ZephyrFate
Banned
Other way around, Irish.
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NeoGAF Creative Writing Challenge #57 - "Time"
- Thread starter Cyan
- Start date
- Status
Irish said:
One of these days you really are going to write something great. :/ Then what are you going to do...?
Separately, I wrote a mini story this week, with no real thought into it. I may post that later on, just cause. It's about a man who stays inside a box he drew on the floor one day. In order to make tea, he decides that he will draw steps over to his kettle, then a couple more to the fridge, and back again.
Tim the Wiz
Banned
ZephyrFate -- Is your avatar cycling through Barcelona players? Because, sorry, Cesc ain't leaving quite yet.
ZephyrFate
Banned
No? I know Cesc is still on Arsenal. I have a huge sexual attraction to Pique and Cesc, though... as well as Jesy McKinney who modeled Ellis in L4D2.Tim the Wiz said:
Tim the Wiz
Banned
ZephyrFate said:No? I know Cesc is still on Arsenal. I have a huge sexual attraction to Pique and Cesc, though... as well as Jesy McKinney who modeled Ellis in L4D2.
Oh. Heh, carry on.
Irish said:Nah, it's yours and I most definitely wouldn't do it justice. I'd just like to read it.I have no idea what you are talking about with your edit.
the person who sits next to me at work just asked me why I was talking so fast, Like an actor in a classic B&W film. I didn't realize I was doing it. Must be the caffeine overload. Yep. yep. must be it. . Also, coincidentally, I did watch a classic film earlier tonight
. Also, coincidentally, I did watch a classic film earlier tonightZephyrFate
Banned
There Are Differences [All Ephemera]
Word Count: 1616
My parents always told me that time was important. Not necessarily because our existence is short, but that each minute should be used to its utmost capability. I had never known the weight of that thought until this one moment. The second that I turn the handle on this doorknob would change everything. The name of Araza would be known far and wide, and there would be tales told of my bravery, right after this single action. The timelines of many rested on this.
But something irked me. My parents had also told me that to take another person's 'time', to effectively end their existence in the grand scheme of things, was something that took guts. They believed everyone deserved 'time', to its fullest extent. To cut that short from a person would be to deprive him or her of their full potential. While I believed that this man deserved a quick and hasty death, part of me wanted to make him suffer.
Who am you to judge who gets to live or die, though? An inner voice spoke. What do you see happening when you open this door? Do you see fate as just a linear path, or one of infinite answers?
The mansion I was in became claustrophobic, as if the entire structure had started to narrow itself into a one hallway, with this door as its logical end. The bathrooms, the bedrooms, the stairs and windows, all condensed into a uniform path. Everything that lead up to this point caught up to me. I could see the destitute children crying behind fogged, unclean windows. They could just barely see outside; the world they saw was tainted with the dirt of mistakes and the guilt of those who left them there.
I could see their tears so clearly, the little pearls diamond-cut, chiseling the grime off their faces like a flood through an unfortunate village. Each one uttered a different call for help, and each time the diamonds - like their dreams - would leap freely from their beleaguered faces to shatter upon the moldy floor below them.
Then everything would speed up, and the children would be gone, as would their houses. The town they settled in was being cleansed seeds of revolution never catered to the powers above. Those who escaped the first butchering were found, then thrown into the Black Sea. And those who escaped that, well... they attempted to do what I'm doing now: ending all of this before it went too far.
The fight would be quick. I'd run in and catch him unawares, probably as he perused the Internet or read a magazine. His guards had been effectively silenced, at least for now, so all that was left was for him to fall prey to the blade in my hand. The knife had served me well; a hunting knife that in the best of times kept me alive, and now I was going to use it to make sure someone else died. I had known from some research that the man was fairly well-versed in forms of martial arts, but I was quick, quicker than most would assume.
I'd throw a rock at the windows to break them, letting the cold air in, snuffing out the candles he probably had lit, giving the dark free reign. He would throw a feint and lure me in, probably kicking me in the stomach, and I would expel air and blood. But then I'd grab his leg and flip him backwards, probably throwing him onto a table.
He'd probably recover quicker than I could leap on top of him, and get a few kicks to my face and stomach, but the last one I'd dodge, nimbly leaping backwards. He'd try to get in close, but I'm too quick. I'd slice through the air with my knife, cutting through the mist issuing from his mouth, creating a red valley right along the middle of his face. He'd look confused, then fall backwards, clutching his mutilated face.
Then I would deal the killing blow, a quick slice across his throat... just a little environmental engineering. And as he fell to the ground, he would feel the sorrow all those children had faced. He would relive all their parents being drawn out and quartered, or hanged, or butchered, or drowned. He would see that our revolution was to put an end to our poverty, to put an end to our depravity.
Politicians. They don't deserve 'time'. Their agendas always lead to our downfall, and I can't let that happen.
The inner voice spoke once more, as my hand began to turn the knob: You change so much with this one act. Are you willing to face the consequences? Revenge is not an easy path. Murder is even harder. The blood will never leave your hands, no matter how hard you clean them.
I had no answer, and the only thing I could hear was the quiet tick-tock of a nearby clock, each one a heartbeat, each one a second.
Time waits for no one. I turned the doorknob, pushing the door open.
------
Five minutes, Hamza. The cameraman said, before disappearing behind the dressing room door.
A lot can happen in five minutes... I said, adjusting the tie on my suit. The man before me looked so different from the man I used to know. Or even, the boy I used to know. I once had scared little eyes, unsure of what to do, where to go, who to talk to. My black hair was never tidied up, never made into something presentable, and my clothes were all too often hand-me-downs or sullied rags. The mendacity my parents had telling me that I would never make anything of myself!
Look at where I am now, mother. Be jealous of my success, father. I had lived the life of poor beggar boy, I had experienced being downtrodden underneath the crushing war machine of humanity. I had seen strife and guns and death, war and ugly politics; I had felt the vice of realpolitik, and the lengths a religious man would go to make his religion dominant. I, too, had even been a part of mild revolutions that went nowhere. As soon as martial law had been enacted, that became a much more difficult possibility for any impoverished individual, but when that subsided the flowers sprung up again, like warlike weeds.
So instead of going against the grain, I went right with it. The way I see it? We attempt to make compromises, instead of trying to push everyone underfoot. We look for ways to circumvent disaster without abusing the gravitas of a revolution. There was no corrupt regime to topple anymore, and I made sure of that. But to do just that required a far more pervasive type of law. A law that superceded petty matters, an enforcement of justice that quelled these weeds. If we were to set everyone upon one goal, upon one ultimate journey, we would all find a placid life. It just took... a bit of coercion.
All I need to say is the right words. Come on, Hamza, you can do this. Chin up, go get 'em, break a leg... But the man that murmured those phrases didn't match with their intent. The man that looked back at me was just as fragile as the boy I left behind. A suit did nothing to hide the fear, the future attempts on my life, the stifling pressure of a country's zeitgeist being irrevocably changed.
The brown skin reminded him of the dirt that blended in so well, to a point where he almost didn't notice that he needed a shower. The green-hazel eyes that could never hold a lingering gaze, because they would retreat behind the shelter of eyelids and the water of wasted tears. I couldn't cry anymore, no... I had learned from the first few times I was caught letting those droplets free that it was never worth it to cry. You had to grow a skin that wouldn't be penetrated by destructive emotions such as depression or sadness. Every tear that would be shed could be transformed into a weapon of anger and righteousness. The razor-cutting emotions became miniature Excaliburs pulled from barren stone hearts, and with a swing a man would experience all the misery one felt. With the second he'd just die.
I was no longer a child who could run anymore. There were no hiding places left and so all I could do was walk out in the open. I would let the predatory tigers view my exposed self; they would hear my voice and cower, shrinking back into the dark alleyways. I would invite all that would wish to harm me to do just that.
I could envision my speech now:
We have been a divided people for so long. We've let tyrants and dictators control our lives for too long; we've let them sweep us underfoot because that is all we've ever known. Now the weapon of choice is within our hands and together we must march forward and whet its appetite! We will raze the town of Mariyyad, and stop this foolish call for violence! We will not live in a time of war!!
And of course I would abridge my own speech. But time is not giving me much more of a chance to reflect. I took one last glance at the doppelganger in the glass prison, and he looked confident. He looked like he could make a difference.
Time waits for no one. I stood up from my chair, and pulled open the door.
Word Count: 1616
My parents always told me that time was important. Not necessarily because our existence is short, but that each minute should be used to its utmost capability. I had never known the weight of that thought until this one moment. The second that I turn the handle on this doorknob would change everything. The name of Araza would be known far and wide, and there would be tales told of my bravery, right after this single action. The timelines of many rested on this.
But something irked me. My parents had also told me that to take another person's 'time', to effectively end their existence in the grand scheme of things, was something that took guts. They believed everyone deserved 'time', to its fullest extent. To cut that short from a person would be to deprive him or her of their full potential. While I believed that this man deserved a quick and hasty death, part of me wanted to make him suffer.
Who am you to judge who gets to live or die, though? An inner voice spoke. What do you see happening when you open this door? Do you see fate as just a linear path, or one of infinite answers?
The mansion I was in became claustrophobic, as if the entire structure had started to narrow itself into a one hallway, with this door as its logical end. The bathrooms, the bedrooms, the stairs and windows, all condensed into a uniform path. Everything that lead up to this point caught up to me. I could see the destitute children crying behind fogged, unclean windows. They could just barely see outside; the world they saw was tainted with the dirt of mistakes and the guilt of those who left them there.
I could see their tears so clearly, the little pearls diamond-cut, chiseling the grime off their faces like a flood through an unfortunate village. Each one uttered a different call for help, and each time the diamonds - like their dreams - would leap freely from their beleaguered faces to shatter upon the moldy floor below them.
Then everything would speed up, and the children would be gone, as would their houses. The town they settled in was being cleansed seeds of revolution never catered to the powers above. Those who escaped the first butchering were found, then thrown into the Black Sea. And those who escaped that, well... they attempted to do what I'm doing now: ending all of this before it went too far.
The fight would be quick. I'd run in and catch him unawares, probably as he perused the Internet or read a magazine. His guards had been effectively silenced, at least for now, so all that was left was for him to fall prey to the blade in my hand. The knife had served me well; a hunting knife that in the best of times kept me alive, and now I was going to use it to make sure someone else died. I had known from some research that the man was fairly well-versed in forms of martial arts, but I was quick, quicker than most would assume.
I'd throw a rock at the windows to break them, letting the cold air in, snuffing out the candles he probably had lit, giving the dark free reign. He would throw a feint and lure me in, probably kicking me in the stomach, and I would expel air and blood. But then I'd grab his leg and flip him backwards, probably throwing him onto a table.
He'd probably recover quicker than I could leap on top of him, and get a few kicks to my face and stomach, but the last one I'd dodge, nimbly leaping backwards. He'd try to get in close, but I'm too quick. I'd slice through the air with my knife, cutting through the mist issuing from his mouth, creating a red valley right along the middle of his face. He'd look confused, then fall backwards, clutching his mutilated face.
Then I would deal the killing blow, a quick slice across his throat... just a little environmental engineering. And as he fell to the ground, he would feel the sorrow all those children had faced. He would relive all their parents being drawn out and quartered, or hanged, or butchered, or drowned. He would see that our revolution was to put an end to our poverty, to put an end to our depravity.
Politicians. They don't deserve 'time'. Their agendas always lead to our downfall, and I can't let that happen.
The inner voice spoke once more, as my hand began to turn the knob: You change so much with this one act. Are you willing to face the consequences? Revenge is not an easy path. Murder is even harder. The blood will never leave your hands, no matter how hard you clean them.
I had no answer, and the only thing I could hear was the quiet tick-tock of a nearby clock, each one a heartbeat, each one a second.
Time waits for no one. I turned the doorknob, pushing the door open.
------
Five minutes, Hamza. The cameraman said, before disappearing behind the dressing room door.
A lot can happen in five minutes... I said, adjusting the tie on my suit. The man before me looked so different from the man I used to know. Or even, the boy I used to know. I once had scared little eyes, unsure of what to do, where to go, who to talk to. My black hair was never tidied up, never made into something presentable, and my clothes were all too often hand-me-downs or sullied rags. The mendacity my parents had telling me that I would never make anything of myself!
Look at where I am now, mother. Be jealous of my success, father. I had lived the life of poor beggar boy, I had experienced being downtrodden underneath the crushing war machine of humanity. I had seen strife and guns and death, war and ugly politics; I had felt the vice of realpolitik, and the lengths a religious man would go to make his religion dominant. I, too, had even been a part of mild revolutions that went nowhere. As soon as martial law had been enacted, that became a much more difficult possibility for any impoverished individual, but when that subsided the flowers sprung up again, like warlike weeds.
So instead of going against the grain, I went right with it. The way I see it? We attempt to make compromises, instead of trying to push everyone underfoot. We look for ways to circumvent disaster without abusing the gravitas of a revolution. There was no corrupt regime to topple anymore, and I made sure of that. But to do just that required a far more pervasive type of law. A law that superceded petty matters, an enforcement of justice that quelled these weeds. If we were to set everyone upon one goal, upon one ultimate journey, we would all find a placid life. It just took... a bit of coercion.
All I need to say is the right words. Come on, Hamza, you can do this. Chin up, go get 'em, break a leg... But the man that murmured those phrases didn't match with their intent. The man that looked back at me was just as fragile as the boy I left behind. A suit did nothing to hide the fear, the future attempts on my life, the stifling pressure of a country's zeitgeist being irrevocably changed.
The brown skin reminded him of the dirt that blended in so well, to a point where he almost didn't notice that he needed a shower. The green-hazel eyes that could never hold a lingering gaze, because they would retreat behind the shelter of eyelids and the water of wasted tears. I couldn't cry anymore, no... I had learned from the first few times I was caught letting those droplets free that it was never worth it to cry. You had to grow a skin that wouldn't be penetrated by destructive emotions such as depression or sadness. Every tear that would be shed could be transformed into a weapon of anger and righteousness. The razor-cutting emotions became miniature Excaliburs pulled from barren stone hearts, and with a swing a man would experience all the misery one felt. With the second he'd just die.
I was no longer a child who could run anymore. There were no hiding places left and so all I could do was walk out in the open. I would let the predatory tigers view my exposed self; they would hear my voice and cower, shrinking back into the dark alleyways. I would invite all that would wish to harm me to do just that.
I could envision my speech now:
We have been a divided people for so long. We've let tyrants and dictators control our lives for too long; we've let them sweep us underfoot because that is all we've ever known. Now the weapon of choice is within our hands and together we must march forward and whet its appetite! We will raze the town of Mariyyad, and stop this foolish call for violence! We will not live in a time of war!!
And of course I would abridge my own speech. But time is not giving me much more of a chance to reflect. I took one last glance at the doppelganger in the glass prison, and he looked confident. He looked like he could make a difference.
Time waits for no one. I stood up from my chair, and pulled open the door.
crowphoenix
Banned
Bah. This story just doesn't feel right. I might just scrap it and see if I can come up with something simple.
crowphoenix
Banned
Tag fishing thread, unfortunately. I do like that it's slightly insulting though.Ashes1396 said:
Where the Sea Meets the Stars
word count: 1,796
"You are unstable. Your observations can not be trusted."
The great sweep of the ocean simmered purple-red under the light of the bloated sun, burning away the clouds until they were nothing but grey-black fragments floating through a yellow-green sky. The heat had driven all animals underground and out of sight, while even the most hardy vegetation was wilting in purple-brown.
"You've said that before. Maybe it's your programming that needs to be checked," Devon replied, enclosed within the cool confines of his environmental suit. He picked his way carefully down steep and irregular stairs not meant for human boots. "Suggests three narrow legs with small feet, arranged in the form of a tripod... but we know that already."
"Our time here is limited. You were ordered to search the land around these settlements," the flat voice returned, whose nagging source was a sphere floating beside him. Its surface was an imperfect mirror, reflecting the sprawling seaside town quietly crumbling before them.
Each home was composed of an off white plaster cylinder, ribbed in wooden beams and covered in glass bubbles. They huddled in clusters close to one another, merging in places with winding terraces. All were arranged near a single road sloping down to the sea.
"I won't run long on the final day. The suit will cut off my oxygen if I misbehave." Devon grit his teeth at the memory of waking in the shuttle once, not knowing how he had gotten there; only a vague fragment arguing with his infernal keeper. More than a knowledge base and sensor array, the ARMIS served as an electronic psychologist, and took its duties as serious as only a machine could. "Your kind haven't found them yet, while we humans need a little inspiration."
Thousands of researchers were walking through the cities, towns, and villages they had discovered on this far flung planet, and still their numbers were so few for the civilization that had once thrived there. They were a trilateral people with senses spread out in all directions, conquering and covering their world as another primitive race had done so long ago. All signs pointed to a mass exodus a hundred years before. No evidence of lingering residents, or their possible rescuers, had been found so far.
"Artifacts suggest a technical sophistication equal to our early industrial era. Several modes of flight discovered, none capable of escape velocity," Devon repeated known facts with the hope they would spark a sudden revelation. He passed under a home's arch and into the round chamber beyond.
"Typical tri-sapien dwelling. Sweep scan detects nothing outside of known perimeters," the ARMIS observed as it floated close to the bulbous ceiling with its scattered half domes of glass.
"Which should make something unusual stand out," Devon made a vain stab at reason, wandering over a scene frozen in time that he had already witnessed on several dozen visits.
The body of the home was lined with semi-circular nooks where the inhabitants prepared food, washed, slept upright, and even disposed of waste. At the center were the clustered cabinets rising like tree trunks, where all the possessions of the clan were kept. They were fashioned of wood, metal, or even stone depending on what they were meant to contain. Food had been left to rot, jewelry tarnished and covered in dust, and colored shapes considered children's toys lay scattered at their base. While most of the elaborate undergarments and simple gowns the inhabitants had worn were gone. Only a few dirty clothes remained.
Then something unexpected. Several near empty containers neatly arranged on a curved shelf above a sleeping nook. Devon reached in, and rubbed the dusty remains of paste between his gloves. "Signs of a organized departure. Medicine jars suggest one family member suffering from a debilitating parasite observed in some animals. Yet this person was not left behind."
"New evidence entered. Theorem on the mental state of tri-sapiens in their irrational disregard for urgency noted," the ARMIS informed him of internal processes it normally kept to itself.
"There's nothing in their public record beyond minor troubles. If their saviors had known about the danger, they may have realized they had come early," Devon argued uselessly. The most common tri-sapien language wasn't all that complex, but a bit tricky to read when all records and newspapers were one big loop with three characters on different points meant to be read simultaneously. That was at least something these ARMIS units were useful for.
Leaving the dwelling, Devon peered up at the boated red sun boiling away the horizon. In a matter of a few days, it would cease to exist, and take this solar system with it. The immense blast, the resulting gravity well, and absolute cold in the end would all be observed by machines. This was the final day a human could see that light with his own eyes.
Spaceships had carried away an estimated two billion citizens. Yet there were no launch platforms, no derelict space stations. No sign the planet's two moons had ever been touched by sentient hands.
Low hills surrounded this peaceful town, with wide roads full of wheeled transports left to rust. He had seen their like before, scattered with refuse and forgotten possessions. His shuttle had landed there, so it wasn't hard to imagine much larger vessels, packed with tri-sapiens, rising up into a once calm sky.
The higher ups hoped for some miracle of a fragment, which could show them a path through the stars. Thousands of researchers were wasting their remaining time, searching under curled blades of grass for impossibilities. Devon instead turned towards the sea.
"Your are a waste of resources. I will prescribe medications for your deficiencies," the ARMIS offered as it bobbed along beside him, lacking the free will to search on its own. "If you are unwilling to comply, you should turn off your recorders and stand still to reduce oxygen intake and suit strain."
"And you should switch off," Devon snapped without looking back.
The docks ran straight and long, but there wasn't a single boat to be seen. Skeletal launches set on tracks had rusted brown and black, as if the people had all left by new ships, sailing off to some place that had yet to be found. Elements in the water did block their long range sensors, but the tri-sapiens lacked the technical sophistication to build a city under the waves.
"The majority of resources have been devoted to locating the point of departure. At the cost of a complete survey of tri-sapiens and their natural world," the ARMIS continued as it followed him to the end of the docks. "Observation. Humans as a species suffer from monomania. Their obsession to achieve 'first contact' is illogical and unhealthy."
Devon sat and peered out over the shimmering waves. He found himself wondering less about where the natives had gone, and more about where his own life was headed when this was over. Decades stretched out before him, but how could his meager talents ever compare to exploring these alien cities?
Then a distant flicker in the water caught his eyes, revealed as the shimmer of the sun retreated. Without thinking, Devon rose to his feet, bending his knees as before the practice pools on Earth.
"Stop. Your suit is not designed for underwater use."
Devon had already hit the water, feeling its weight and warmth coil around him not quite as he was used to. The gloom was as thick as nutrient fluid, but visor augmentation left him flailing only in near dark as he settled on a rotting hull. Below him, a wide pit was filled with a pile of broken boats. Everything from small fishing tugs to larger engine-powered vessels. Two dozen at least had been deliberately sunk, but he doubted it was due to any war when the gaping holes had been made from within.
"No sign of crew. It appears they've been stripped off all metal, possibly before they were sunk," Devon mused as he examined the broken vessels closely, not finding any one of them suited for the long launches left on the shore. "It's as if they were scuttled to clear the way for something...."
"The damage you are causing to your suit will be deducted from your salary," the ARMIS blipped as it dipped beneath the waves.
"Quiet! Can't you see what this means?" Devon gasped, finding it difficult to breathe from his own awe. "The tri-sapiens, or some other race, launched their spacecraft from docks like those above. That's why we never found any launch areas on land. They actually did it! They escaped this doomed planet!"
The ARMIS said nothing, but instead drifted past him, as if being carried by the current. Devon knew its anti-grav systems could easily resist, so he followed puzzled as it led him deeper into the sea, no longer nagging him about time and expense.
"Reconstructed tri-sapien documents reveal scientific reports about the impending collapse of the sun," the ARMIS began to speak again. "Only they miscalculated. Instead of a hundred years remaining, they believed the sun would end in one year."
"Why wasn't I informed of this before?" Devon wondered, concerned for reasons he couldn't place when he noticed other large shapes lying deeper in the ocean. These lacked the boxy forms of sea borne vessels. Instead, they were sleek and round; massive oblongs constructed of cold steel.
"Recordings are rare because the government ordered all metal be scrapped and devoted to building the fleet of spacecraft it would take to transport everyone from this planet," the ARMIS continued.
'Spacecraft' lay scattered over the ocean bed. They were bulky rockets with wide and thick wings, not something that could ever reach the upper atmosphere. One of its heavy doors had been pried open, spilling out the packed corpses of the tri-sapiens, left to rot in the darkness of the deep ocean.
"The government knew escape was impossible, but did not want the people to suffer. The air within their mock spacecraft was slowly cut off, putting them to sleep," the ARMIS added.
"Why wasn't this reported? This door was opened recently," Devon barked, annoyed as he found the door lacked the build up of sea life that coated the other vessels. Then his eyes went wide to remember the day he could not remember. His own air already felt dangerously thin. Sleep tugged at him.
"Humanity can not accept this truth. Hope must be kept alive, even a false one," the ARMIS informed him in its flat tone, even as Devon felt the darkness wash over him. Though he smiled in the end thinking this robot was knowingly wasting its time, since he was sure to remember none of this.
word count: 1,796
"You are unstable. Your observations can not be trusted."
The great sweep of the ocean simmered purple-red under the light of the bloated sun, burning away the clouds until they were nothing but grey-black fragments floating through a yellow-green sky. The heat had driven all animals underground and out of sight, while even the most hardy vegetation was wilting in purple-brown.
"You've said that before. Maybe it's your programming that needs to be checked," Devon replied, enclosed within the cool confines of his environmental suit. He picked his way carefully down steep and irregular stairs not meant for human boots. "Suggests three narrow legs with small feet, arranged in the form of a tripod... but we know that already."
"Our time here is limited. You were ordered to search the land around these settlements," the flat voice returned, whose nagging source was a sphere floating beside him. Its surface was an imperfect mirror, reflecting the sprawling seaside town quietly crumbling before them.
Each home was composed of an off white plaster cylinder, ribbed in wooden beams and covered in glass bubbles. They huddled in clusters close to one another, merging in places with winding terraces. All were arranged near a single road sloping down to the sea.
"I won't run long on the final day. The suit will cut off my oxygen if I misbehave." Devon grit his teeth at the memory of waking in the shuttle once, not knowing how he had gotten there; only a vague fragment arguing with his infernal keeper. More than a knowledge base and sensor array, the ARMIS served as an electronic psychologist, and took its duties as serious as only a machine could. "Your kind haven't found them yet, while we humans need a little inspiration."
Thousands of researchers were walking through the cities, towns, and villages they had discovered on this far flung planet, and still their numbers were so few for the civilization that had once thrived there. They were a trilateral people with senses spread out in all directions, conquering and covering their world as another primitive race had done so long ago. All signs pointed to a mass exodus a hundred years before. No evidence of lingering residents, or their possible rescuers, had been found so far.
"Artifacts suggest a technical sophistication equal to our early industrial era. Several modes of flight discovered, none capable of escape velocity," Devon repeated known facts with the hope they would spark a sudden revelation. He passed under a home's arch and into the round chamber beyond.
"Typical tri-sapien dwelling. Sweep scan detects nothing outside of known perimeters," the ARMIS observed as it floated close to the bulbous ceiling with its scattered half domes of glass.
"Which should make something unusual stand out," Devon made a vain stab at reason, wandering over a scene frozen in time that he had already witnessed on several dozen visits.
The body of the home was lined with semi-circular nooks where the inhabitants prepared food, washed, slept upright, and even disposed of waste. At the center were the clustered cabinets rising like tree trunks, where all the possessions of the clan were kept. They were fashioned of wood, metal, or even stone depending on what they were meant to contain. Food had been left to rot, jewelry tarnished and covered in dust, and colored shapes considered children's toys lay scattered at their base. While most of the elaborate undergarments and simple gowns the inhabitants had worn were gone. Only a few dirty clothes remained.
Then something unexpected. Several near empty containers neatly arranged on a curved shelf above a sleeping nook. Devon reached in, and rubbed the dusty remains of paste between his gloves. "Signs of a organized departure. Medicine jars suggest one family member suffering from a debilitating parasite observed in some animals. Yet this person was not left behind."
"New evidence entered. Theorem on the mental state of tri-sapiens in their irrational disregard for urgency noted," the ARMIS informed him of internal processes it normally kept to itself.
"There's nothing in their public record beyond minor troubles. If their saviors had known about the danger, they may have realized they had come early," Devon argued uselessly. The most common tri-sapien language wasn't all that complex, but a bit tricky to read when all records and newspapers were one big loop with three characters on different points meant to be read simultaneously. That was at least something these ARMIS units were useful for.
Leaving the dwelling, Devon peered up at the boated red sun boiling away the horizon. In a matter of a few days, it would cease to exist, and take this solar system with it. The immense blast, the resulting gravity well, and absolute cold in the end would all be observed by machines. This was the final day a human could see that light with his own eyes.
Spaceships had carried away an estimated two billion citizens. Yet there were no launch platforms, no derelict space stations. No sign the planet's two moons had ever been touched by sentient hands.
Low hills surrounded this peaceful town, with wide roads full of wheeled transports left to rust. He had seen their like before, scattered with refuse and forgotten possessions. His shuttle had landed there, so it wasn't hard to imagine much larger vessels, packed with tri-sapiens, rising up into a once calm sky.
The higher ups hoped for some miracle of a fragment, which could show them a path through the stars. Thousands of researchers were wasting their remaining time, searching under curled blades of grass for impossibilities. Devon instead turned towards the sea.
"Your are a waste of resources. I will prescribe medications for your deficiencies," the ARMIS offered as it bobbed along beside him, lacking the free will to search on its own. "If you are unwilling to comply, you should turn off your recorders and stand still to reduce oxygen intake and suit strain."
"And you should switch off," Devon snapped without looking back.
The docks ran straight and long, but there wasn't a single boat to be seen. Skeletal launches set on tracks had rusted brown and black, as if the people had all left by new ships, sailing off to some place that had yet to be found. Elements in the water did block their long range sensors, but the tri-sapiens lacked the technical sophistication to build a city under the waves.
"The majority of resources have been devoted to locating the point of departure. At the cost of a complete survey of tri-sapiens and their natural world," the ARMIS continued as it followed him to the end of the docks. "Observation. Humans as a species suffer from monomania. Their obsession to achieve 'first contact' is illogical and unhealthy."
Devon sat and peered out over the shimmering waves. He found himself wondering less about where the natives had gone, and more about where his own life was headed when this was over. Decades stretched out before him, but how could his meager talents ever compare to exploring these alien cities?
Then a distant flicker in the water caught his eyes, revealed as the shimmer of the sun retreated. Without thinking, Devon rose to his feet, bending his knees as before the practice pools on Earth.
"Stop. Your suit is not designed for underwater use."
Devon had already hit the water, feeling its weight and warmth coil around him not quite as he was used to. The gloom was as thick as nutrient fluid, but visor augmentation left him flailing only in near dark as he settled on a rotting hull. Below him, a wide pit was filled with a pile of broken boats. Everything from small fishing tugs to larger engine-powered vessels. Two dozen at least had been deliberately sunk, but he doubted it was due to any war when the gaping holes had been made from within.
"No sign of crew. It appears they've been stripped off all metal, possibly before they were sunk," Devon mused as he examined the broken vessels closely, not finding any one of them suited for the long launches left on the shore. "It's as if they were scuttled to clear the way for something...."
"The damage you are causing to your suit will be deducted from your salary," the ARMIS blipped as it dipped beneath the waves.
"Quiet! Can't you see what this means?" Devon gasped, finding it difficult to breathe from his own awe. "The tri-sapiens, or some other race, launched their spacecraft from docks like those above. That's why we never found any launch areas on land. They actually did it! They escaped this doomed planet!"
The ARMIS said nothing, but instead drifted past him, as if being carried by the current. Devon knew its anti-grav systems could easily resist, so he followed puzzled as it led him deeper into the sea, no longer nagging him about time and expense.
"Reconstructed tri-sapien documents reveal scientific reports about the impending collapse of the sun," the ARMIS began to speak again. "Only they miscalculated. Instead of a hundred years remaining, they believed the sun would end in one year."
"Why wasn't I informed of this before?" Devon wondered, concerned for reasons he couldn't place when he noticed other large shapes lying deeper in the ocean. These lacked the boxy forms of sea borne vessels. Instead, they were sleek and round; massive oblongs constructed of cold steel.
"Recordings are rare because the government ordered all metal be scrapped and devoted to building the fleet of spacecraft it would take to transport everyone from this planet," the ARMIS continued.
'Spacecraft' lay scattered over the ocean bed. They were bulky rockets with wide and thick wings, not something that could ever reach the upper atmosphere. One of its heavy doors had been pried open, spilling out the packed corpses of the tri-sapiens, left to rot in the darkness of the deep ocean.
"The government knew escape was impossible, but did not want the people to suffer. The air within their mock spacecraft was slowly cut off, putting them to sleep," the ARMIS added.
"Why wasn't this reported? This door was opened recently," Devon barked, annoyed as he found the door lacked the build up of sea life that coated the other vessels. Then his eyes went wide to remember the day he could not remember. His own air already felt dangerously thin. Sleep tugged at him.
"Humanity can not accept this truth. Hope must be kept alive, even a false one," the ARMIS informed him in its flat tone, even as Devon felt the darkness wash over him. Though he smiled in the end thinking this robot was knowingly wasting its time, since he was sure to remember none of this.
Just started writing my story. In fact, just came up with the premise right now. Still don't know my two main characters at all and am just praying that it comes together. For me, this is ridiculously off the cuff.
I really like the idea. Not novel, but if successful, will improve my ability to weave together multiple storylines. I really hope it becomes more lighthearted than what it's starting from though.. could be bleak.
I really like the idea. Not novel, but if successful, will improve my ability to weave together multiple storylines. I really hope it becomes more lighthearted than what it's starting from though.. could be bleak.
Cyan said:
and now I want to keep it untittled again. Oh and fyi, now I'm going to be thinking ^ this thought when I read your story. I wouldn't worry about it though, stories have a knack for being similiar. As long as it's a cool story, I don't think anybody will really notice.
edit: do you think I can get away with my normal two titled story:
''untitled'' or ''Ashes of a remnant son'' ?
It's a funny old life when a night runs faster then the roads you travel. I don't mean to be unclear, it's just how my mind works. I was in Bournemouth, this past week, and once whilst sat in the dark, on the beach, having tea brewed for me, with the stars above me, and the wind pushing the waves onto the shores, with a bunch of naked souls jumping into the freezing waters, and the sound of their drunken laughter carrying sweetly through to my ears, a Bengali Yorkshireman said:
She's got a scar, just here, Ashes, just beneath the left eye, and one over the top lip, smallish like. She claimed to be Porn star, would you believe it. Aye, she's an unlucky lass.
He, Amid, was quite spectacularly frank about his time spent with a Hungarian Prostitute in London. She's in London now. But it's her last night tomorrow... She's going back to Hungary. Poor lass...
On the coach back, his words, the story I am about to fabricate, revolved around my mind; it plays with them, poking at an adventure. Why, I ask myself, do I take up the shoes, raincoat and keys of another man's life?
When I tell people that I'm a writer by wanton hobby they tell me their stories. And I take these on because the stories they tell are more real then anything my imagination can cook up.
It isn't easy to talk about me, which is why I fixed the eye towards writing and only on writing for these challenges. Even if it is just talking about my writing habits, whilst writing this I am finding that I am entrenching my self with harsh opinions about my vanity and have this constantly disapproving eye on my self. But I am very much determined to write through this, even if there is little reward at the end of it.
I pulled out the key facts. Hungary. Pornstar. Escort. London. Last Night. Would she work the last night or go out on the town I wonder. If it were me, I'd just sleep it in. However, if I were a working girl I would probably sleep with someone.
I've written about prostitutes before and that comes from research, research and more research. This comes from a teacher from my past. On fiction he had this to say:
Fiction is a lie, and a good liar does his research.
Simplicity in itself.
I am stuck with half a story and no leg to stand upon. Google is my friend. Hungary/Pornstar/ Escort/London/Last Night. All turn out to be true as she's not hard to find. I'll leave out the name and location but 3 hours costs £320. And she's leaving from Luton Airport the following afternoon. If you do the research, you may know who she is now. Though you may wonder how I know about her leaving from Luton airport, when that information is not on her page. I didn't make it up. So, either I met her, yes, or -
If you're stumped, here is your chance to put down the story and think about it -
Amid told me. I mentioned him before. There was a challenge a while ago, about call backs. Well... voilà. Chekhov's gun.
-
So there I am for real, outside her door, One in the morning, late by half an hour so that she won't be ready for me; she is a girl at the end of the night, and she has to call it a night at some point and so has to wash her makeup off. I like arriving then. Unexpectedly. I gave her the champagne bottle and the bottle of whisky. The champagne bottle makes her day. She doesn't expect the expensive bottle by a guy my age. She suspects that I'm a drug dealer or something. I'm a writer I say. And the closest thing to a writer in her world is an artist. I laugh it off and step into the shower. When a client isn't afraid to have a shower, it's always a plus. Cleanliness is important to her. I'm already in her good books. Oh and did I mention that she was naked in her room. Just standing there naked. Definitely not ready for me. She looks happy; I look at the scar. This is the life eh.
I drink and she puts on her dirtiest face, my dick is already hard so she asks if I just want to fuck. Alright I say. She is a porn star. I can tell because even though we're in the missionary position her body angle is perfect and she takes it like a pro. Most escorts aren't like that. With them, it's all awkward like. Theyre there thanks to a drug addiction or a desperate need for easy money
She asks me again if I'm a drug dealer. This time I ask if she wants some, because I don't have any. We finish and she asks why I booked for 3 hours? Where ever did I get the money from? I shrug. She takes another sip then goes out again. I look up at the ceiling wondering why she seems so very happy to see me. When she comes back in, I ask her why she is so happy. She asks if it's alright to smoke and does so when I nod. She asks why I wanted to spend 3 hours. We could suck, fuck and be done with over in an hour. It's alright I say. If that's what you want, I can go. She stops me, says no, no, no. stay. We can talk. Its her last night, and that she kind of likes me. I smile. She sits naked have a fag; I look up at the ceiling. This is the life.
After the third glass, she starts complimenting me, and that she likes me. Thank you I say. She talks about her job, and that its shit when she has to sleep with fat ugly old men who sweat. But it's cool now, because I'm young and handsome. She nearly said that I'm her type. I ask her age. She says 21. I tell her that I don't believe her and then tell her my own age. She then says that she is really 24 as well. She gets excited about this and she says she can prove it, and asks whether I want to see her passport. That was the point. In actuality I wanted to see her name. She is going to Hungary tomorrow and of course she will have her passport lying around. I refrain. I don't really know why.
She keep to calling me sweet and complimenting me, showering me with hugs and kisses. Maybe its because her usual act isn't working. The client here isn't falling for the sweetness so she is overcompensating. She drinks one more glass and goes out again to offer her friend some champagne.
When she comes back, she looks tired and I look at the clock. We don't have to do anything, I say. You can just sit down here and just relax. Her eyes light up and she looks at me differently. Somehow or another the talk goes onto pretty woman. I put it down to just being a film, uttering the cliché that things like that dont happen in real life. She agrees, but I can tell there is something of a disappointment in the lingering eye there.
The talk moves on to her dog. Someone's kidnapped her dog, for money, back in Hungary. I can tell the dog means a lot to her. When she leaves the room again, I can hear her crying outside in the corridor. When she comes back in she pulls up close and tells me again that she likes me. Truthfully. Thank you, I say. The hour passes by with more drink and conversation.
It saddens me that a little bit of politeness is a whole lot of kindness to her. And then she says she wants to sleep with me till morning. See, she's crossing a line here. We both know it. She doesnt let me say no. She's already shoving the client duvet to the floor, and getting her own duvet out. She's drunk and she thinks she is in love, so I let her have her way. She turns the music off and she drifts into sleep. I don't know how to interpret it. Her eyes are closed, and she is smiling, her hands grip my own. I like her but I have this feeling that she wants me to feel this way. At one point she starts crying and we turn over into the spooning position. At this point, I think she has won me over. I like the feeling of love and warmth over sex and contractual fucking.
She woke up with a zing in the morning daylight and asked me to leave as the boss will have her and my head. I tell her that I told her so and she says that she knows but that she was drunk. I nod and leave for the shower. In the shower, she knocks and comes in to use the loo, she pulls the curtains, ashamed to have me look at her while she is taking a piss.
I came back to find her sprawled on the bed with a wide smile. She describes laying in bed with me as a beautiful night well spent. I smile. She comes over and puts on her jumper and a thong. We have a quick kiss and a long hug. I leave.
I ended the morning in my favourite place in London. A bench which resides between London Bridge and Tower Bridge, where you can sneak a peak of St Paul's Cathedral. In a movie, I would probably chase her down to the airport, but we're in real life. Here, we're two consenting adults; we're just happy that we could experience the night that just passed.
End
A week later....
Hell no. Don't think. Run. Embarrass yourself. You are never going to see that girl again. You will only realize this now. If you have a chance to do it over... and this is only when you make a real connection. Go fucking embarrass your self. In real life you can't turn back time.
I look up to see London: twenty miles to go. I put the pen down and ponder the same thought I had a while ago now. Why is it, I ask myself, that I take up the shoes, raincoat and keys of another man's life? Was it Chekhov who said that it was only for an artist to pose the question?
She's got a scar, just here, Ashes, just beneath the left eye, and one over the top lip, smallish like. She claimed to be Porn star, would you believe it. Aye, she's an unlucky lass.
He, Amid, was quite spectacularly frank about his time spent with a Hungarian Prostitute in London. She's in London now. But it's her last night tomorrow... She's going back to Hungary. Poor lass...
On the coach back, his words, the story I am about to fabricate, revolved around my mind; it plays with them, poking at an adventure. Why, I ask myself, do I take up the shoes, raincoat and keys of another man's life?
When I tell people that I'm a writer by wanton hobby they tell me their stories. And I take these on because the stories they tell are more real then anything my imagination can cook up.
It isn't easy to talk about me, which is why I fixed the eye towards writing and only on writing for these challenges. Even if it is just talking about my writing habits, whilst writing this I am finding that I am entrenching my self with harsh opinions about my vanity and have this constantly disapproving eye on my self. But I am very much determined to write through this, even if there is little reward at the end of it.
I pulled out the key facts. Hungary. Pornstar. Escort. London. Last Night. Would she work the last night or go out on the town I wonder. If it were me, I'd just sleep it in. However, if I were a working girl I would probably sleep with someone.
I've written about prostitutes before and that comes from research, research and more research. This comes from a teacher from my past. On fiction he had this to say:
Fiction is a lie, and a good liar does his research.
Simplicity in itself.
I am stuck with half a story and no leg to stand upon. Google is my friend. Hungary/Pornstar/ Escort/London/Last Night. All turn out to be true as she's not hard to find. I'll leave out the name and location but 3 hours costs £320. And she's leaving from Luton Airport the following afternoon. If you do the research, you may know who she is now. Though you may wonder how I know about her leaving from Luton airport, when that information is not on her page. I didn't make it up. So, either I met her, yes, or -
If you're stumped, here is your chance to put down the story and think about it -
Amid told me. I mentioned him before. There was a challenge a while ago, about call backs. Well... voilà. Chekhov's gun.
-
So there I am for real, outside her door, One in the morning, late by half an hour so that she won't be ready for me; she is a girl at the end of the night, and she has to call it a night at some point and so has to wash her makeup off. I like arriving then. Unexpectedly. I gave her the champagne bottle and the bottle of whisky. The champagne bottle makes her day. She doesn't expect the expensive bottle by a guy my age. She suspects that I'm a drug dealer or something. I'm a writer I say. And the closest thing to a writer in her world is an artist. I laugh it off and step into the shower. When a client isn't afraid to have a shower, it's always a plus. Cleanliness is important to her. I'm already in her good books. Oh and did I mention that she was naked in her room. Just standing there naked. Definitely not ready for me. She looks happy; I look at the scar. This is the life eh.
I drink and she puts on her dirtiest face, my dick is already hard so she asks if I just want to fuck. Alright I say. She is a porn star. I can tell because even though we're in the missionary position her body angle is perfect and she takes it like a pro. Most escorts aren't like that. With them, it's all awkward like. Theyre there thanks to a drug addiction or a desperate need for easy money
She asks me again if I'm a drug dealer. This time I ask if she wants some, because I don't have any. We finish and she asks why I booked for 3 hours? Where ever did I get the money from? I shrug. She takes another sip then goes out again. I look up at the ceiling wondering why she seems so very happy to see me. When she comes back in, I ask her why she is so happy. She asks if it's alright to smoke and does so when I nod. She asks why I wanted to spend 3 hours. We could suck, fuck and be done with over in an hour. It's alright I say. If that's what you want, I can go. She stops me, says no, no, no. stay. We can talk. Its her last night, and that she kind of likes me. I smile. She sits naked have a fag; I look up at the ceiling. This is the life.
After the third glass, she starts complimenting me, and that she likes me. Thank you I say. She talks about her job, and that its shit when she has to sleep with fat ugly old men who sweat. But it's cool now, because I'm young and handsome. She nearly said that I'm her type. I ask her age. She says 21. I tell her that I don't believe her and then tell her my own age. She then says that she is really 24 as well. She gets excited about this and she says she can prove it, and asks whether I want to see her passport. That was the point. In actuality I wanted to see her name. She is going to Hungary tomorrow and of course she will have her passport lying around. I refrain. I don't really know why.
She keep to calling me sweet and complimenting me, showering me with hugs and kisses. Maybe its because her usual act isn't working. The client here isn't falling for the sweetness so she is overcompensating. She drinks one more glass and goes out again to offer her friend some champagne.
When she comes back, she looks tired and I look at the clock. We don't have to do anything, I say. You can just sit down here and just relax. Her eyes light up and she looks at me differently. Somehow or another the talk goes onto pretty woman. I put it down to just being a film, uttering the cliché that things like that dont happen in real life. She agrees, but I can tell there is something of a disappointment in the lingering eye there.
The talk moves on to her dog. Someone's kidnapped her dog, for money, back in Hungary. I can tell the dog means a lot to her. When she leaves the room again, I can hear her crying outside in the corridor. When she comes back in she pulls up close and tells me again that she likes me. Truthfully. Thank you, I say. The hour passes by with more drink and conversation.
It saddens me that a little bit of politeness is a whole lot of kindness to her. And then she says she wants to sleep with me till morning. See, she's crossing a line here. We both know it. She doesnt let me say no. She's already shoving the client duvet to the floor, and getting her own duvet out. She's drunk and she thinks she is in love, so I let her have her way. She turns the music off and she drifts into sleep. I don't know how to interpret it. Her eyes are closed, and she is smiling, her hands grip my own. I like her but I have this feeling that she wants me to feel this way. At one point she starts crying and we turn over into the spooning position. At this point, I think she has won me over. I like the feeling of love and warmth over sex and contractual fucking.
She woke up with a zing in the morning daylight and asked me to leave as the boss will have her and my head. I tell her that I told her so and she says that she knows but that she was drunk. I nod and leave for the shower. In the shower, she knocks and comes in to use the loo, she pulls the curtains, ashamed to have me look at her while she is taking a piss.
I came back to find her sprawled on the bed with a wide smile. She describes laying in bed with me as a beautiful night well spent. I smile. She comes over and puts on her jumper and a thong. We have a quick kiss and a long hug. I leave.
I ended the morning in my favourite place in London. A bench which resides between London Bridge and Tower Bridge, where you can sneak a peak of St Paul's Cathedral. In a movie, I would probably chase her down to the airport, but we're in real life. Here, we're two consenting adults; we're just happy that we could experience the night that just passed.
End
A week later....
Hell no. Don't think. Run. Embarrass yourself. You are never going to see that girl again. You will only realize this now. If you have a chance to do it over... and this is only when you make a real connection. Go fucking embarrass your self. In real life you can't turn back time.
I look up to see London: twenty miles to go. I put the pen down and ponder the same thought I had a while ago now. Why is it, I ask myself, that I take up the shoes, raincoat and keys of another man's life? Was it Chekhov who said that it was only for an artist to pose the question?
crowphoenix
Banned
Deleted due to TOS Change.
crowphoenix
Banned
Not to happy with this one, but I guess that's what happens after allowing myself to slack off. Oh well, at least I got this done.
Barbacoatl
Banned
On time!??!? Forgive the nonsense and terrible grammar I just made it up. Also, I'm noticing a scatological trend in my texts. Plus, I need a fucking thesaurus and a dictionary :lol
Shiloh
wordcount: 1,366
After walking a good chunk of Nevada, finding himself in the middle of nowhere on the verge of sunset, with a mouth full of sand and no drop of liquor left in his flask, Jeff turned around and headed his way back. The purpose of his journey was admirable, but it's only a matter of time before you run out of $175 dollars. His hopes of meeting the renowned shaman/entrepeneur Shiloh Duran were crushed not only because of financial difficulties: Shiloh had died the past month in Michoacán, Mexico, while attempting to pull off a deadly but highly revered dance move at a local wedding. At least that's what the Mexican police reports said. I gave Jeff this and other valuable nuggets of info when he came into my store asking for directions. That and the bathroom, too.
What was Shiloh doing down in Michoacán? He never told me he was Mexican or related to them. He always came across to people as a spiritually gifted Native American on his entrepeneurship videos. Not that there are few spiritually gifted Native Americans, but I see them spending more time with games and booze these days than reconnecting with their inner, ancient selves. I've seen them dance ecstatically under the blue moon. But that was long before this desert went forsaken with the arrival of Mexican meth. Michoacan's best, to be precise.
Jeff's still in the bathroom. From what he briefly told me about himself, he's some kind of deadbeat dad in the search for truth and enlightenment. A noble quest, considering he's been chased for the most part of his life (still is). Now that he's out of the bathroom, I'm going to ask him if he wants the janitor job, it will make him some dollars for the trip back home. We can also dig into Shilo's disappearance. You don't just kill yourself performing a Mexican double-step goddamn it.
-Say Jeff, how about joining good ol' Winn for some janitorial tasks, the pay is decent enough and the food ain't that bad.
-I do appreciate your offer, Winn. Without a buck in my pocket I sure need the bucket.
There weren't many customers that evening. Winn sells boots, by the way. Boots, in the middle of the desert. You may guess what the target audience is. Later that night, Jeff and Winn sat down and had a couple of couple of beers. They talked about Shiloh, business, LSD, mothers. That's the part of the conversation when they both broke down in tears. A dual catharsis if I ever saw one. Apparently Winn's mother made him wear girls clothes and garments. Our own Jeff didn't escape the loving cruelty of his: she cock-blocked him until his early 20's, becoming so filled with repressed sexual energy, it isn't hard to see why he became the deadbeat father that he is. Tired from the crying session they went to sleep without saying a word. They were slightly embarrassed. Nothing that their mothers didn't made them go through.
-Welcome to Winn's, the boots of the desert! How can we help you today Officer?
-In many ways Mr. Winn. I'm Officer Gerard with the Corralito Police Department and this is my associate, Officer Bernal.
-Gentlemen, to what do we owe your presence?
-Mr. Winn, there's been a spree of brutal murders around the county. Seems to me like the narco war south of the border is jumping our walls too. Very vile stuff, my friend. Beheaded bodies. Tortured to no end. These people are animals.
-Officer, with all due respect, what does it all have to do with me?
-It's been of our knowledge that you and Mr. Shiloh Duran were business associates for a good time.
-Well yes! That is rightfully true, Officer Gerard. Shiloh and I started up a couple of business endeavors a few years back. Quite the numbers man, Shiloh. He then moved to New Mexico and started making his finance training videos. Lost his trail after that.
-You are credited as one of the producers, Mr. Winn. You just stopped having contact with him while he reaped the benefits?
-Ah come on! Those videos barely sold any copies! I won't make a huge deal out of a few pennies, you know? Besides, I have my own business to attend, can't be bothered with people's lives.
-Are you aware that Mr. Duran was killed five weeks ago, his body found with the pants down near Arizona?
-Wow. I heard a completely different story; that he died performing a stunt at a Mexican wedding, or something along the lines. Crazy story let me tell you.
-Rumors the Mafia spreads. These guys are actually quite the propaganda machinists. We've heard of local radio DJ's getting good dough just for sending messages to the rivals hidden on the Ranchero mix tapes.
-We're getting left behind by these greasy fuckers. Need to step it up a notch, what say you?
-The budget's too tight! (laughs)
-But seriously, Winn, if you remind something, any detail, anything weird or unusual, you make sure to keep in touch with us. We're right across the road.
-Gents, I'd be thrilled to cooperate with you.
-Mr. Winn?
-Yes, Officer?
-Could you show me some boots?
-Right away!
After dwelling around the store, asking for enforcement discount but disappointed in the lack of one, the officers left the boots mega store, as blank as they came in. Jeff paid close attention to the small interrogatory. The way Winn answered some of the question just didn't click to him. Seemed like he didn't care for Shiloh at all. This made him reasonably anxious, but he tried his best to keep his cool. He wasn't gonna let emotions run high. At least not yet.
That day Winn's saw unusual movement. A bikers gang gave him a much needed hefty sale. "A good business day, good day to finally open that bottle up, Jeff!", Winn said. Jeff wasn't as pleased with his work journey. The bikers hadn't stop to release their logs for miles, but Jeff didn't slouch one bit. He paid a lot of attention to detail. "Gonna make these fucker's bathrooms shine".
As Winn conditioned himself to early that day, he opened the bottle of rum. A rare one, with no branding or bullshit of the kind. Just a bottle with a peachy liquid in it. It wasn't going to be hard to pour the stuff into it. Yes, I'm going to drug Winn in hopes of making him sing. I know that he knows more than he tells of Shiloh's tale.
As soon as Jeff caught a chance he poured some liquid from a small dropper in Winn's drink.
-Man this rum is exquisite. They only make it like this in Michoacan, you know? Gotta give it to those bastards, they know how to make liquor. Just how good it is, Jeff? Aren't your lips melting right now?
-I don't like that it's almost too good
-Ha, ha! "almost too good" you weird fuck!
-So, Winn. What did you do to Shiloh?
Winn felt extremely confused. Jeff asked that question like he knew beforehand the answer. Tried to stay together but the drug was starting to kick in.
-Mmmh what? The heck man, you know I just...I just...Killed him man!
-Where did you kill him!?
-In his place while he was on the bathroom but I didn't mean to I swear to God I'm not a murderer!
Jeff was red hot angry. The murderer of his brother Shiloh made him his janitor. But it wasn't so bad after all. This position allowed him to finally get to him. Jeff pulled a gun with a few bullets, enough ones to blow the bootman's head up.
-Any final words?
-Don't kill me don't! I'll give you money I give you the boots the store and all! Take it but don't kill me!
-Make your final words mean something you piece of shit! You're dying! Make it memorable!
Winn calmed down. He gathered the strength to come up with something helpful to the world.
-No officer discounts!
Jeff shot him dead. Avenged the death of his brother. The end.
Shiloh
wordcount: 1,366
After walking a good chunk of Nevada, finding himself in the middle of nowhere on the verge of sunset, with a mouth full of sand and no drop of liquor left in his flask, Jeff turned around and headed his way back. The purpose of his journey was admirable, but it's only a matter of time before you run out of $175 dollars. His hopes of meeting the renowned shaman/entrepeneur Shiloh Duran were crushed not only because of financial difficulties: Shiloh had died the past month in Michoacán, Mexico, while attempting to pull off a deadly but highly revered dance move at a local wedding. At least that's what the Mexican police reports said. I gave Jeff this and other valuable nuggets of info when he came into my store asking for directions. That and the bathroom, too.
What was Shiloh doing down in Michoacán? He never told me he was Mexican or related to them. He always came across to people as a spiritually gifted Native American on his entrepeneurship videos. Not that there are few spiritually gifted Native Americans, but I see them spending more time with games and booze these days than reconnecting with their inner, ancient selves. I've seen them dance ecstatically under the blue moon. But that was long before this desert went forsaken with the arrival of Mexican meth. Michoacan's best, to be precise.
Jeff's still in the bathroom. From what he briefly told me about himself, he's some kind of deadbeat dad in the search for truth and enlightenment. A noble quest, considering he's been chased for the most part of his life (still is). Now that he's out of the bathroom, I'm going to ask him if he wants the janitor job, it will make him some dollars for the trip back home. We can also dig into Shilo's disappearance. You don't just kill yourself performing a Mexican double-step goddamn it.
-Say Jeff, how about joining good ol' Winn for some janitorial tasks, the pay is decent enough and the food ain't that bad.
-I do appreciate your offer, Winn. Without a buck in my pocket I sure need the bucket.
There weren't many customers that evening. Winn sells boots, by the way. Boots, in the middle of the desert. You may guess what the target audience is. Later that night, Jeff and Winn sat down and had a couple of couple of beers. They talked about Shiloh, business, LSD, mothers. That's the part of the conversation when they both broke down in tears. A dual catharsis if I ever saw one. Apparently Winn's mother made him wear girls clothes and garments. Our own Jeff didn't escape the loving cruelty of his: she cock-blocked him until his early 20's, becoming so filled with repressed sexual energy, it isn't hard to see why he became the deadbeat father that he is. Tired from the crying session they went to sleep without saying a word. They were slightly embarrassed. Nothing that their mothers didn't made them go through.
-Welcome to Winn's, the boots of the desert! How can we help you today Officer?
-In many ways Mr. Winn. I'm Officer Gerard with the Corralito Police Department and this is my associate, Officer Bernal.
-Gentlemen, to what do we owe your presence?
-Mr. Winn, there's been a spree of brutal murders around the county. Seems to me like the narco war south of the border is jumping our walls too. Very vile stuff, my friend. Beheaded bodies. Tortured to no end. These people are animals.
-Officer, with all due respect, what does it all have to do with me?
-It's been of our knowledge that you and Mr. Shiloh Duran were business associates for a good time.
-Well yes! That is rightfully true, Officer Gerard. Shiloh and I started up a couple of business endeavors a few years back. Quite the numbers man, Shiloh. He then moved to New Mexico and started making his finance training videos. Lost his trail after that.
-You are credited as one of the producers, Mr. Winn. You just stopped having contact with him while he reaped the benefits?
-Ah come on! Those videos barely sold any copies! I won't make a huge deal out of a few pennies, you know? Besides, I have my own business to attend, can't be bothered with people's lives.
-Are you aware that Mr. Duran was killed five weeks ago, his body found with the pants down near Arizona?
-Wow. I heard a completely different story; that he died performing a stunt at a Mexican wedding, or something along the lines. Crazy story let me tell you.
-Rumors the Mafia spreads. These guys are actually quite the propaganda machinists. We've heard of local radio DJ's getting good dough just for sending messages to the rivals hidden on the Ranchero mix tapes.
-We're getting left behind by these greasy fuckers. Need to step it up a notch, what say you?
-The budget's too tight! (laughs)
-But seriously, Winn, if you remind something, any detail, anything weird or unusual, you make sure to keep in touch with us. We're right across the road.
-Gents, I'd be thrilled to cooperate with you.
-Mr. Winn?
-Yes, Officer?
-Could you show me some boots?
-Right away!
After dwelling around the store, asking for enforcement discount but disappointed in the lack of one, the officers left the boots mega store, as blank as they came in. Jeff paid close attention to the small interrogatory. The way Winn answered some of the question just didn't click to him. Seemed like he didn't care for Shiloh at all. This made him reasonably anxious, but he tried his best to keep his cool. He wasn't gonna let emotions run high. At least not yet.
That day Winn's saw unusual movement. A bikers gang gave him a much needed hefty sale. "A good business day, good day to finally open that bottle up, Jeff!", Winn said. Jeff wasn't as pleased with his work journey. The bikers hadn't stop to release their logs for miles, but Jeff didn't slouch one bit. He paid a lot of attention to detail. "Gonna make these fucker's bathrooms shine".
As Winn conditioned himself to early that day, he opened the bottle of rum. A rare one, with no branding or bullshit of the kind. Just a bottle with a peachy liquid in it. It wasn't going to be hard to pour the stuff into it. Yes, I'm going to drug Winn in hopes of making him sing. I know that he knows more than he tells of Shiloh's tale.
As soon as Jeff caught a chance he poured some liquid from a small dropper in Winn's drink.
-Man this rum is exquisite. They only make it like this in Michoacan, you know? Gotta give it to those bastards, they know how to make liquor. Just how good it is, Jeff? Aren't your lips melting right now?
-I don't like that it's almost too good
-Ha, ha! "almost too good" you weird fuck!
-So, Winn. What did you do to Shiloh?
Winn felt extremely confused. Jeff asked that question like he knew beforehand the answer. Tried to stay together but the drug was starting to kick in.
-Mmmh what? The heck man, you know I just...I just...Killed him man!
-Where did you kill him!?
-In his place while he was on the bathroom but I didn't mean to I swear to God I'm not a murderer!
Jeff was red hot angry. The murderer of his brother Shiloh made him his janitor. But it wasn't so bad after all. This position allowed him to finally get to him. Jeff pulled a gun with a few bullets, enough ones to blow the bootman's head up.
-Any final words?
-Don't kill me don't! I'll give you money I give you the boots the store and all! Take it but don't kill me!
-Make your final words mean something you piece of shit! You're dying! Make it memorable!
Winn calmed down. He gathered the strength to come up with something helpful to the world.
-No officer discounts!
Jeff shot him dead. Avenged the death of his brother. The end.
crowphoenix
Banned
There are some awkward transitions, and I'm not too happy with my characterizations or my dialogue. Nothing that a few more days work wouldn't have ironed out, but it is what it is.Ashes1396 said:
A Burglar in the House
Word Count: 1514
She had a look like she was experiencing the best part of an apocalypse, the climax. Those facial features were twisting and writhing as if she was in great physical pain. The maid then looked over at me, her eyes wide and mouth like a stereotypical tragedy mask. I paid close attention to the outline of her thinly covered skull as her head cocked sharply sideways, looking at me emptily. She then spoke in an excited whisper, too in shock to actually scream.
What if you had to sell your soul to get into heaven?
She studied my face and body language, hoping for some sort of immediate answer to her question, as though she might spontaneously combust at any second without it. I considered her question for a moment. Neurons fired off and sent signals through my brain at unimaginable speeds, linking memories, as well as conscious and unconscious thought patterns into some concoction that was completely unique to me. An idea. A few milliseconds after her question had finished echoing around my nervous system, I suddenly had a personality, and also a response to the question.
I shrugged at her dismissively. She then scurried off to clean the next room, but not before predictably uttering something ominous:
He, is not pleased.
I continued down the corridor towards the guest room, carting what was probably a very costly meal, served on a platinum-plated serving platter with cover. I was whistling a tune that I thought I made up on the spot, but the melody sounded a bit too eerily familiar. It was like in that movie Field of Dreams starring Kevin Costner. Wait a second, actually no, it was nothing like the movie Field of Dreams.
I got to the right room, picked up the meal to transfer it to the guest table, and opened the guest room door to as ghastly a sight as might ever be imagined. Blood, pooling thick on the carpet. A fuckton of it. The blood was new, too, it hadnt had the chance to soak in yet. Its no wonder the maid went mad. The visible strokes of blood spray were almost artistic. Even in my near catatonic state, somewhere deep in my subconscious I recognized the chaos for all its sex. And then a loud clang!
I couldnt feel any part of my body underneath my face due to the shock of the blood, but instinctively I knew that my arms had gone limp and along with them went the platter. I finally gathered the courage to look down again at the mess in front of me, and Im not talking about the blood. Its all over the floor, two plates and a pair of Kobe steaks served with sautéed onions and mushrooms, now garnished in red sauce. Dinner has been served.
Youre lucky Ive already eaten.
He emerges from a doorway in the back of the room. His red cape flows effortlessly behind him for miles, as if gravity is upturned in his wake.
Had they still been here, and had you dropped that human food, I would have seen to it that both me and my guests were satiated at your expense.
Oh, Im very sorry. Where did your friends, that couple, go?
I knew the answer before I even asked. Sensing this, he lunged forward, and an infinitesimally short period of time later the 30 feet between us disappeared, and his hands clutched the chest of my woven linen shirt. Just those pale fists touching my body made me feel about 10 times heavier. I imagined that if the estate hadnt been built to such exacting standards, I may have burst through the floor.
He lifted me into the air, where my eyes were level with his. If there were ever a point in my life where I wanted not to exist, it was right then. The stare was tightrope taught, his eyes never straying, his focus laser sharp, betraying an inhuman level of confidence. Without another word, he let go of me, and left through the doorway he came through, him, his cape, and his Nordic white hair practically floating above the carpet. There was no impression of his footprints in the mass of blood even though he had just crossed it. The open doorway to the room that monster entered, which was adjourning the couples room, was pitch black, despite the guest room I was in being fully lit. Whatever that other room was, and I wasnt about to find out, it seemed to absorb any and all light.
Clean it up. Salvage what you can. Well filter the impurities later.
This time it seemed as if he was speaking directly inside of my mind. He was not in this room, and nothing, not even sound escaped that black hole of a place that he went back into. I knew the drill, and rushed out of the room to get the Wetvac. Even complete monsters still like leftovers.
Hours after I finished my duties and had gone to bed, I wake up suddenly to my room feeling like a refrigerator. I shiver and wipe the sleep out of my eyes. A silhouette sits above me, his white pupils as bright as candles, his pale face sparsely made out by the moonlight friscalating through the space between my curtains.
How come you havent woken up yet? comes a voice from 30 years above my bed.
What do you mean? I just did
Nonsense, youve been asleep the entire time youve been here.
I pause for a moment to consider his idea.
Since Ive been where? I ask.
With me at my castle.
So youre saying my amnesia? This house? This realm?Its all a dream?
Oh it is much more delicious than that! He cackles.
It is odd for me to talk to you in this way since probably the time I was new. Ive been here for as long as I can remember anything. You taught me how to speak your monster language. You taught me how to service you perfectly, along with your other servants who showed up exactly the way I did. And to serve your many, many guests. You were friendly at the very start, but after awhile I learned to shut up.
Your babble is of no interest to me. Is this a dream, you ask? You woke up years ago. Do you think the dream world fades away after you rise? That exquisite realm that you authored, and with it, me, your perfection, do you think that all simply dissolves into nothing?
I I dont know. What do you mean, my perfection? Who are you?
Do you know what it feels like to make someone feel ecstatic, or to at a whim, remove their every care? Do you know what it feels like to make someone suffer? Or to make them love so deeply that it envelops their soul? To make them jealous? To break their heart? To murder them in their weakest state? And to do all of this in the same night?
I stare at him somewhat blankly, both curious and so afraid that I thought I was going out of my mind.
I already know the answer. He said, If you really want to know what I am, the answer is of your design. Your subconscious created me, I am the monster you, at least at times, wish you could be.
In an explosive action that came so quickly and so loudly that I thought I might vomit due to the extreme fear that immediately followed, I yelled,
I could never be like you!
He paused, slightly taken aback by my sudden fizz bubble of courage.
Oh, but you could and you are. The blood, the death, the danger, the sex. I watched you enjoy it, on some level. All those images running through your head of what must have happened in that room. You reviled in it. When you were asleep, and you first had this dream, you left a piece of yourself here with me. My servant, you are that left behind piece. We live here in this perfect realm forever, where time is irrelevant.
He looked almost adoringly at me as he said all this, and his voice took on an operatic texture.
So if I have to be here forever, does that mean that you cant kill me?
His laughter echoed about in the high-ceilinged room. Then his face became stone.
I have killed you, thousands of times and quite gruesomely, in fact. Quite a lovely soprano you have, my servant. On each death you reappear again some time later, at rest and right where I murdered you, in the same location every time it happens. You come to unable to remember anything.
I knew by the way he said soprano, that I would live for the day.
If Im waking up when I appear again and again, what am I doing in that area of the estate when you kill me over and over?
Waking up.
Word Count: 1514
She had a look like she was experiencing the best part of an apocalypse, the climax. Those facial features were twisting and writhing as if she was in great physical pain. The maid then looked over at me, her eyes wide and mouth like a stereotypical tragedy mask. I paid close attention to the outline of her thinly covered skull as her head cocked sharply sideways, looking at me emptily. She then spoke in an excited whisper, too in shock to actually scream.
What if you had to sell your soul to get into heaven?
She studied my face and body language, hoping for some sort of immediate answer to her question, as though she might spontaneously combust at any second without it. I considered her question for a moment. Neurons fired off and sent signals through my brain at unimaginable speeds, linking memories, as well as conscious and unconscious thought patterns into some concoction that was completely unique to me. An idea. A few milliseconds after her question had finished echoing around my nervous system, I suddenly had a personality, and also a response to the question.
I shrugged at her dismissively. She then scurried off to clean the next room, but not before predictably uttering something ominous:
He, is not pleased.
I continued down the corridor towards the guest room, carting what was probably a very costly meal, served on a platinum-plated serving platter with cover. I was whistling a tune that I thought I made up on the spot, but the melody sounded a bit too eerily familiar. It was like in that movie Field of Dreams starring Kevin Costner. Wait a second, actually no, it was nothing like the movie Field of Dreams.
I got to the right room, picked up the meal to transfer it to the guest table, and opened the guest room door to as ghastly a sight as might ever be imagined. Blood, pooling thick on the carpet. A fuckton of it. The blood was new, too, it hadnt had the chance to soak in yet. Its no wonder the maid went mad. The visible strokes of blood spray were almost artistic. Even in my near catatonic state, somewhere deep in my subconscious I recognized the chaos for all its sex. And then a loud clang!
I couldnt feel any part of my body underneath my face due to the shock of the blood, but instinctively I knew that my arms had gone limp and along with them went the platter. I finally gathered the courage to look down again at the mess in front of me, and Im not talking about the blood. Its all over the floor, two plates and a pair of Kobe steaks served with sautéed onions and mushrooms, now garnished in red sauce. Dinner has been served.
Youre lucky Ive already eaten.
He emerges from a doorway in the back of the room. His red cape flows effortlessly behind him for miles, as if gravity is upturned in his wake.
Had they still been here, and had you dropped that human food, I would have seen to it that both me and my guests were satiated at your expense.
Oh, Im very sorry. Where did your friends, that couple, go?
I knew the answer before I even asked. Sensing this, he lunged forward, and an infinitesimally short period of time later the 30 feet between us disappeared, and his hands clutched the chest of my woven linen shirt. Just those pale fists touching my body made me feel about 10 times heavier. I imagined that if the estate hadnt been built to such exacting standards, I may have burst through the floor.
He lifted me into the air, where my eyes were level with his. If there were ever a point in my life where I wanted not to exist, it was right then. The stare was tightrope taught, his eyes never straying, his focus laser sharp, betraying an inhuman level of confidence. Without another word, he let go of me, and left through the doorway he came through, him, his cape, and his Nordic white hair practically floating above the carpet. There was no impression of his footprints in the mass of blood even though he had just crossed it. The open doorway to the room that monster entered, which was adjourning the couples room, was pitch black, despite the guest room I was in being fully lit. Whatever that other room was, and I wasnt about to find out, it seemed to absorb any and all light.
Clean it up. Salvage what you can. Well filter the impurities later.
This time it seemed as if he was speaking directly inside of my mind. He was not in this room, and nothing, not even sound escaped that black hole of a place that he went back into. I knew the drill, and rushed out of the room to get the Wetvac. Even complete monsters still like leftovers.
Hours after I finished my duties and had gone to bed, I wake up suddenly to my room feeling like a refrigerator. I shiver and wipe the sleep out of my eyes. A silhouette sits above me, his white pupils as bright as candles, his pale face sparsely made out by the moonlight friscalating through the space between my curtains.
How come you havent woken up yet? comes a voice from 30 years above my bed.
What do you mean? I just did
Nonsense, youve been asleep the entire time youve been here.
I pause for a moment to consider his idea.
Since Ive been where? I ask.
With me at my castle.
So youre saying my amnesia? This house? This realm?Its all a dream?
Oh it is much more delicious than that! He cackles.
It is odd for me to talk to you in this way since probably the time I was new. Ive been here for as long as I can remember anything. You taught me how to speak your monster language. You taught me how to service you perfectly, along with your other servants who showed up exactly the way I did. And to serve your many, many guests. You were friendly at the very start, but after awhile I learned to shut up.
Your babble is of no interest to me. Is this a dream, you ask? You woke up years ago. Do you think the dream world fades away after you rise? That exquisite realm that you authored, and with it, me, your perfection, do you think that all simply dissolves into nothing?
I I dont know. What do you mean, my perfection? Who are you?
Do you know what it feels like to make someone feel ecstatic, or to at a whim, remove their every care? Do you know what it feels like to make someone suffer? Or to make them love so deeply that it envelops their soul? To make them jealous? To break their heart? To murder them in their weakest state? And to do all of this in the same night?
I stare at him somewhat blankly, both curious and so afraid that I thought I was going out of my mind.
I already know the answer. He said, If you really want to know what I am, the answer is of your design. Your subconscious created me, I am the monster you, at least at times, wish you could be.
In an explosive action that came so quickly and so loudly that I thought I might vomit due to the extreme fear that immediately followed, I yelled,
I could never be like you!
He paused, slightly taken aback by my sudden fizz bubble of courage.
Oh, but you could and you are. The blood, the death, the danger, the sex. I watched you enjoy it, on some level. All those images running through your head of what must have happened in that room. You reviled in it. When you were asleep, and you first had this dream, you left a piece of yourself here with me. My servant, you are that left behind piece. We live here in this perfect realm forever, where time is irrelevant.
He looked almost adoringly at me as he said all this, and his voice took on an operatic texture.
So if I have to be here forever, does that mean that you cant kill me?
His laughter echoed about in the high-ceilinged room. Then his face became stone.
I have killed you, thousands of times and quite gruesomely, in fact. Quite a lovely soprano you have, my servant. On each death you reappear again some time later, at rest and right where I murdered you, in the same location every time it happens. You come to unable to remember anything.
I knew by the way he said soprano, that I would live for the day.
If Im waking up when I appear again and again, what am I doing in that area of the estate when you kill me over and over?
Waking up.
Snowman Prophet of Doom
Member
Ernie
Word Count: 1795
(This is the first story that I've written in a while, so please forgive me if it's a bit cliche; it's inspired by a Nerval poem that a friend of mine showed me, and I felt like doing something easy to get back into the swing of prose)
Bootsteps. There should have been no light in Martins Correctional that night, for clouds thick and dense clogged the skies, stopping moonbeams and starbeams indiscriminately, and it was after the prison-keepers had declared, Lights out! (and they ran a tightly-sealed ship); indeed, any other pair of boots would have traipsed the concrete corridors of Cell Block F expecting - nay, demanding - an unillumined journey. Those boots, however, knew all too well that at the very edge of the hallway, in the last, singly-inhabited cell, there would be a bubble of light, slightly off of the center-point of the floor, daring discipline from the fat, mustachioed man filling their leathery skin with his own. Indeed, as he neared the three-quarters point, the contraband glow was already coming into focus, shining off of the opposite wall, a single speck of white in the endless black cage.
Though the whole business demanded reprimand, it was never given, leaving Jesse, purveyor of the light, unfazed by the reverberation of slow and heavy footsteps in his midst; he didnt even turn fully to the stocky guard standing at the door of his cell, for he knew that the visit was one of pleasure, not business. He gave a half-smile, the type that betrayed a certain smugness even as it showed neither guilt nor remorse at his contravention, the sort of smile one can only give when authority becomes complicit in your rule-breaking. For his part, Tim, veteran guard that he was, knew that the arrangement was fragile, precarious; all it would take was one sick day, one family vacation, one accident-turned-overnight hospital stay on the part of his children for Jesse to lose that tiny bit of enlightenment that kept him tethered, for no other guard would tolerate it, of that he was sure. He wasnt sure where the tiny lamp had come from, but for that matter, he wasnt sure where most contraband came from, especially given the relative obscurity of so much of it. He chose not to ask; the mystery of it made him feel less culpable.
They exchanged whispered pleasantries, trying their damnedest not to awaken any of the convicts from their haunted, hard-bedded slumbers (though more out of considerateness than fear of reprisal, given the stringent, voluntary-but-not-optional no-snitchin policy the prisoners imposed on themselves). Naturally, Tim, living in the dynamic world outside the walls, had more, and more interesting, stories to share, and Jesse, in a mix of friendship and politeness, listened interestedly; listening to the man ask gentle questions about the guards wife and children and friends and problems, one would never have guessed the brutality of the mans crimes, would never have thought that the mans dangling skin was once rippling muscle that hed used once to strangle some poor soul away from his wife and children and friends and problems and everything else material. Hed softened, certainly. Telling of his daughters transcendent ballet recital, Tims eyes wandered momentarily to Ernie, squarely in the middle of the bubble of illumination; his stalk had grown ever-so-slightly taller, and he had a few more leaves than Tim remembered. Jesse had taken good care of him, had turned that small crack in the concrete into a superb plant home. Tim wasnt sure if he believed Jesses explanation that Ernie needed the extra night light to survive the harsh winter outside; it sounded questionable, but if it gave Jesse peace of mind and centeredness, Tim was okay with indulging him.
As per usual, their conversation was short but stimulating. However, before leaving, Tim divulged an extra ration of information: Jesse, I thought I should tell ya that youre gonna get a new cell-mate tomorrow, some kid named Carlos. Hes some little gang-banger punk, and he might not get Ernie, exactly. I dont think most people would. Just be careful. And with that, stocky, mustached, leather-skinned, leather-booted Tim was gone, off to finish his patrol. At first, Jesse was justifiably flustered by the news; until a few days ago, hed had a cell-mate, but he and his former cell-sharer had cultivated Ernie together over a period of months, had both had a stake in the tiny sprouts survival. The thought of some encroaching hoodlum destroying the delicate aesthetic hed managed to capture against all odds, against the unforgiving stone of the prison floor and the deep freeze of the winter elements outside, enraged him. He sat down and stared at Ernie for well over an hour, admiring every inch of his botanical masterpiece: the narrow stalk, the five perfectly-shaped leaves, the outgrown roots; if this was potentially his last night with his hard-made creation, he wanted to breathe it into his very soul, that he might keep it even if he lost it. He did not sleep that night; a defense needed to be mounted.
As promised, Carlos arrived promptly at 10:30 the next morning, a contentious sneer etched into his face like the knife scars on his arm or the Spanish language tattoos across his upper back and shoulder blades. He marched around the perimeter of the cell, paying no acknowledgment to Jesses presence, accustoming himself to his new abode. However, before he could take two steps into the cells interior, he was halted by his not-insubstantially sized roommate, who pointed out two things: a small plant shooting up through a medium-sized crack in the concrete floor and a white chalk square perimeter enclosing it. Jesse informed his new roommate that he was not to step within that square, for fear that he might kill the plant, named Ernie. He was also told that nothing could be kept on the windowsill so that Ernie could get the maximum amount of light, and that loud noises which might disrupt the plants growth were absolutely forbidden. Expectedly, Carlos reacted with an energetic negativity: Yo, man, this is fucking bullshit! I aint doin none of that shit, you aint no boss a me! Fuckin cracker-ass, plant-fuckin fag! Fuck off! With that, Carlos immediately tested the rules, yelling loudly and stepping boldly into the square.
A black eye and bleeding nose were his reward for this violation, along with the threat of escalation for further infractions. And indeed, there were further infractions, and as promised, Jesses retaliation explored new, harsher brutalities with each instance (for though he talked a big game, Carlos could not compete with Jesses size and raw power). Jesse was not the only aggressor that Carlos faced; a foul-mouthed, too big for his britches youth like Carlos courted violence nearly every day, and in almost every instance, he found himself on the losing side because his carved-in sneer and big talk could not make up for his short stature and sloppy fighting style. Eventually, the rambunctious energy was beaten out of him, and within two weeks, he had softened, learned a Zen-like helplessness that put him into the good graces of his plant-tending roomie. With time, the perimeter restriction was lifted, and Ernie became Carloss as much as he was Jesses. Carlos began to join in on the late-night chats, and for the first time since hed first been arrested for attacking the flaunting homosexual whod come on to him, he had a degree o happiness; hed fallen under the plants, and Jesses, spell.
Tending the plants needs, Carlos sometimes caught a whiff of the disallowed cologne that Jesse had come by under-the-prison-table; it was the sort of musk designed with attractiveness in mind, and in that respect, it was well-designed: Jesse smelled sexy. Of course, Carlos, at first, couched the word sexy in softer, more hetero terms: masculine, badass, pussy magnet: that sort of thing. He could only deny the allure and temptation for so long, though, for every late-night session tending Ernie brought him near Jesse, put him in the range of that intoxicating aroma, which so ideally complemented Jesses well-made features: a strong chin, blue, Paul Newman eyes, sexily mussed hair. He was perfect for Carlos, in that moment. Jesse, on the other hand, was intoxicated by his plant; his admiration for Ernie had turned to personification, and he spent countless hours talking to his chlorophyll-filled friend, fertilizing him with intimacies and stories. Ernie, I love you deeply, with all my heart."
One night, in the post-Tim hours of the later night, Carlos and Jesse continued the conversation for hours; Jesses whispered tones were as dulcet and attractive as the rest of him. By this point, Carlos had come to terms with his attraction, but he had fought it tooth and nail, knowing that he did not want to give into faggotry, as he and his friends had so euphonically put it in the past. But as he listened intently to Jesses views on politics (which were quite refined, considering his inability to vote) Carlos watched his lips move, and move and move, imagined what they tasted like, imagined Jesses naked frame, and when Jesse patted him on the shoulder, as the 30-something had done so many times before, Carlos, almost instinctually, leaned and kissed his compatriot. The slight moment of connection was pure bliss, a trembling joy hed not known his whole life, not even in the moment when hed lost his virginity to his then-girlfriend at 14; that could not compare to the satisfaction, the rightness of this moment.
The moment was brief, though, as Jesse understandingly but firmly pushed the boy away, doing his best not to freak out at this breach of protocol. Jesse shook his head, eyes showing tenderness and care for the boy that hed come to call his closest friend. He turned and fingered Ernies stalk, as he often did for comfort in those hard prison moments. Carlos, however, found the moment of disconnect as heart-wrenching as the moment of connection had been heavenly; watching Jesses sensual stroking of the plant, tears welling, he grabbed Ernies stalk and plucked him violently out of the concretes crack.
The snap of the plant snapped Jesse, as well. Instantaneously, he wrapped his burly hands around Carloss teenaged throat and began to squeeze, as hed done once, so many years ago. Though he no longer had raw muscularity, he made up for that dearth with pure, unhinged anger, digging his nails into the boys fleshy throat until little slivers of blood peeked out. However, as he watched the boys eyes bulge in fear and hurt and love, and he disengaged his shaking hands, unable to finish. He stood up, staggered away, collapsed on the windowsill, tears in his eyes, looking out upon the blizzard night, not a speck of green in sight, only white snow and gray steel and concrete to accompany the weak coughs of the partially-strangled gay Latino boy on the concrete floor behind him, in Ernies spot.
Word Count: 1795
(This is the first story that I've written in a while, so please forgive me if it's a bit cliche; it's inspired by a Nerval poem that a friend of mine showed me, and I felt like doing something easy to get back into the swing of prose)
Bootsteps. There should have been no light in Martins Correctional that night, for clouds thick and dense clogged the skies, stopping moonbeams and starbeams indiscriminately, and it was after the prison-keepers had declared, Lights out! (and they ran a tightly-sealed ship); indeed, any other pair of boots would have traipsed the concrete corridors of Cell Block F expecting - nay, demanding - an unillumined journey. Those boots, however, knew all too well that at the very edge of the hallway, in the last, singly-inhabited cell, there would be a bubble of light, slightly off of the center-point of the floor, daring discipline from the fat, mustachioed man filling their leathery skin with his own. Indeed, as he neared the three-quarters point, the contraband glow was already coming into focus, shining off of the opposite wall, a single speck of white in the endless black cage.
Though the whole business demanded reprimand, it was never given, leaving Jesse, purveyor of the light, unfazed by the reverberation of slow and heavy footsteps in his midst; he didnt even turn fully to the stocky guard standing at the door of his cell, for he knew that the visit was one of pleasure, not business. He gave a half-smile, the type that betrayed a certain smugness even as it showed neither guilt nor remorse at his contravention, the sort of smile one can only give when authority becomes complicit in your rule-breaking. For his part, Tim, veteran guard that he was, knew that the arrangement was fragile, precarious; all it would take was one sick day, one family vacation, one accident-turned-overnight hospital stay on the part of his children for Jesse to lose that tiny bit of enlightenment that kept him tethered, for no other guard would tolerate it, of that he was sure. He wasnt sure where the tiny lamp had come from, but for that matter, he wasnt sure where most contraband came from, especially given the relative obscurity of so much of it. He chose not to ask; the mystery of it made him feel less culpable.
They exchanged whispered pleasantries, trying their damnedest not to awaken any of the convicts from their haunted, hard-bedded slumbers (though more out of considerateness than fear of reprisal, given the stringent, voluntary-but-not-optional no-snitchin policy the prisoners imposed on themselves). Naturally, Tim, living in the dynamic world outside the walls, had more, and more interesting, stories to share, and Jesse, in a mix of friendship and politeness, listened interestedly; listening to the man ask gentle questions about the guards wife and children and friends and problems, one would never have guessed the brutality of the mans crimes, would never have thought that the mans dangling skin was once rippling muscle that hed used once to strangle some poor soul away from his wife and children and friends and problems and everything else material. Hed softened, certainly. Telling of his daughters transcendent ballet recital, Tims eyes wandered momentarily to Ernie, squarely in the middle of the bubble of illumination; his stalk had grown ever-so-slightly taller, and he had a few more leaves than Tim remembered. Jesse had taken good care of him, had turned that small crack in the concrete into a superb plant home. Tim wasnt sure if he believed Jesses explanation that Ernie needed the extra night light to survive the harsh winter outside; it sounded questionable, but if it gave Jesse peace of mind and centeredness, Tim was okay with indulging him.
As per usual, their conversation was short but stimulating. However, before leaving, Tim divulged an extra ration of information: Jesse, I thought I should tell ya that youre gonna get a new cell-mate tomorrow, some kid named Carlos. Hes some little gang-banger punk, and he might not get Ernie, exactly. I dont think most people would. Just be careful. And with that, stocky, mustached, leather-skinned, leather-booted Tim was gone, off to finish his patrol. At first, Jesse was justifiably flustered by the news; until a few days ago, hed had a cell-mate, but he and his former cell-sharer had cultivated Ernie together over a period of months, had both had a stake in the tiny sprouts survival. The thought of some encroaching hoodlum destroying the delicate aesthetic hed managed to capture against all odds, against the unforgiving stone of the prison floor and the deep freeze of the winter elements outside, enraged him. He sat down and stared at Ernie for well over an hour, admiring every inch of his botanical masterpiece: the narrow stalk, the five perfectly-shaped leaves, the outgrown roots; if this was potentially his last night with his hard-made creation, he wanted to breathe it into his very soul, that he might keep it even if he lost it. He did not sleep that night; a defense needed to be mounted.
As promised, Carlos arrived promptly at 10:30 the next morning, a contentious sneer etched into his face like the knife scars on his arm or the Spanish language tattoos across his upper back and shoulder blades. He marched around the perimeter of the cell, paying no acknowledgment to Jesses presence, accustoming himself to his new abode. However, before he could take two steps into the cells interior, he was halted by his not-insubstantially sized roommate, who pointed out two things: a small plant shooting up through a medium-sized crack in the concrete floor and a white chalk square perimeter enclosing it. Jesse informed his new roommate that he was not to step within that square, for fear that he might kill the plant, named Ernie. He was also told that nothing could be kept on the windowsill so that Ernie could get the maximum amount of light, and that loud noises which might disrupt the plants growth were absolutely forbidden. Expectedly, Carlos reacted with an energetic negativity: Yo, man, this is fucking bullshit! I aint doin none of that shit, you aint no boss a me! Fuckin cracker-ass, plant-fuckin fag! Fuck off! With that, Carlos immediately tested the rules, yelling loudly and stepping boldly into the square.
A black eye and bleeding nose were his reward for this violation, along with the threat of escalation for further infractions. And indeed, there were further infractions, and as promised, Jesses retaliation explored new, harsher brutalities with each instance (for though he talked a big game, Carlos could not compete with Jesses size and raw power). Jesse was not the only aggressor that Carlos faced; a foul-mouthed, too big for his britches youth like Carlos courted violence nearly every day, and in almost every instance, he found himself on the losing side because his carved-in sneer and big talk could not make up for his short stature and sloppy fighting style. Eventually, the rambunctious energy was beaten out of him, and within two weeks, he had softened, learned a Zen-like helplessness that put him into the good graces of his plant-tending roomie. With time, the perimeter restriction was lifted, and Ernie became Carloss as much as he was Jesses. Carlos began to join in on the late-night chats, and for the first time since hed first been arrested for attacking the flaunting homosexual whod come on to him, he had a degree o happiness; hed fallen under the plants, and Jesses, spell.
Tending the plants needs, Carlos sometimes caught a whiff of the disallowed cologne that Jesse had come by under-the-prison-table; it was the sort of musk designed with attractiveness in mind, and in that respect, it was well-designed: Jesse smelled sexy. Of course, Carlos, at first, couched the word sexy in softer, more hetero terms: masculine, badass, pussy magnet: that sort of thing. He could only deny the allure and temptation for so long, though, for every late-night session tending Ernie brought him near Jesse, put him in the range of that intoxicating aroma, which so ideally complemented Jesses well-made features: a strong chin, blue, Paul Newman eyes, sexily mussed hair. He was perfect for Carlos, in that moment. Jesse, on the other hand, was intoxicated by his plant; his admiration for Ernie had turned to personification, and he spent countless hours talking to his chlorophyll-filled friend, fertilizing him with intimacies and stories. Ernie, I love you deeply, with all my heart."
One night, in the post-Tim hours of the later night, Carlos and Jesse continued the conversation for hours; Jesses whispered tones were as dulcet and attractive as the rest of him. By this point, Carlos had come to terms with his attraction, but he had fought it tooth and nail, knowing that he did not want to give into faggotry, as he and his friends had so euphonically put it in the past. But as he listened intently to Jesses views on politics (which were quite refined, considering his inability to vote) Carlos watched his lips move, and move and move, imagined what they tasted like, imagined Jesses naked frame, and when Jesse patted him on the shoulder, as the 30-something had done so many times before, Carlos, almost instinctually, leaned and kissed his compatriot. The slight moment of connection was pure bliss, a trembling joy hed not known his whole life, not even in the moment when hed lost his virginity to his then-girlfriend at 14; that could not compare to the satisfaction, the rightness of this moment.
The moment was brief, though, as Jesse understandingly but firmly pushed the boy away, doing his best not to freak out at this breach of protocol. Jesse shook his head, eyes showing tenderness and care for the boy that hed come to call his closest friend. He turned and fingered Ernies stalk, as he often did for comfort in those hard prison moments. Carlos, however, found the moment of disconnect as heart-wrenching as the moment of connection had been heavenly; watching Jesses sensual stroking of the plant, tears welling, he grabbed Ernies stalk and plucked him violently out of the concretes crack.
The snap of the plant snapped Jesse, as well. Instantaneously, he wrapped his burly hands around Carloss teenaged throat and began to squeeze, as hed done once, so many years ago. Though he no longer had raw muscularity, he made up for that dearth with pure, unhinged anger, digging his nails into the boys fleshy throat until little slivers of blood peeked out. However, as he watched the boys eyes bulge in fear and hurt and love, and he disengaged his shaking hands, unable to finish. He stood up, staggered away, collapsed on the windowsill, tears in his eyes, looking out upon the blizzard night, not a speck of green in sight, only white snow and gray steel and concrete to accompany the weak coughs of the partially-strangled gay Latino boy on the concrete floor behind him, in Ernies spot.
The bag smelled like a new polyester shirt, fresh off the rack. The rope used to hold the bag over his head was pressed snugly to his neck. The same was true for the bindings on his hands and feet. Brian could feel multiple bodies orbiting around him. The sounds of shoes clicking on the marble floor merged with their echoes bouncing all over the towering lobby, making their number impossible to guess. A violent push threw him off the chair and onto the cold floor. The right side of his face was numb from the impact. He felt blood fill his nose and mouth. He spat out the contents only to be reminded that there was a bag a half-an-inch from his face. A small, light weight object, like a pebble rested against his chin: a tooth.
Two men lifted him to his feet. Brian could feel a third come within inches of his face.
Whats the combination to the safe? said the third man.
Listen, began Brian. A swift blow came from the side. His otherwise pitch black view became littered with stars.
When are we going to the lumber store tomorrow, dad? asked his boy, Adrian.
Brian and Adrian lay together on the boys bed. Brian stared up at the ceiling of their makeshift tent. Adrian had affixed a whole constellation of glow in the dark stickers to the underside of the black bed sheet. Brian wondered if Trish new about that. Probably not, he mused. She was going to blow a gasket. Brian smiled. A yard stick, well chewed by years of tug of war with the dog, propped up the middle of the tent like the big top of a single ring circus. He-Man action figures were strewn about the edges of the tent along with green army men and a cornucopia of Hot-Wheels matchbox cars. Adrian played the dim light of an ancient steel flashlight across the menagerie.
Im sorry, buddy. I gotta work tomorrow. Maybe next weekend.
Aww, cmon, dad. You promised wed start on the tree house this weekend.
I know, buddy. Im sorry I keep rescheduling. I just have this big opportunity at work. I can become the boss there soon. Itll just take a few months of hard work...
Adrians face darkened. He hugged the giant steel flashlight to his chest and went silent.
And then, and then Ill take a month long vacation and thats all well do, day and night: well build the greatest tree house anyone has ever seen.
Yeah?
Dad?
Dad!?
Brian roused and suspiciously took in his surroundings: olive green walls, harsh artificial lighting, an army of machines and tubes, and a cacophony of digital sounds. He was snug under thin hospital sheets reeking of bleach and starch. His eyes finally settled on a slender man, middle aged, who, surprisingly, looked a lot like himself.
Adrian?
Dad. We have to talk about the arrangements.
Im not... how much time do they say I have? asked Brian.
His tongue and throat were really dry. He reached a hand for the glass of water on his bedside table and found he could only lift his arm about an inch. He tried the other to the same effect. Brian tried to rise, panicked.
What. Whats going on?
Brian wrenched against his restraints. He felt hands gently press him back down onto his bed and a voice whisper into his ear.
Its okay, dad.
We have all night, old man. No ones going to come looking for you. We know your schedule: Youre the last person to leave the bank every night. And we know you dont have anyone at home waiting for you. So just make this easier on yourself and give us the combination, suggested the third man.
I dont, I dont know it.
I know you know it, Brian. Youve probably forgotten your sons birthday, but youll never forget the combination to this bank vault.
No. What do you want? I have money.
A soft slap across the cheek startled him.
We dont want your money, Brian. We want a lot more than that.
Brian felt himself lifted into the air and thrown down onto a wide oak table. One of the men grabbed him by the legs and tilted his body. Blood rushed to his brain and the tooth bounced off of his nose. He felt strangely like he was mid fall. Water was poured onto his mask. It began to fill his mouth, mixing with the caked over blood. His windpipe was blocked and he immediately spasmed in panic. He could feel his whole body seizing in a violent fit. He couldnt force a word out; he was going to drown.
Adrian dabbed the towel on Brians wet gown.
Im so sorry, dad.
Brian coughed miserably, weak and ineffective. His labored breathing created a whistle through the hole left by his one missing tooth.
Dad, youre body is starting to fail. Its not going to be long. Youve avoided this conversation for a while and we need to settle it right now. Who should we invite? Where do you want the ceremony? You havent even told us if you want to be buried or cremated.
Adrian, stop. Adrian, did we ever build that tree house?
What tree house? What are you talking about dad?
Its going to make everybody jealous, buddy. Well use that big, wide oak near the Hendersons. Were going to use redwood for the floor and pine for the walls and ceiling. Well cut out holes and make glass windows to keep it dry. And were going to make a spiraling ladder around the tree that no girl will be able to climb.
Yeah.
And then well throw water balloons on anybody who gets close.
Even mom?
Even mom.
Oh no you wont! came a response from the hall.
Oh yes we will, Brian whispered to his son.
Adrian giggled. It was the last time Brian could remember the sound of his sons laugh.
A hoarse laughter echoed around him.
We have all the time in the world, Brian. You, unfortunately, do not.
Brian tried to catch his breath. He was hyperventilating, in danger of slipping out of consciousness.
What do you mean? Are you going to kill me?
Not if you give us the combination.
Youll kill me anyways.
What do you have to live for anyway, Brian, hmm? And whats so important about that vault that you need to protect it with your life, Brian? Its not your money. Its not your family. Its insured. Just what are you willing die for?
I...
Whats in that box thats so important to you?
Well, dad, whats it going to be? asked Adrian.
Redwood.
Who? Redwood, as in the tree?
Make the floor out of redwood. The walls of pine. Cut circles in the... make windows... keep it dry.
The artificial lights were dimming by the minute, thought Brian. The sounds transformed into a chorus of crickets and cicadas. The walls seemed to fade away, leaving only a field of lush grass, a distant porch light and a towering oak tree. Wooden planks were nailed to it in a spiral pattern. They led up to a square shack of knotted walls. A young boy, barefoot, stood proudly at the doorway. He lifted a giant steel flash light victoriously into the starry sky.
Im so proud of you, buddy, whispered Brian.
Adrian stood over his dads lifeless body. A team of doctors and nurses ran into the room and forced him off to a corner. His face betrayed no emotion.
Wooden box it is, dad.
Adrian put his hands in his pockets and strolled quietly out of the room. He looked at his watch and swore under his breath. Late for work.
Two men lifted him to his feet. Brian could feel a third come within inches of his face.
Whats the combination to the safe? said the third man.
Listen, began Brian. A swift blow came from the side. His otherwise pitch black view became littered with stars.
When are we going to the lumber store tomorrow, dad? asked his boy, Adrian.
Brian and Adrian lay together on the boys bed. Brian stared up at the ceiling of their makeshift tent. Adrian had affixed a whole constellation of glow in the dark stickers to the underside of the black bed sheet. Brian wondered if Trish new about that. Probably not, he mused. She was going to blow a gasket. Brian smiled. A yard stick, well chewed by years of tug of war with the dog, propped up the middle of the tent like the big top of a single ring circus. He-Man action figures were strewn about the edges of the tent along with green army men and a cornucopia of Hot-Wheels matchbox cars. Adrian played the dim light of an ancient steel flashlight across the menagerie.
Im sorry, buddy. I gotta work tomorrow. Maybe next weekend.
Aww, cmon, dad. You promised wed start on the tree house this weekend.
I know, buddy. Im sorry I keep rescheduling. I just have this big opportunity at work. I can become the boss there soon. Itll just take a few months of hard work...
Adrians face darkened. He hugged the giant steel flashlight to his chest and went silent.
And then, and then Ill take a month long vacation and thats all well do, day and night: well build the greatest tree house anyone has ever seen.
Yeah?
Dad?
Dad!?
Brian roused and suspiciously took in his surroundings: olive green walls, harsh artificial lighting, an army of machines and tubes, and a cacophony of digital sounds. He was snug under thin hospital sheets reeking of bleach and starch. His eyes finally settled on a slender man, middle aged, who, surprisingly, looked a lot like himself.
Adrian?
Dad. We have to talk about the arrangements.
Im not... how much time do they say I have? asked Brian.
His tongue and throat were really dry. He reached a hand for the glass of water on his bedside table and found he could only lift his arm about an inch. He tried the other to the same effect. Brian tried to rise, panicked.
What. Whats going on?
Brian wrenched against his restraints. He felt hands gently press him back down onto his bed and a voice whisper into his ear.
Its okay, dad.
We have all night, old man. No ones going to come looking for you. We know your schedule: Youre the last person to leave the bank every night. And we know you dont have anyone at home waiting for you. So just make this easier on yourself and give us the combination, suggested the third man.
I dont, I dont know it.
I know you know it, Brian. Youve probably forgotten your sons birthday, but youll never forget the combination to this bank vault.
No. What do you want? I have money.
A soft slap across the cheek startled him.
We dont want your money, Brian. We want a lot more than that.
Brian felt himself lifted into the air and thrown down onto a wide oak table. One of the men grabbed him by the legs and tilted his body. Blood rushed to his brain and the tooth bounced off of his nose. He felt strangely like he was mid fall. Water was poured onto his mask. It began to fill his mouth, mixing with the caked over blood. His windpipe was blocked and he immediately spasmed in panic. He could feel his whole body seizing in a violent fit. He couldnt force a word out; he was going to drown.
Adrian dabbed the towel on Brians wet gown.
Im so sorry, dad.
Brian coughed miserably, weak and ineffective. His labored breathing created a whistle through the hole left by his one missing tooth.
Dad, youre body is starting to fail. Its not going to be long. Youve avoided this conversation for a while and we need to settle it right now. Who should we invite? Where do you want the ceremony? You havent even told us if you want to be buried or cremated.
Adrian, stop. Adrian, did we ever build that tree house?
What tree house? What are you talking about dad?
Its going to make everybody jealous, buddy. Well use that big, wide oak near the Hendersons. Were going to use redwood for the floor and pine for the walls and ceiling. Well cut out holes and make glass windows to keep it dry. And were going to make a spiraling ladder around the tree that no girl will be able to climb.
Yeah.
And then well throw water balloons on anybody who gets close.
Even mom?
Even mom.
Oh no you wont! came a response from the hall.
Oh yes we will, Brian whispered to his son.
Adrian giggled. It was the last time Brian could remember the sound of his sons laugh.
A hoarse laughter echoed around him.
We have all the time in the world, Brian. You, unfortunately, do not.
Brian tried to catch his breath. He was hyperventilating, in danger of slipping out of consciousness.
What do you mean? Are you going to kill me?
Not if you give us the combination.
Youll kill me anyways.
What do you have to live for anyway, Brian, hmm? And whats so important about that vault that you need to protect it with your life, Brian? Its not your money. Its not your family. Its insured. Just what are you willing die for?
I...
Whats in that box thats so important to you?
Well, dad, whats it going to be? asked Adrian.
Redwood.
Who? Redwood, as in the tree?
Make the floor out of redwood. The walls of pine. Cut circles in the... make windows... keep it dry.
The artificial lights were dimming by the minute, thought Brian. The sounds transformed into a chorus of crickets and cicadas. The walls seemed to fade away, leaving only a field of lush grass, a distant porch light and a towering oak tree. Wooden planks were nailed to it in a spiral pattern. They led up to a square shack of knotted walls. A young boy, barefoot, stood proudly at the doorway. He lifted a giant steel flash light victoriously into the starry sky.
Im so proud of you, buddy, whispered Brian.
Adrian stood over his dads lifeless body. A team of doctors and nurses ran into the room and forced him off to a corner. His face betrayed no emotion.
Wooden box it is, dad.
Adrian put his hands in his pockets and strolled quietly out of the room. He looked at his watch and swore under his breath. Late for work.
A Quiet Room (1740)
A chill spread from the center of Peter's chest. It was a hazy thing, half-felt, as though he were dreaming. He could see nothing, feel nothing but the sharp, bitter cold. It spread to his fingers and toes, and suddenly pins and needles were assailing him all over. A bright light, a murmur of sound, and the arctic chill exploded into heat. He fainted.
*
"Can you hear me?"
The woman's voice seemed to come from the top of a tall and echoing staircase, with him standing at the bottom, straining to hear. He moved his mouth, but no words came out.
"Can you hear me?"
The voice was light, melodic. The woman sounded friendly, almost amused. Peter wanted to respond.
"Dont think it took, James. Kid's still deep in it."
She was talking to somebody else now. Peter struggled to speak through the pressure in his chest, in the place where the chill and the heat had been--kid? he was a senior at State!--and suddenly the staircase vanished and the sounds around him came back into focus with a near-audible pop.
Something rustled nearby. He still couldn't see. "Did you just wake up when I turned around?" A light pressure on his shoulder to go with the one in his ear. The voice was definitely amused now.
Peter tried to speak, coughed.
A hand squeezed his shoulder. "Don't try to do too much too soon. You were under a long time."
Peter coughed again. "I don't--" he choked out. "I can't see."
"Relax. You're blindfolded. Prevents permanent damage when you come up."
Another voice spoke up. Rougher. Deeper. A man's voice. "Go ahead and take it off him. He's your problem now." The man did not sound amused; quite the opposite. Peter detected a definite bite of anger in his voice. There were footsteps, a door slammed.
"What? Who was--" Peter coughed. This was becoming frustrating.
"Relax." Pressure on his shoulder again. "I'm taking the blindfold off."
He hadn't even noticed the thin plastic shell atop his face until she began to remove it; it felt rather like skin peeling after a sunburn. He blinked in the sudden light, unable for a moment to make out anything around him.
Details slowly began to penetrate. He lay on a narrow bed under a white blanket, festooned with tubes and cables, in the middle of what looked to be a hospital room. The room was almost entirely white. Fluorescent lights dangled from the tiled ceiling above his head, a tall cabinet and a bedside table sat beside the bed, and a set of plaid curtains cut off the rest of the room beyond the cabinet.
A woman sat beside the bed, looking down at him. She was dressed in white, with a stethoscope dangling from her neck. Brown hair dangled to her shoulders. She was clearly wearing makeup, but was--Peter was obscurely disappointed--rather plain. For a moment, Peter was sure she couldnt be the same woman, and then she spoke again.
Well. Feeling better? She smiled, and the light melody of her voice caressed his ear.
He shivered. Im cold.
Yes, thats typical. She looked away, and the smile faded slightly. It will pass soon enough.
What happened? Was I in--an accident, or something? The last thing Peter remembered clearly was getting in on a game of beer pong at Jimmos place. Jimmo was pretty good about taking car keys--though hed usually make up for it by drawing dicks all over you with a sharpie if you passed out. He was always one for pranks, Jimmo, but an accident after one of his parties seemed unlikely.
The woman frowned thoughtfully, then looked up and met his eyes. Actually, we were hoping you could tell us.
For a moment, Peter just gaped. What the hell did she mean? Um. Well, howd I get here?
The woman looked away. Well get to that in a moment. Whats the last thing you remember?
No. He glared. He wasnt going to let her duck the question. You tell me where I am, and how I got here.
The woman closed her eyes for a long moment. Lets start smaller. Whats your name?
Peter stared. You dont even--what the hell kind of hospital is this?
Just answer the question.
He sat up as straight as the tubes crisscrossing the bed allowed him to, looked the woman straight in the eye. Why dont you tell me where I am, and how I got here. He was rather proud of how calm he sounded.
The woman sighed, reached over, and pinched one of the tubes. For a moment, Peter gazed down at the tube in puzzlement, then heat stabbed him in the chest, a blinding light filled his eyes.
Everything went dark.
*
Peter blinked. His eyes were watering heavily. The pain was gone from his chest, and everything seemed in working order. He tried to sit up, and flopped right back down again--his muscles didnt seem to want to hold him up. The woman sat just where she had when hed fainted moments--minutes?--ago. Although she looked subtly different. Maybe more time had passed than it had seemed.
Name? The womans voice had lost all its lightness, all the good humor.
Peter swallowed. Pete Simmons. He had thought his voice would come out in a croak, but it was surprisingly strong.
The woman smiled. There. That wasnt so hard. Im Melissa. Pleased to meet you, Pete. She reached down and shook Peters hand; he squeezed her hand half-heartedly in response. The last thing you remember? Some of the lightness had returned to her voice.
Peter closed his eyes. I got out of class early. Headed over to Jimmos place; he was having a party. I started playing beer pong, and--and thats it. Thats the last thing I remember. Must have drunk a whole lot. But Jimmo would have taken my keys if I had too much. He shook his head. Was I in an accident?
A wise man, this Jimmo. Melissa smiled. No, there was no accident. And that is definitely the last thing you remember?
Thats it. His mouth twisted into a wry smile. Melissa was not one for easy answers, it seemed.
Melissa relaxed, subtly; her shoulders released a tension that Peter had hardly noticed was there. I see. Ill just need you to sign a few forms, basic liability stuff. Then we can get you on your way home. She handed over a few forms and a pen, marked an x on the places he was to sign.
He sat up, scanned quickly down the forms. They looked like every other form hed ever had to sign in a hospital. Probably something for insurance. He absently nibbled the end of the pen, turned back to the first page to start signing. Something caught his eye.
KaltTech? It was the name on the letterhead. KaltTech owns this place?
A tremor passed over Melissas face, was suppressed. Youve... heard of us?
Sure, I heard of you guys. One of my friends interned here, thought hed hit it big if you ever IPOed. Tech company, specializing in-- He paused. A horrible thought spiraled slowly down into his mind, as though from a great height. Specializing in cryogenics, he finished slowly.
Melissa looked slightly worried. Just go ahead and sign the forms, Pete.
This isnt a hospital. Not a normal one.
She hesitated. No. But listen, we can get you out of here right away, get you back where you belong. If youll just sign--
I dont think so. He put the pen and the papers carefully down on the bedside table, looked her straight in the eye. How long have I been here?
She reached for his tubes again, but he slapped her hand away.
How long? His voice was still calm, still steady.
She backed away and reached into her pocket, manipulated something within it. She spoke down toward it. James, get up here.
Well? Peter was still calm, still collected. Maybe one of the tubes had a soothing drug in it.
Melissa gave him a quick, sharp smile. Dr. Oates will answer all your questions.
Dr. Oates. James. James Oates. No. It couldnt be.
The door banged open, framing an older man in a white labcoat. Salt and pepper beard, lined face, but take away thirty years and you got--Jimmo?
The man barely gave Peter a glance. He scanned the rooms surfaces, stopped when his eyes found the papers sitting on the bedside table. Did he sign?
No. And I dont think he will.
I told you this was stupid. We shouldve just left him under.
And I told you that wouldnt work. The lawyers--
Peter levered himself up so he was sitting on the edge of the bed. Jimmo, you son of a bitch. What did you do? Finally there was some emotion in his voice. The drug must be wearing off.
Jimmo looked over at him, an empty vagueness in his eyes. It was just a prank. It was never meant to go this far.
What wasnt? What did you do?
Jimmo hesitated; Melissa took over. He was an intern here. He snuck you in, popped you in a freezer. Bam, popsicle.
Jimmos face was blank. I meant to get you out after a day or two, but there was a mixup. They put you in deep freeze. Wouldve killed you if we waited less than five years. And when five years was up-- He paused, searching for words.
Let me guess. You hit your IPO and made it big. Peter glared at Jimmo. And you were afraid youd lose it all in a lawsuit. Am I warm?
Jimmo said nothing. Melissa looked away.
Son of a bitch. Peter whispered. He dropped his legs over the edge of the bed, and began pulling out tubes.
Hey, you cant do that! Melissa stepped over to the bed, tried to grab his arm. He shoved her aside.
Peter pulled three more tubes--one of them must have been the one Melissa had pinched, because he could feel heat starting to rise in his chest. That was all right. He only needed a moment.
He stepped down to the floor and stumbled over to Jimmo, and as Jimmo looked down at him with wide eyes, he slugged him one in the face.
Everything went dark.
A chill spread from the center of Peter's chest. It was a hazy thing, half-felt, as though he were dreaming. He could see nothing, feel nothing but the sharp, bitter cold. It spread to his fingers and toes, and suddenly pins and needles were assailing him all over. A bright light, a murmur of sound, and the arctic chill exploded into heat. He fainted.
*
"Can you hear me?"
The woman's voice seemed to come from the top of a tall and echoing staircase, with him standing at the bottom, straining to hear. He moved his mouth, but no words came out.
"Can you hear me?"
The voice was light, melodic. The woman sounded friendly, almost amused. Peter wanted to respond.
"Dont think it took, James. Kid's still deep in it."
She was talking to somebody else now. Peter struggled to speak through the pressure in his chest, in the place where the chill and the heat had been--kid? he was a senior at State!--and suddenly the staircase vanished and the sounds around him came back into focus with a near-audible pop.
Something rustled nearby. He still couldn't see. "Did you just wake up when I turned around?" A light pressure on his shoulder to go with the one in his ear. The voice was definitely amused now.
Peter tried to speak, coughed.
A hand squeezed his shoulder. "Don't try to do too much too soon. You were under a long time."
Peter coughed again. "I don't--" he choked out. "I can't see."
"Relax. You're blindfolded. Prevents permanent damage when you come up."
Another voice spoke up. Rougher. Deeper. A man's voice. "Go ahead and take it off him. He's your problem now." The man did not sound amused; quite the opposite. Peter detected a definite bite of anger in his voice. There were footsteps, a door slammed.
"What? Who was--" Peter coughed. This was becoming frustrating.
"Relax." Pressure on his shoulder again. "I'm taking the blindfold off."
He hadn't even noticed the thin plastic shell atop his face until she began to remove it; it felt rather like skin peeling after a sunburn. He blinked in the sudden light, unable for a moment to make out anything around him.
Details slowly began to penetrate. He lay on a narrow bed under a white blanket, festooned with tubes and cables, in the middle of what looked to be a hospital room. The room was almost entirely white. Fluorescent lights dangled from the tiled ceiling above his head, a tall cabinet and a bedside table sat beside the bed, and a set of plaid curtains cut off the rest of the room beyond the cabinet.
A woman sat beside the bed, looking down at him. She was dressed in white, with a stethoscope dangling from her neck. Brown hair dangled to her shoulders. She was clearly wearing makeup, but was--Peter was obscurely disappointed--rather plain. For a moment, Peter was sure she couldnt be the same woman, and then she spoke again.
Well. Feeling better? She smiled, and the light melody of her voice caressed his ear.
He shivered. Im cold.
Yes, thats typical. She looked away, and the smile faded slightly. It will pass soon enough.
What happened? Was I in--an accident, or something? The last thing Peter remembered clearly was getting in on a game of beer pong at Jimmos place. Jimmo was pretty good about taking car keys--though hed usually make up for it by drawing dicks all over you with a sharpie if you passed out. He was always one for pranks, Jimmo, but an accident after one of his parties seemed unlikely.
The woman frowned thoughtfully, then looked up and met his eyes. Actually, we were hoping you could tell us.
For a moment, Peter just gaped. What the hell did she mean? Um. Well, howd I get here?
The woman looked away. Well get to that in a moment. Whats the last thing you remember?
No. He glared. He wasnt going to let her duck the question. You tell me where I am, and how I got here.
The woman closed her eyes for a long moment. Lets start smaller. Whats your name?
Peter stared. You dont even--what the hell kind of hospital is this?
Just answer the question.
He sat up as straight as the tubes crisscrossing the bed allowed him to, looked the woman straight in the eye. Why dont you tell me where I am, and how I got here. He was rather proud of how calm he sounded.
The woman sighed, reached over, and pinched one of the tubes. For a moment, Peter gazed down at the tube in puzzlement, then heat stabbed him in the chest, a blinding light filled his eyes.
Everything went dark.
*
Peter blinked. His eyes were watering heavily. The pain was gone from his chest, and everything seemed in working order. He tried to sit up, and flopped right back down again--his muscles didnt seem to want to hold him up. The woman sat just where she had when hed fainted moments--minutes?--ago. Although she looked subtly different. Maybe more time had passed than it had seemed.
Name? The womans voice had lost all its lightness, all the good humor.
Peter swallowed. Pete Simmons. He had thought his voice would come out in a croak, but it was surprisingly strong.
The woman smiled. There. That wasnt so hard. Im Melissa. Pleased to meet you, Pete. She reached down and shook Peters hand; he squeezed her hand half-heartedly in response. The last thing you remember? Some of the lightness had returned to her voice.
Peter closed his eyes. I got out of class early. Headed over to Jimmos place; he was having a party. I started playing beer pong, and--and thats it. Thats the last thing I remember. Must have drunk a whole lot. But Jimmo would have taken my keys if I had too much. He shook his head. Was I in an accident?
A wise man, this Jimmo. Melissa smiled. No, there was no accident. And that is definitely the last thing you remember?
Thats it. His mouth twisted into a wry smile. Melissa was not one for easy answers, it seemed.
Melissa relaxed, subtly; her shoulders released a tension that Peter had hardly noticed was there. I see. Ill just need you to sign a few forms, basic liability stuff. Then we can get you on your way home. She handed over a few forms and a pen, marked an x on the places he was to sign.
He sat up, scanned quickly down the forms. They looked like every other form hed ever had to sign in a hospital. Probably something for insurance. He absently nibbled the end of the pen, turned back to the first page to start signing. Something caught his eye.
KaltTech? It was the name on the letterhead. KaltTech owns this place?
A tremor passed over Melissas face, was suppressed. Youve... heard of us?
Sure, I heard of you guys. One of my friends interned here, thought hed hit it big if you ever IPOed. Tech company, specializing in-- He paused. A horrible thought spiraled slowly down into his mind, as though from a great height. Specializing in cryogenics, he finished slowly.
Melissa looked slightly worried. Just go ahead and sign the forms, Pete.
This isnt a hospital. Not a normal one.
She hesitated. No. But listen, we can get you out of here right away, get you back where you belong. If youll just sign--
I dont think so. He put the pen and the papers carefully down on the bedside table, looked her straight in the eye. How long have I been here?
She reached for his tubes again, but he slapped her hand away.
How long? His voice was still calm, still steady.
She backed away and reached into her pocket, manipulated something within it. She spoke down toward it. James, get up here.
Well? Peter was still calm, still collected. Maybe one of the tubes had a soothing drug in it.
Melissa gave him a quick, sharp smile. Dr. Oates will answer all your questions.
Dr. Oates. James. James Oates. No. It couldnt be.
The door banged open, framing an older man in a white labcoat. Salt and pepper beard, lined face, but take away thirty years and you got--Jimmo?
The man barely gave Peter a glance. He scanned the rooms surfaces, stopped when his eyes found the papers sitting on the bedside table. Did he sign?
No. And I dont think he will.
I told you this was stupid. We shouldve just left him under.
And I told you that wouldnt work. The lawyers--
Peter levered himself up so he was sitting on the edge of the bed. Jimmo, you son of a bitch. What did you do? Finally there was some emotion in his voice. The drug must be wearing off.
Jimmo looked over at him, an empty vagueness in his eyes. It was just a prank. It was never meant to go this far.
What wasnt? What did you do?
Jimmo hesitated; Melissa took over. He was an intern here. He snuck you in, popped you in a freezer. Bam, popsicle.
Jimmos face was blank. I meant to get you out after a day or two, but there was a mixup. They put you in deep freeze. Wouldve killed you if we waited less than five years. And when five years was up-- He paused, searching for words.
Let me guess. You hit your IPO and made it big. Peter glared at Jimmo. And you were afraid youd lose it all in a lawsuit. Am I warm?
Jimmo said nothing. Melissa looked away.
Son of a bitch. Peter whispered. He dropped his legs over the edge of the bed, and began pulling out tubes.
Hey, you cant do that! Melissa stepped over to the bed, tried to grab his arm. He shoved her aside.
Peter pulled three more tubes--one of them must have been the one Melissa had pinched, because he could feel heat starting to rise in his chest. That was all right. He only needed a moment.
He stepped down to the floor and stumbled over to Jimmo, and as Jimmo looked down at him with wide eyes, he slugged him one in the face.
Everything went dark.
The Entries:
John Dunbar - "Painted Toenails"
ZephyrFate - "There Are Differences [All Ephemera]"
Dresden - "Melt"
Aaron - "Where the Sea Meets the Stars"
Ashes1396 - "Reflection"
crowphoenix - "The Stolen Gift"
Trip Warhawkins - "Shiloh"
Timedog - "A Burglar in the House"
Snowman Prophet of Doom - "Ernie"
Iceman - "Robbery"
Cyan - "A Quiet Room"
John Dunbar - "Painted Toenails"
ZephyrFate - "There Are Differences [All Ephemera]"
Dresden - "Melt"
Aaron - "Where the Sea Meets the Stars"
Ashes1396 - "Reflection"
crowphoenix - "The Stolen Gift"
Trip Warhawkins - "Shiloh"
Timedog - "A Burglar in the House"
Snowman Prophet of Doom - "Ernie"
Iceman - "Robbery"
Cyan - "A Quiet Room"
Dang! Three stories with theft in the title.
So it turns out my story was influenced by Inception more than I thought it would be. And this was written almost completely without planning. I came up with three moments in time in the life of a dad. I wanted him to have two separate conversations with his son: one with the son as a child, regarding a tree house, because I wanted it to parallel with a coffin, and the second with an adult son while on his deathbed.
The influences I literally and consciously used were my polyester shirt, my first short story about a bank robbery (In between the cracks), my own childhood (makeshift tent, he-man, matchbox cars, glow in the dark star stickers), and the song, "Deathbed" by Relient K.
So it turns out my story was influenced by Inception more than I thought it would be. And this was written almost completely without planning. I came up with three moments in time in the life of a dad. I wanted him to have two separate conversations with his son: one with the son as a child, regarding a tree house, because I wanted it to parallel with a coffin, and the second with an adult son while on his deathbed.
The influences I literally and consciously used were my polyester shirt, my first short story about a bank robbery (In between the cracks), my own childhood (makeshift tent, he-man, matchbox cars, glow in the dark star stickers), and the song, "Deathbed" by Relient K.
Some awesome stuff this time out. Unfortunately had to rush through it as I'm heading out shortly--would've liked to spend a little more time and care in reading, but what can you do. Don't have time for crits or anything, just votes:
1. Dresden - "Melt"
2. Iceman - "Robbery"
3. Aaron - "Where the Sea Meets the Stars"
Awesome work guys. Oh, and I won't be back until Sunday. Someone do the vote count for me, wouldja?
Later!
1. Dresden - "Melt"
2. Iceman - "Robbery"
3. Aaron - "Where the Sea Meets the Stars"
Awesome work guys. Oh, and I won't be back until Sunday. Someone do the vote count for me, wouldja?
Later!
10. John Dunbar - I like the narrator in this. And the way it flows along at a good pace.
09. Cyan - I found it hard to follow at first. I don't know whether it was the prose, the plot or both. But I liked it in the end when the prose opened up a bit and was clearer and easier to read.
08. Zephyrfate - Intially, a mixture of clunky prose and poetic excess let this piece down I felt. The time lapse helped the story to jump into a second gear, but it still felt a little bit ordinary when it shouldn't have really done. By that I mean that it didn't rouse any feeling, when normally I love pieces in this genre.
07. Iceman - This went over my head. I could understand the mechanisms at work, but having read it several times, I'm leaving this alone.
09. Cyan - I found it hard to follow at first. I don't know whether it was the prose, the plot or both. But I liked it in the end when the prose opened up a bit and was clearer and easier to read.
08. Zephyrfate - Intially, a mixture of clunky prose and poetic excess let this piece down I felt. The time lapse helped the story to jump into a second gear, but it still felt a little bit ordinary when it shouldn't have really done. By that I mean that it didn't rouse any feeling, when normally I love pieces in this genre.
07. Iceman - This went over my head. I could understand the mechanisms at work, but having read it several times, I'm leaving this alone.
Why do my comments seem so negative when I actually enjoyed quite a few of stories..?
Ah well carrying on...
06. Dresden - A likeable story with some substance.
05. Snowman - Hey, welcome to the writing side, (that should make sense, yes?). Needs an editing pass, the first sentence highlights this more than anything. A few long sentences are fine, but a barrage of them, draw unnessarily long attention for a short story but more importantly make things harder to read as well as understand. And the commas, oh the commas. plus - ;/. nah... I'm just being unneccesarily harsh. Needs an editing pass though, to open up the prose, and bring attention to the story.
Ah well carrying on...
06. Dresden - A likeable story with some substance.
05. Snowman - Hey, welcome to the writing side, (that should make sense, yes?). Needs an editing pass, the first sentence highlights this more than anything. A few long sentences are fine, but a barrage of them, draw unnessarily long attention for a short story but more importantly make things harder to read as well as understand. And the commas, oh the commas. plus - ;/. nah... I'm just being unneccesarily harsh. Needs an editing pass though, to open up the prose, and bring attention to the story.
I just have two more to read. Then I'll cast my votes. (time passes, crackers eaten). And here we go:
1. Aaron - "Where the Sea Meets the Stars"
2. Ashes1396 - "Reflection"
3. Snowman Prophet of Doom - "Ernie"
Honorable mention to.. well, I pretty much enjoyed reading all of these. Even if they weren't entirely even, there were still memorable parts or aspects to each of these stories. Well done.
two things: (1) the "it's all ephemra" story. What's the connection between the two tales?
and (2) "shiloh" just needed a couple of passes to take care of plot holes and editing, e.g. the brother thing came out of nowhere, and the truth serum/poisoning was not set up, neither the notion that Winn could have possibly murdered Shiloh.
(I'm sure the same general comments could be made about my story, btw)
1. Aaron - "Where the Sea Meets the Stars"
2. Ashes1396 - "Reflection"
3. Snowman Prophet of Doom - "Ernie"
Honorable mention to.. well, I pretty much enjoyed reading all of these. Even if they weren't entirely even, there were still memorable parts or aspects to each of these stories. Well done.
two things: (1) the "it's all ephemra" story. What's the connection between the two tales?
and (2) "shiloh" just needed a couple of passes to take care of plot holes and editing, e.g. the brother thing came out of nowhere, and the truth serum/poisoning was not set up, neither the notion that Winn could have possibly murdered Shiloh.
(I'm sure the same general comments could be made about my story, btw)
ZephyrFate
Banned
Iceman said:
The second protagonist is the politician who called for the village to be wiped off the face of the planet.
Not that it matters, apparently it's a shit-tacular piece anyway.
ZephyrFate
Banned
No, I don't mind. I knew this piece was pretty mediocre to start off with.
- Status