her making a goofy expression. In her Interests section, she had put Nutella and Alfred Hitchcock. Quirky. Paul loved it.
She laughed at his jokes (even Paul didnt laugh at most of his jokes), and after a little online back and forth, he took a chance and asked her if she wanted to meet up. Before he knew it, Paul had his first date in years. Anna suggested that they meet up at her place and take her pet Kiki for a walk. Casual. Comfortable. Perfect.
Of course Jamie didnt agree.
Dude, no, stay away from that one, were the first words out of his mouth.
What? Why, Paul had replied.
Do you see how she has that special custom wallpaper around her profile?
Yeah
You can only get custom wallpaper for your profile if you buy a VIP membership through the site. Only the really, really desperate girls do that. This girls cute, Ill give you that, but that just makes the fact that shes desperate all the more worrying. Im telling you man, that custom wallpaper is like bright orange spots on a frog.
Jamie, youre being-"
You do know what bright orange spots on a frog mean, right Paul?
Dude, you havent even-"
You dont want to lick that bitch.
A heated argument ensued, but the two of them were back to watching Band of Brothers together again by the weekend.
And now, wearing a nice collared shirt and a smile the size of Kansas, Paul knocked on her door. It opened and there she was. Her light yellow blouse rippled as a gentle breeze moved in through the doorway. The tips of her amber red curls dangled in the air. Paul was potentially smitten.
Hi Paul! Before he could open his mouth to say anything, she leaped forward and threw her arms around his skinny neck. Its great to finally meet you in person. She smelled like mango. Officially smitten.
Y-yeah, likewise, Paul managed to utter. Likewise? Christ.
Let me just get Kiki and we can head out. Anna disappeared into her house, leaving Paul alone with his thoughts.
Okay, he whispered to himself, dont slouch, make eye contact.. shit, what else did Jamie say? Oh, touch her arm a lot, but make it seem natural. Act confident and cocky, but not too cocky. Compliment her sometimes, but insult her sometimes too.
Though he found a lot of Jamies advice to be contradictory, if not flat out confusing, there was one suggestion which he agreed couldnt go wrong.
Compliment the dog.
Anna appeared at the doorway, lightly pulling at a long, thin leash that extended down into the hall.
Cmon Kiki, she said.
Paul crouched down, ready to give the dog the compliment of its fucking life.
Aww, he said, thats the single cutest-
Out walked a small blue parakeet with the end of a tiny leash wrapped around its neck.
um bird. Paul slowly stood up. Kikis a bird.
She sure is, Anna said in a voice usually reserved for addressing oxygen-deprived infants. Paul watched as she fell to her hands and knees and began kissing the bird on its beak. Shes a good little girl! Arent you Kiki? Yes you are!
Q- quirky
Were going to be walking your bird?
Of course!
So will it just fly around us while we walk? Like a.. tetherball?
Oh no, Kiki doesnt fly. Anna slowly raised to her feet, turned her head, and stared directly into Pauls eyes. I dont let her fly.
Oh. Paul said.
My, Paul thought.
Good. Paul said.
God, Paul thought.
As they slowly made their way down Annas front stairs, Paul struggled to simultaneously put the absurdity of the bird out of his mind while actively avoiding stepping on the damn thing. Apprehension began to flood into his chest. As Paul considered ending the date there and then, Jamies voice suddenly entered his head.
Sometimes you have to take a risk.
With those words fresh in his mind, Paul decided to give Anna a second chance.
So, Anna, why dont you tell me a little about yourself?
Well, as you may have figured out, Anna said, Im an animal lov-
Anna immediately cut herself off when she saw it: a fat orange tabby was crouched on her neighbors lawn, wiggling its hind legs up and down. It was seconds away from pouncing on what would have been the easiest catch of its life.
Anna shrieked. Though a nearby flock of crows ironically flew away at the sound of her scream, Kiki inexplicably remained frozen in place. Paul wondered if the bird was exercising the Jurassic Park T-Rex principal.
Still, he thought, this was a perfect opportunity to impress Anna. All he had to do was quickly pick up the bird, shoo away the cat, and he would come off looking like the worlds greatest-
Anna ran up and punted the cat in the stomach.
It was around the moment that the tabby flew into a hedge that Paul considered the date officially over.
*
So what the hell did you do next, Jamie asked with an incredulous expression on his face.
I ran. I figured even if she could run fast enough to catch me, that bird sure as hell couldnt.
Though part of Jamie had the urge to laugh, he found himself overwhelmingly concerned for his friend.
Look, Paul, I know it didnt work out this time, but that doesnt mean-
Save it, Jamie, Paul said as he walked into his room and closed the door behind him.
Jamie slumped back into the couch. Fuck.
Paul sat down at his desk and opened his laptop. The dating site- which he had enthusiastically set as his home page- popped up onto the screen. Thoughts of Jessica and Anna lorded over him as he typed in his username and password. Thoughts of rejection, of failure. Hurt. Paul found what he was looking for on the site and clicked it. After taking a deep breath in, he placed his fingers over the keys.
Hi, he typed. Sorry its taken me so long to get back to you.
Paul exhaled.
I liked your poem.
Tangent's entry:
Title: Giving
Word count: 1,121
Secondary Obj:
Im looking for a crappy toy.
Im looking for a crappy toy.
For that no good, porky, snotty boy.
A toy thats broken and one that stinks.
One that fails and always sinks.
Here I stand surveying my room,
But its as if Ive been sent to my tomb.
It all began a few hours ago,
What was my family thinking?! I still dont know.
First my mother made me wear a dress.
Then she said, Pick up your mess.
At six oclock the guests rang the bell,
And that was the end of all going well.
At the door stood three pork bellies.
Rotund, freckled and sweat-covered bodies.
Mr. and Mrs. Kapoozie.
And their terrible son, Robbie.
A nick name, really, for ROTTEN Robbie.
He smelled like blue cheese and wore a beret.
And the first thing he said was, I want to play.
But first we had dinner of chicken and rice.
I had to sit next to Robbie, in fear of his lice.
Kapoozies breathed loudly when awake,
And when they sat in their chairs, the table would shake.
Rotten Robbie complained about the food,
While his parents adored his wonderful mood.
During dessert he cried for my pie,
To say he was pleasant was beyond a lie.
My new neighbors, I determined, sucked,
With Robbie next door, I am truly f***ed.
He ruined my stuff, and cheated on the Wii.
Im bored. Whats next? said Robbie Kapoozie.
I drew him a picture and showed him my turtle.
But I could have just dropped the bomb with an anvil.
I smiled, I laughed. I did all the right stuff.
For I promised my parents I wouldnt get rough.
One evening to be a little nice lady,
Be polite and dont get shady.
This is what my mom and dad said.
And believe it or not, I gave them my pledge.
One CD is scratched, my XBOX controller is broke,
Trying to be nice with Robbie is becoming a joke.
But the clock ticked by,
And it was time to say goodbye!
It was finally night,
And I think I was all right.
At the late hour of the day,
With anything, Robbie could still get away.
But I dont want to go! he whined.
Gosh, this brat was such a grind!
Oh honey dear, said his curly-haired Mommy.
What is it, my love? said his beady-eyed Daddy.
Im not done playing, he pouted and cried.
I waited and waited, thinking, Just get outside.
But instead of them just leaving us alone for the night,
This is what I heard if I did hear right,
Well we have lots of toys
Some for girls and some for boys.
My mother spoke up.
I made a hiccup.
You can take one home with you,
My dad suggested, Or even a few!
Then to me he said, Go on now,
Bring him the best, none else wed allow!
He had a smile on his face,
But underneath was, Now dont disgrace!
I ran up the stairs,
And nobody cares,
That my toys are mine,
And giving them to him is crossing a line.
But I made a promise.
Now disobeying my parents would leave me as a carcass.
So now Im searching all around,
But after looking ceiling to ground,
I now love my toys all the more.
And I realize how much my heart can truly adore.
Im getting desperate. Im feeling helpless.
I dig, I crawl, but my search is aimless.
Toys that are dusty,
Now look so trusty.
Toys that are old,
I could now forever hold.
Shell be here any moment!
My mom says loudly. How pleasant.
I can hear her from downstairs.
Tending to Kapoozie-goodbye affairs.
But what shes clearly telling me,
Is, HURRY UP! and quite frantically.
I couldnt take the pressure anymore.
And I feared my parents, my wishes theyd ignore.
Any moment, theyd come up after me,
In my room to make their choice, mad and stormy.
Theyd pick the toy that is my best,
Leaving me alone, dejected, with the toys that are rest.
It was just then that I lost my mind.
For charity, I will remind:
Is not from an open heart,
But from rules both of science and of art.
My face was flushed pink,
My heart was asink,
My eyes full of tears,
Red hot were my ears.
My braids were loose,
From an evening of abuse.
I broke the glass bunny,
And knocked over Pooh and his honey.
I hid puzzle pieces from box sets,
So I could give away the box without regrets.
I could give him the absolute worst of mine,
If I could make them bad, by my design.
So I drained the paint,
I know, Im not a saint,
And I pulled off the nose of my teddy bear,
I broke my DVDs all of them! In despair.
I cracked the bodies of my collected webkins,
And I drew all over my lovely dolls skins.
I punctured holes in my football and bike tire,
And destroyed all that I could ever acquire.
But I knew that at the end of my work,
My toys were for me, and not for that jerk.
Broken, theyd be,
But mine, theyd be.
For my parents couldnt give him anything but the best.
And I felt like I handled well in this test.
But I was taking too long,
Small talk couldnt prolong.
My mother marched into my room,
And then I was faced with her doom.
What is going on in here?
I stood paralyzed, frozen in fear.
I didnt know what I had to give
Everythings broken, so please forgive.
But my plan did not hold up,
My mother got Zeus what is up?
My favorite Zhu Zhu?!
I need a tissue!
And before she left to go back down,
I saw her think and then slow down.
She turned to me and then she said,
Standing near my Ben-10 bed,
Take a look inside yourself.
(A trick, I know, to feel bad about oneself.)
I heard her pass along my favorite toy.
And I heard Robbie snicker with joy.
The Kapoozies said goodbye.
And my dad said, Always drop by!
The door was closed and that was it.
It was over; I no longer had to submit.
But I still listened to Mom and Dad,
And it wasnt actually all that bad.
For I dont know how to look inside myself.
I imagine a gigantic, empty gulf.
Easier yet is looking inside my toy chest.
Gadgets! Art! Fun! Tools! All that I possessed!
So I looked inside and found so much fun,
And I knew that this was a night where I had won.
Title: Giving
Word count: 1,121
Secondary Obj:
Shel Silverstein & a bit of David Sedaris
Im looking for a crappy toy.
Im looking for a crappy toy.
For that no good, porky, snotty boy.
A toy thats broken and one that stinks.
One that fails and always sinks.
Here I stand surveying my room,
But its as if Ive been sent to my tomb.
It all began a few hours ago,
What was my family thinking?! I still dont know.
First my mother made me wear a dress.
Then she said, Pick up your mess.
At six oclock the guests rang the bell,
And that was the end of all going well.
At the door stood three pork bellies.
Rotund, freckled and sweat-covered bodies.
Mr. and Mrs. Kapoozie.
And their terrible son, Robbie.
A nick name, really, for ROTTEN Robbie.
He smelled like blue cheese and wore a beret.
And the first thing he said was, I want to play.
But first we had dinner of chicken and rice.
I had to sit next to Robbie, in fear of his lice.
Kapoozies breathed loudly when awake,
And when they sat in their chairs, the table would shake.
Rotten Robbie complained about the food,
While his parents adored his wonderful mood.
During dessert he cried for my pie,
To say he was pleasant was beyond a lie.
My new neighbors, I determined, sucked,
With Robbie next door, I am truly f***ed.
He ruined my stuff, and cheated on the Wii.
Im bored. Whats next? said Robbie Kapoozie.
I drew him a picture and showed him my turtle.
But I could have just dropped the bomb with an anvil.
I smiled, I laughed. I did all the right stuff.
For I promised my parents I wouldnt get rough.
One evening to be a little nice lady,
Be polite and dont get shady.
This is what my mom and dad said.
And believe it or not, I gave them my pledge.
One CD is scratched, my XBOX controller is broke,
Trying to be nice with Robbie is becoming a joke.
But the clock ticked by,
And it was time to say goodbye!
It was finally night,
And I think I was all right.
At the late hour of the day,
With anything, Robbie could still get away.
But I dont want to go! he whined.
Gosh, this brat was such a grind!
Oh honey dear, said his curly-haired Mommy.
What is it, my love? said his beady-eyed Daddy.
Im not done playing, he pouted and cried.
I waited and waited, thinking, Just get outside.
But instead of them just leaving us alone for the night,
This is what I heard if I did hear right,
Well we have lots of toys
Some for girls and some for boys.
My mother spoke up.
I made a hiccup.
You can take one home with you,
My dad suggested, Or even a few!
Then to me he said, Go on now,
Bring him the best, none else wed allow!
He had a smile on his face,
But underneath was, Now dont disgrace!
I ran up the stairs,
And nobody cares,
That my toys are mine,
And giving them to him is crossing a line.
But I made a promise.
Now disobeying my parents would leave me as a carcass.
So now Im searching all around,
But after looking ceiling to ground,
I now love my toys all the more.
And I realize how much my heart can truly adore.
Im getting desperate. Im feeling helpless.
I dig, I crawl, but my search is aimless.
Toys that are dusty,
Now look so trusty.
Toys that are old,
I could now forever hold.
Shell be here any moment!
My mom says loudly. How pleasant.
I can hear her from downstairs.
Tending to Kapoozie-goodbye affairs.
But what shes clearly telling me,
Is, HURRY UP! and quite frantically.
I couldnt take the pressure anymore.
And I feared my parents, my wishes theyd ignore.
Any moment, theyd come up after me,
In my room to make their choice, mad and stormy.
Theyd pick the toy that is my best,
Leaving me alone, dejected, with the toys that are rest.
It was just then that I lost my mind.
For charity, I will remind:
Is not from an open heart,
But from rules both of science and of art.
My face was flushed pink,
My heart was asink,
My eyes full of tears,
Red hot were my ears.
My braids were loose,
From an evening of abuse.
I broke the glass bunny,
And knocked over Pooh and his honey.
I hid puzzle pieces from box sets,
So I could give away the box without regrets.
I could give him the absolute worst of mine,
If I could make them bad, by my design.
So I drained the paint,
I know, Im not a saint,
And I pulled off the nose of my teddy bear,
I broke my DVDs all of them! In despair.
I cracked the bodies of my collected webkins,
And I drew all over my lovely dolls skins.
I punctured holes in my football and bike tire,
And destroyed all that I could ever acquire.
But I knew that at the end of my work,
My toys were for me, and not for that jerk.
Broken, theyd be,
But mine, theyd be.
For my parents couldnt give him anything but the best.
And I felt like I handled well in this test.
But I was taking too long,
Small talk couldnt prolong.
My mother marched into my room,
And then I was faced with her doom.
What is going on in here?
I stood paralyzed, frozen in fear.
I didnt know what I had to give
Everythings broken, so please forgive.
But my plan did not hold up,
My mother got Zeus what is up?
My favorite Zhu Zhu?!
I need a tissue!
And before she left to go back down,
I saw her think and then slow down.
She turned to me and then she said,
Standing near my Ben-10 bed,
Take a look inside yourself.
(A trick, I know, to feel bad about oneself.)
I heard her pass along my favorite toy.
And I heard Robbie snicker with joy.
The Kapoozies said goodbye.
And my dad said, Always drop by!
The door was closed and that was it.
It was over; I no longer had to submit.
But I still listened to Mom and Dad,
And it wasnt actually all that bad.
For I dont know how to look inside myself.
I imagine a gigantic, empty gulf.
Easier yet is looking inside my toy chest.
Gadgets! Art! Fun! Tools! All that I possessed!
So I looked inside and found so much fun,
And I knew that this was a night where I had won.
hey_monkey
Banned
Ashes1396 said:Spill those guts...
As regards my entry, I'm still on my way home from work...
post it anyway! as a non-qual.
The Entries:
Azih - "Sand in the Snow" (ineligible, but please read and comment anyway!)
Alfarif - "Code and Killing"
Aaron - "Watch out for the Monkey"
Irish - "Compatibility Complications"
John Dunbar - "Trophy Wife"
ZephyrFate - "Crystalline"
ronito - "I'm not that naive"
RevenantKioku - "An Old Dog Called Skip and the Boy Who Loved Him"
Ward - "Once a Pun a Time"
Tim the Wiz - "Family Bonding"
Timedog - "Calm Ethereal"
Cyan - "Ignis Fatuus"
evilpigking - "Our Story"
hey_monkey - "Piper"
AnkitT - "Education in form"
Mike Works - "The Water"
Tangent - "Giving"
Ashes1396 - "The manic and the depressive"
DumbNameD - "A Sorry Ending"
Azih - "Sand in the Snow" (ineligible, but please read and comment anyway!)
Alfarif - "Code and Killing"
Aaron - "Watch out for the Monkey"
Irish - "Compatibility Complications"
John Dunbar - "Trophy Wife"
ZephyrFate - "Crystalline"
ronito - "I'm not that naive"
RevenantKioku - "An Old Dog Called Skip and the Boy Who Loved Him"
Ward - "Once a Pun a Time"
Tim the Wiz - "Family Bonding"
Timedog - "Calm Ethereal"
Cyan - "Ignis Fatuus"
evilpigking - "Our Story"
hey_monkey - "Piper"
AnkitT - "Education in form"
Mike Works - "The Water"
Tangent - "Giving"
Ashes1396 - "The manic and the depressive"
DumbNameD - "A Sorry Ending"
The manic and the depressive
I stopped washing the dishes for a moment and looked out the window. Through the white net curtains, my gaze took me onto the street in front of our house. The sun shone upon half the street. I kept my eye on my little boy as he was walking his little sister to school. I looked back down at the suds on my hands and blew some off. A single strand of hair fell out of place. I blew upwards trying to return things to normal protocol. And that was that. I looked over my right shoulder; weary, that I was all alone in the house...
I wonder about a lot of things whilst I hoover around the house. Its hard to explain the things that go through my head. Im like water, my husband used to say: sometimes the calmest of lakes but never too far from a tempest. I suppose its more telling that while you think about the metaphor, Im thinking about the word before it. Husband...
He left to get help, for his manic depression; about six months ago I think. Well, I guess I sort of kicked him out of the house as well.
Hed come home and told me that hed got leave from work. A year off to try treat this mental illness. So that he can get his life back into order. He works for a law firm and they said they wont fill his place whilst he was on leave.
I flew into a rage. WHAT ABOUT THE FLIPPEN MORTGAGE? I said.
Hed got sick pay, he said. That ought to cover us for a few weeks. The rest would come from the savings.
He hadnt fully sprung this on me, but Id always had the impression that it would be for a couple of weeks. Not a year. The argument carried on thus. To him, this was just another argument in our long series of loud arguments. How wrong he was!
Long story short, the night ended with my head in my hands with a half empty red wine bottle on the kitchen table. I remember looking at the clock hands strike three. Id had enough of it all. I sat in the empty kitchen as he came back a final time to get his clothes and kiss the children goodbye.
Ill send the divorce papers within the week, I said.
He looked at me with his big empty eyes. Please dont, he said. I still love-
I grabbed the wine bottle by its neck and hurled it at the wall. It smashed to smithereens and bloodied the wall in the process.
I will lose my HOUSE in a couple of months because of YOU! My children will have no father because of you. I will have all the bills to pay, the children to take care of, this house to run; and all these things I have to do alone. That isnt a marriage Jack, I said. I cant do this anymore.
Youd rather I were dead? he asked softly.
Oh fuck off! I said looking away. That was the first and last time I swore at Jack.
He looked at the floor a few seconds. Emma, Im... I dont-
I put my head in my hands and concentrated on the buzz of the drunken stupor.
Its funny how things work out, isnt it.
Thats not me saying it though I agree with it full heartedly. Thats the blurb under the massive picture of Jack, the kids and I. It hangs above my bed. I think Ill stop house work for now and rest on the newly laid sheets. Sometimes, I reach out to his side of the bed as if he were there still...
Every day is an uphill battle. Each day seems harder than the last. Theres always another bill and the next mortgage payment after that. The children keep asking about their father and I keep having to say that he has gone away for a bit. Charlie, my eldest son, 10, asked me once, whether dad, and I were getting a divorce. I told him not to worry about that and concentrate on his schoolwork like a good boy. He pretends these days that he is fine and happy, but you can see an overarching sadness on his face.
I used to keep the divorce papers in the draw, but Ive thrown them away since, to stop the temptation. I can always go get another one, I say to myself. Theres another reason, but Ill tell you that in a bit.
On the last supper night, I honestly felt the connection between myself and Jack be severed by the sharp scissors of the separation gods. I thought, yep, Ive drawn a line in the sand- Ive made my bed now I have to lie in it. But time passes and soon enough emotions -chemically drawn as they are- draw another picture. Thats why I still have our picture above the bed. The blank wall had revealed the omission of the picture.
About two months ago, my company, a boring run of the mill accounting company had a layoff. Everybody is struggling in the recession and I knew I was taking my chances with Mills & Co. What could have I done anyway? But there you go; I lost my job.
So I got home that evening. Tidied the house, fed the kids and put them to sleep. I made a cup of tea and settled on the sofa. And then I had a little cry. And in a fit of desperation I called Jack.
Im done Jack. I tried my best and for a while I managed to hold on. But Ive failed.
Failed? said Jack. I saw on the news what happened to the firm... I was going to call you. You havent used the money in the saving account. That should- said Jack in his typical despondent manner; he had a low powered voice that emanated from deep within.
Arent you hearing the words that are coming out of my mouth Jack? Im washed up. Please come home. I cant do this without you.
Im hearing them. Maybe a lesser person like myself may not find a way. But you will.
Huh! I wish I had your confidence, I said through my strained sobs.
I was reading a book today and its opened my eyes to a few things. Emma, who cooks at our house? Honestly speaking. Once or twice not counting, asked Jack.
Well I guess that would be me.
Who cleans up the house? Looks after the children? Makes sure the bills are paid and the house is in order? You do darling; lets not mince words here. What am I really contributing? I decide the TV brand, the console that comes home and I wash the drains. This whole equal society thing. Its changed in some ways, you got the vote; but in others, it hasnt nearly enough. Think about it. You dont need me. You never have.
You went to get your head fixed and you became a feminist! I said on the cusp of laughter.
Im saying you have an excellent track record. Im also trying to show you the place of a woman like yourself in society isnt nearly high enough.
Well thank you for that. But why arent you worried that your wife and kids are going to be on the streets?
I am worried. I cant stop worrying. Its why Im here.
I paused for a second trying to put my words together. Jack, if someone presented you with a big red button and said that if you press this button, this manic depression thing would go away, would you press that button?
After several moments, he said: No... Sometimes it shows you the greatest of insights into life. I believe it gives me a greater appreciation for some things. What Ive realised by coming here is that there is no cure. Youre just here to learn how to be in control of your life.
Jack and I talked till dawn. About odd stuff really. And the mundane. It just came naturally.
And here I am settled on the sofa to a nice and clean house. Just the way I like it. The queen of my own palace. And I did find a job. Eventually. I then quit it within the trial period...for another job. The job I have now is more flexible, which is important to me- it was a government work-life balance scheme. And of course it pays better. When I think about this, I have a warm fuzzy feeling inside; it brings a smile to my face; a moment of joy at having accomplished a task; a job well done. Ive done well. Haven't I?
I guess should leave you to your own life now I suppose. I have my children's health, my own health. My house; my ivory castle...
~
Emma wore a delicate smile that was sweet in complexion and shone from deep within. The mind is a curious machine that weaves matching emotions together yet it brings about sometimes, frames of references, which bring about unwanted emotions. And so it came to be that a simple flash of her absent husband, Jack Holmes, turned the curls of a smile to that of a frown. And from a frown to an angry countenance.
A knock at the door broke her stream of thought. Lo and behold, it was Jack Holmes.
Whatre you doing here Jack? Emma snarled. She walked back to her living room.
Jack followed her in. I came to say that Im working again.
Well how very nice for you! said Emma folding her hands as she looked out the living room window.
Jack sat down on the sofa. How are you?
Emma turned around. Fine! You?
Jack looked at the floor. Ive been better, thank you.
Emma spotted the scar just under the left eye. Youve been in fights?
What this? No, thats from when I was here.
What is that suppose to mean? Im not a husband beater now, am I? said Emma scoffing at the idea.
No of course not. But you do have a tendency to throw things!
I can't believe this! Are you putting the blame on me? After all you've done! said Emma clearly ruffled.
Jack avoided her eyes. That was a joke... I was only...
Trying to lighten the mood, Emma finished off. She took an exalted breath. Wait here, Ive been cleaning, let me go up and change and then Ill make us tea.
Whilst Emma went upstairs, Jack shuffled about in the living room. Emma looked around her vacant bedroom as she changed her clothes. Did she want Jack just to fill the emptiness? She thought about the scar on Jacks face. Had she given it to him? Theyd always had very passionate arguments. She looked at herself in the mirror. She tried to remember the last time Jack had raised his voice. She couldnt.
She then heard the front door open and then shut downstairs.
Shit! snapped Emma.
A powerful wave of emotions brimmed as a ghostly figure in her semi dressed state, she went downstairs, calling out for Jack, and then when depressing the sofa deep in the meadows of realisation that shed lost a part of her, somehow or another, as the silent afternoon wore on without the semblance of time, she drifted off to a disconsolate dream.
Jack put the flowers hed bought in the flower pot on the coffee table. He made a cup of tea for himself and sat beside Emma.
Emma woke suddenly. She touched him with a finger and then she felt for the scar. I thought you left... she said, her heart almost bursting with happiness.
I did.... But your flower pot didn't have any flowers, so... do you want tea?
I stopped washing the dishes for a moment and looked out the window. Through the white net curtains, my gaze took me onto the street in front of our house. The sun shone upon half the street. I kept my eye on my little boy as he was walking his little sister to school. I looked back down at the suds on my hands and blew some off. A single strand of hair fell out of place. I blew upwards trying to return things to normal protocol. And that was that. I looked over my right shoulder; weary, that I was all alone in the house...
I wonder about a lot of things whilst I hoover around the house. Its hard to explain the things that go through my head. Im like water, my husband used to say: sometimes the calmest of lakes but never too far from a tempest. I suppose its more telling that while you think about the metaphor, Im thinking about the word before it. Husband...
He left to get help, for his manic depression; about six months ago I think. Well, I guess I sort of kicked him out of the house as well.
Hed come home and told me that hed got leave from work. A year off to try treat this mental illness. So that he can get his life back into order. He works for a law firm and they said they wont fill his place whilst he was on leave.
I flew into a rage. WHAT ABOUT THE FLIPPEN MORTGAGE? I said.
Hed got sick pay, he said. That ought to cover us for a few weeks. The rest would come from the savings.
He hadnt fully sprung this on me, but Id always had the impression that it would be for a couple of weeks. Not a year. The argument carried on thus. To him, this was just another argument in our long series of loud arguments. How wrong he was!
Long story short, the night ended with my head in my hands with a half empty red wine bottle on the kitchen table. I remember looking at the clock hands strike three. Id had enough of it all. I sat in the empty kitchen as he came back a final time to get his clothes and kiss the children goodbye.
Ill send the divorce papers within the week, I said.
He looked at me with his big empty eyes. Please dont, he said. I still love-
I grabbed the wine bottle by its neck and hurled it at the wall. It smashed to smithereens and bloodied the wall in the process.
I will lose my HOUSE in a couple of months because of YOU! My children will have no father because of you. I will have all the bills to pay, the children to take care of, this house to run; and all these things I have to do alone. That isnt a marriage Jack, I said. I cant do this anymore.
Youd rather I were dead? he asked softly.
Oh fuck off! I said looking away. That was the first and last time I swore at Jack.
He looked at the floor a few seconds. Emma, Im... I dont-
I put my head in my hands and concentrated on the buzz of the drunken stupor.
Its funny how things work out, isnt it.
Thats not me saying it though I agree with it full heartedly. Thats the blurb under the massive picture of Jack, the kids and I. It hangs above my bed. I think Ill stop house work for now and rest on the newly laid sheets. Sometimes, I reach out to his side of the bed as if he were there still...
Every day is an uphill battle. Each day seems harder than the last. Theres always another bill and the next mortgage payment after that. The children keep asking about their father and I keep having to say that he has gone away for a bit. Charlie, my eldest son, 10, asked me once, whether dad, and I were getting a divorce. I told him not to worry about that and concentrate on his schoolwork like a good boy. He pretends these days that he is fine and happy, but you can see an overarching sadness on his face.
I used to keep the divorce papers in the draw, but Ive thrown them away since, to stop the temptation. I can always go get another one, I say to myself. Theres another reason, but Ill tell you that in a bit.
On the last supper night, I honestly felt the connection between myself and Jack be severed by the sharp scissors of the separation gods. I thought, yep, Ive drawn a line in the sand- Ive made my bed now I have to lie in it. But time passes and soon enough emotions -chemically drawn as they are- draw another picture. Thats why I still have our picture above the bed. The blank wall had revealed the omission of the picture.
About two months ago, my company, a boring run of the mill accounting company had a layoff. Everybody is struggling in the recession and I knew I was taking my chances with Mills & Co. What could have I done anyway? But there you go; I lost my job.
So I got home that evening. Tidied the house, fed the kids and put them to sleep. I made a cup of tea and settled on the sofa. And then I had a little cry. And in a fit of desperation I called Jack.
Im done Jack. I tried my best and for a while I managed to hold on. But Ive failed.
Failed? said Jack. I saw on the news what happened to the firm... I was going to call you. You havent used the money in the saving account. That should- said Jack in his typical despondent manner; he had a low powered voice that emanated from deep within.
Arent you hearing the words that are coming out of my mouth Jack? Im washed up. Please come home. I cant do this without you.
Im hearing them. Maybe a lesser person like myself may not find a way. But you will.
Huh! I wish I had your confidence, I said through my strained sobs.
I was reading a book today and its opened my eyes to a few things. Emma, who cooks at our house? Honestly speaking. Once or twice not counting, asked Jack.
Well I guess that would be me.
Who cleans up the house? Looks after the children? Makes sure the bills are paid and the house is in order? You do darling; lets not mince words here. What am I really contributing? I decide the TV brand, the console that comes home and I wash the drains. This whole equal society thing. Its changed in some ways, you got the vote; but in others, it hasnt nearly enough. Think about it. You dont need me. You never have.
You went to get your head fixed and you became a feminist! I said on the cusp of laughter.
Im saying you have an excellent track record. Im also trying to show you the place of a woman like yourself in society isnt nearly high enough.
Well thank you for that. But why arent you worried that your wife and kids are going to be on the streets?
I am worried. I cant stop worrying. Its why Im here.
I paused for a second trying to put my words together. Jack, if someone presented you with a big red button and said that if you press this button, this manic depression thing would go away, would you press that button?
After several moments, he said: No... Sometimes it shows you the greatest of insights into life. I believe it gives me a greater appreciation for some things. What Ive realised by coming here is that there is no cure. Youre just here to learn how to be in control of your life.
Jack and I talked till dawn. About odd stuff really. And the mundane. It just came naturally.
And here I am settled on the sofa to a nice and clean house. Just the way I like it. The queen of my own palace. And I did find a job. Eventually. I then quit it within the trial period...for another job. The job I have now is more flexible, which is important to me- it was a government work-life balance scheme. And of course it pays better. When I think about this, I have a warm fuzzy feeling inside; it brings a smile to my face; a moment of joy at having accomplished a task; a job well done. Ive done well. Haven't I?
I guess should leave you to your own life now I suppose. I have my children's health, my own health. My house; my ivory castle...
~
Emma wore a delicate smile that was sweet in complexion and shone from deep within. The mind is a curious machine that weaves matching emotions together yet it brings about sometimes, frames of references, which bring about unwanted emotions. And so it came to be that a simple flash of her absent husband, Jack Holmes, turned the curls of a smile to that of a frown. And from a frown to an angry countenance.
A knock at the door broke her stream of thought. Lo and behold, it was Jack Holmes.
Whatre you doing here Jack? Emma snarled. She walked back to her living room.
Jack followed her in. I came to say that Im working again.
Well how very nice for you! said Emma folding her hands as she looked out the living room window.
Jack sat down on the sofa. How are you?
Emma turned around. Fine! You?
Jack looked at the floor. Ive been better, thank you.
Emma spotted the scar just under the left eye. Youve been in fights?
What this? No, thats from when I was here.
What is that suppose to mean? Im not a husband beater now, am I? said Emma scoffing at the idea.
No of course not. But you do have a tendency to throw things!
I can't believe this! Are you putting the blame on me? After all you've done! said Emma clearly ruffled.
Jack avoided her eyes. That was a joke... I was only...
Trying to lighten the mood, Emma finished off. She took an exalted breath. Wait here, Ive been cleaning, let me go up and change and then Ill make us tea.
Whilst Emma went upstairs, Jack shuffled about in the living room. Emma looked around her vacant bedroom as she changed her clothes. Did she want Jack just to fill the emptiness? She thought about the scar on Jacks face. Had she given it to him? Theyd always had very passionate arguments. She looked at herself in the mirror. She tried to remember the last time Jack had raised his voice. She couldnt.
She then heard the front door open and then shut downstairs.
Shit! snapped Emma.
A powerful wave of emotions brimmed as a ghostly figure in her semi dressed state, she went downstairs, calling out for Jack, and then when depressing the sofa deep in the meadows of realisation that shed lost a part of her, somehow or another, as the silent afternoon wore on without the semblance of time, she drifted off to a disconsolate dream.
Jack put the flowers hed bought in the flower pot on the coffee table. He made a cup of tea for himself and sat beside Emma.
Emma woke suddenly. She touched him with a finger and then she felt for the scar. I thought you left... she said, her heart almost bursting with happiness.
I did.... But your flower pot didn't have any flowers, so... do you want tea?
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