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NeoGAF Creative Writing Challenge #61- "As Cold As Ice"
- Thread starter Irish
- Start date
- Status
crowphoenix
Banned
Change that to not thinking we deserve such a masterpiece, and you've got an avant garde entry.
John Dunbar
correct about everything
fuck home work, went through that story and cut out words. Online word checker I found told me it was longer than 1,610 at start, so Crow, give me a new count!
crowphoenix
Banned
Microsoft word gives me 1,512 and Google Docs gives me 1510.
John Dunbar
correct about everything
ronito said:
that sounds too fancy for poor ol' me.
crowphoenix said:
how anal are we about these word counts, again?
crowphoenix
Banned
The last time it came up, the guy didn't try to get close. I wouldn't think anyone would argue if it was 5 or less, though. Hell, you might be close enough.
John Dunbar
correct about everything
I got 1,501 with Google Docs (minus title and "to be continued"). I'll just cut a word and call it a day.
Titles don't count, right?
edit: done.
Titles don't count, right?
edit: done.
crowphoenix
Banned
I've never counted them.
John Dunbar
correct about everything
that is a very stupid story to go through all this effort, by the way. prepare to be disappointed.
With a raise of his eyebrows to indicate a question, Simon motioned his hands calmly, asking with them whether or not the man behind the counter spoke sign language. The man behind the counter readjusted his glasses, shrugged, and gave Simon a sympathetic look.
Simon stretched his right arm, delicately pointed it at the man, and brought his hand to his mouth. He then pressed his four fingers against his thumb, and moved his hand outward in a semi circle.
I'm sorry, sir. I don't speak sign lang-
Simon smiled, and put his hand up. He took off his backpack without any urgency, and as if he'd been in the same situation a million times before. After loosening the buckle that held the bag together, he placed his hand inside. The man realized that the shuffling of books and keys and pens was now louder than the music that was playing softly behind the counter. Simon lifted out of his bag, a blue spiral notebook and a pen.
Simon wrote in the notebook, using his left hand as support. He raised the notebook to show the man, in beautifully written print, a request:
"Can I have a hot dog, please?"
The man understood, walked into the kitchen, then turned around. Simon, who was writing in his book, looked back up at the man, who had returned to the front of the counter. The man pointed to a red, plastic cylinder with a pointed triangle on the countertop. Simon nodded. And then one by one, the man pointed, and Simon indicated that he did not want mustard, that he did want sauerkraut, and he did not want mayonnaise.
When it was finished, the man placed a warm, heavily wrapped up piece of tin foil on the counter, and smiled. The man did not proceed to punch the keys on the cash register, or ask Simon for his money. Simon held up two, neatly pressed one dollar bills, and was about to hand them to the man, when the man put up his two hands, and gestured that he would not take the money.
Simon's smile faded. He dropped his two dollars on the counter, and shoved the hot dog in his bag. Simon could not see the man behind the counter frown as he walked out.
Simon stretched his right arm, delicately pointed it at the man, and brought his hand to his mouth. He then pressed his four fingers against his thumb, and moved his hand outward in a semi circle.
I'm sorry, sir. I don't speak sign lang-
Simon smiled, and put his hand up. He took off his backpack without any urgency, and as if he'd been in the same situation a million times before. After loosening the buckle that held the bag together, he placed his hand inside. The man realized that the shuffling of books and keys and pens was now louder than the music that was playing softly behind the counter. Simon lifted out of his bag, a blue spiral notebook and a pen.
Simon wrote in the notebook, using his left hand as support. He raised the notebook to show the man, in beautifully written print, a request:
"Can I have a hot dog, please?"
The man understood, walked into the kitchen, then turned around. Simon, who was writing in his book, looked back up at the man, who had returned to the front of the counter. The man pointed to a red, plastic cylinder with a pointed triangle on the countertop. Simon nodded. And then one by one, the man pointed, and Simon indicated that he did not want mustard, that he did want sauerkraut, and he did not want mayonnaise.
When it was finished, the man placed a warm, heavily wrapped up piece of tin foil on the counter, and smiled. The man did not proceed to punch the keys on the cash register, or ask Simon for his money. Simon held up two, neatly pressed one dollar bills, and was about to hand them to the man, when the man put up his two hands, and gestured that he would not take the money.
Simon's smile faded. He dropped his two dollars on the counter, and shoved the hot dog in his bag. Simon could not see the man behind the counter frown as he walked out.
neebone's story:
Emergence (1065 words)
The box was open. I could see it on the high shelf, the one she thinks I cant get to. She doesnt know that if I pull the dining chair over to the side of the couch and stack the phone books on it I can reach up and with the very tip of my finger slide it off onto the floor. I only did it once, when she couldnt yell or pull me down or remember anything. She put it back up herself, she thought shed left it there.
Now it was open again. She stretched out on the couch staring at the tv. Judge Judy was on. Some guy didnt pay for the other guys car when his son had smashed in the windshield. Judge Judy was yelling non-stop.
Its gonna be different now baby, everythings gonna change.
I know, Ma.
I was so cold. The heat was never on anymore. Derrick wasnt there, his big boots were in the closet, they couldnt touch me. Maybe if I turned on the heat no one would know. I opened the closet and eyed the boots. They looked back, hard and mean. Better not risk it. I looked over at her. Still staring at the tv, empty.
I went to the rack, one, two three jumps and my big woolly coat fell to the floor. I pulled it on and found my mittens balled up in the pockets. I pulled the thick knitted socks out of the hand-me-down shoes next to the front door and put them on over my usual socks. Better.
Judge Judy finished and ads came on. Little white kids with red noses played in the snow on the screen. Laughing, having fun. Selling something. They didnt look cold. It was probably fake snow anyway.
Im hungry Ma. Howm I gonna eat?
Youll figure it out baby, you always do.
I sat on the dining chair opposite from the couch. I watched her. I didnt recognize the show that came on next. Too many people with lots of makeup. They looked mad, and worried, and hard. They didnt look real. Ma hated this stuff. Crap tv she called it. It never stayed on after Judge Judy. Still she looked.
What you doin Ma?
Just finishing up baby. Its not time yet, we still can have a little more peace.
Two, Three, Five crappy shows. They all blurred into each other. They all looked the same. We held our peace, our moment. But the cold snuck in. Even under the woolly coat and the mittens and lots of socks I could feel it, moving into my bones. It settled in slowly and grabbed hold of me till I knew I was never gonna be warm again. Not really.
I had to move. My belly made loud noises and I could feel the grinding inside. Derrick told me once that, that meant my belly was startin to eat up my other organs to stay alive. I had to do something about it.
I took off my mittens and lay them on the table. I pulled the chair back into the kitchen and stood on it. Not high enough. I stood up on the counter top and opened the cupboard. Cornflakes, perfect. I opened the box and looked in, nearly full. Jackpot. My foot slipped. There must have been water on the counter. Suddenly I was on my back on the floor all the breath knocked outta me. Cornflakes were hitting my face, my body, the floor. Like a rain of food. I laughed. She didnt move.
You ok baby? You hurt yourself?
No, Ma!
I was laughing. I rolled over and the little flakes crunched under my weight. Suddenly I was rolling and rolling. Crunch, crunch, crunch. I turned to my side and ran in a circle with my feet like Id seen the break dancers do on Grant St. I giggled as bits of dust and cornflake spun around the room with me. I sat up and looked around the room. Bits of food all over everything. My head kept spinning and the laughter melted away. Changes. Lots of changes.
I scooped up the whole cornflakes that covered the counter and flung them in a bowl. I brought it to the tap and filled the bowl just slightly, just enough to make sure I wouldnt get cereal stuck in my throat. No point checking the fridge. There hadnt been milk in a long time.
I pulled the chair back to the living room and munched the soggy mess. Bits of cereal were stuck in my woolly coat. I put the bowl down on the table next to my mittens. I couldnt swallow. I looked up at the top shelf. I knew it didnt matter, not now, but I didnt think she wanted it there anymore.
The box came down as easily as the first time, the contents spilling on the floor. The evening news was on now. She watched as they talked about the cold weather blowing in from the north. It would be like this all week. I could hear them laughing about snowmen and bundling up. I carried the box and its contents into the bathroom and held it upside down over the bowl. A bit of toilet water splashed out onto my coat as the little baggies fell in. I took one breath, and pulled the handle hard. I watched it swirl around and then disappear down the hole. I dumped the now innocent looking box in the garbage next to the toilet. No one would see.
Always looking after me baby...
Always, Ma.
I walked slowly over to the couch. Her eyes sparkled with the light from the tv. They didnt blink.
Im gonna miss you baby.
Me too, Ma.
I leaned forward and wiped the little bubbles from the corners of her mouth with the sleeve of my coat. She had to look perfect. Or at least normal. I brushed the hair off her face. Cold, ice cold. I leaned over the table and pulled on my mittens. I pushed her gently toward the back of the couch and lay next to her, curling into her like I always did when I was cold or afraid. Only this time she wouldnt warm me up, she couldnt. My teeth began to chatter.
I love you baby.
You too, Ma.
Emergence (1065 words)
The box was open. I could see it on the high shelf, the one she thinks I cant get to. She doesnt know that if I pull the dining chair over to the side of the couch and stack the phone books on it I can reach up and with the very tip of my finger slide it off onto the floor. I only did it once, when she couldnt yell or pull me down or remember anything. She put it back up herself, she thought shed left it there.
Now it was open again. She stretched out on the couch staring at the tv. Judge Judy was on. Some guy didnt pay for the other guys car when his son had smashed in the windshield. Judge Judy was yelling non-stop.
Its gonna be different now baby, everythings gonna change.
I know, Ma.
I was so cold. The heat was never on anymore. Derrick wasnt there, his big boots were in the closet, they couldnt touch me. Maybe if I turned on the heat no one would know. I opened the closet and eyed the boots. They looked back, hard and mean. Better not risk it. I looked over at her. Still staring at the tv, empty.
I went to the rack, one, two three jumps and my big woolly coat fell to the floor. I pulled it on and found my mittens balled up in the pockets. I pulled the thick knitted socks out of the hand-me-down shoes next to the front door and put them on over my usual socks. Better.
Judge Judy finished and ads came on. Little white kids with red noses played in the snow on the screen. Laughing, having fun. Selling something. They didnt look cold. It was probably fake snow anyway.
Im hungry Ma. Howm I gonna eat?
Youll figure it out baby, you always do.
I sat on the dining chair opposite from the couch. I watched her. I didnt recognize the show that came on next. Too many people with lots of makeup. They looked mad, and worried, and hard. They didnt look real. Ma hated this stuff. Crap tv she called it. It never stayed on after Judge Judy. Still she looked.
What you doin Ma?
Just finishing up baby. Its not time yet, we still can have a little more peace.
Two, Three, Five crappy shows. They all blurred into each other. They all looked the same. We held our peace, our moment. But the cold snuck in. Even under the woolly coat and the mittens and lots of socks I could feel it, moving into my bones. It settled in slowly and grabbed hold of me till I knew I was never gonna be warm again. Not really.
I had to move. My belly made loud noises and I could feel the grinding inside. Derrick told me once that, that meant my belly was startin to eat up my other organs to stay alive. I had to do something about it.
I took off my mittens and lay them on the table. I pulled the chair back into the kitchen and stood on it. Not high enough. I stood up on the counter top and opened the cupboard. Cornflakes, perfect. I opened the box and looked in, nearly full. Jackpot. My foot slipped. There must have been water on the counter. Suddenly I was on my back on the floor all the breath knocked outta me. Cornflakes were hitting my face, my body, the floor. Like a rain of food. I laughed. She didnt move.
You ok baby? You hurt yourself?
No, Ma!
I was laughing. I rolled over and the little flakes crunched under my weight. Suddenly I was rolling and rolling. Crunch, crunch, crunch. I turned to my side and ran in a circle with my feet like Id seen the break dancers do on Grant St. I giggled as bits of dust and cornflake spun around the room with me. I sat up and looked around the room. Bits of food all over everything. My head kept spinning and the laughter melted away. Changes. Lots of changes.
I scooped up the whole cornflakes that covered the counter and flung them in a bowl. I brought it to the tap and filled the bowl just slightly, just enough to make sure I wouldnt get cereal stuck in my throat. No point checking the fridge. There hadnt been milk in a long time.
I pulled the chair back to the living room and munched the soggy mess. Bits of cereal were stuck in my woolly coat. I put the bowl down on the table next to my mittens. I couldnt swallow. I looked up at the top shelf. I knew it didnt matter, not now, but I didnt think she wanted it there anymore.
The box came down as easily as the first time, the contents spilling on the floor. The evening news was on now. She watched as they talked about the cold weather blowing in from the north. It would be like this all week. I could hear them laughing about snowmen and bundling up. I carried the box and its contents into the bathroom and held it upside down over the bowl. A bit of toilet water splashed out onto my coat as the little baggies fell in. I took one breath, and pulled the handle hard. I watched it swirl around and then disappear down the hole. I dumped the now innocent looking box in the garbage next to the toilet. No one would see.
Always looking after me baby...
Always, Ma.
I walked slowly over to the couch. Her eyes sparkled with the light from the tv. They didnt blink.
Im gonna miss you baby.
Me too, Ma.
I leaned forward and wiped the little bubbles from the corners of her mouth with the sleeve of my coat. She had to look perfect. Or at least normal. I brushed the hair off her face. Cold, ice cold. I leaned over the table and pulled on my mittens. I pushed her gently toward the back of the couch and lay next to her, curling into her like I always did when I was cold or afraid. Only this time she wouldnt warm me up, she couldnt. My teeth began to chatter.
I love you baby.
You too, Ma.
ZephyrFate
Banned
Purple Drazi? More like Purple Nazi! :lolCyan said:
Lone_Prodigy
Member
Extinction (665)
This is how the world ended.
We saw it first, so large it blotted out the sun. Then, the sound, a rumbling bass that shook us to our very core. As night crept closer we subconsciously sought shelter, even as we told ourselves that it would ultimately be futile. Those who were too slow or large huddled under the largest tree or next to the largest land formation they could find. For a minute we could see the sky again.
We watched as it landed over the horizon. The ground began to shake, and giant sheets of water reached for the clouds. Dust and particles rose to darken the sky. Trees collapsed and a nearby mountain ejected boiling lava down its slopes. It suddenly became difficult to breathe as greenhouse gases spread across the atmosphere. We panicked and began fighting for shelter in the caves or running, though with a volcano in one direction and a tsunami in the other, there weren't many places to run to.
The smaller creatures were swept away by the rushing water or crushed by falling trees. Some of the larger ones couldn't keep their balance and fell over: those that weren't trampled were too injured to get up on the shaky ground.
Those who survived the first few days found the temperature dropping as the sun was blocked by the atmospheric particles. Plants withered and died, making life even worse. The herbivores quickly died out without their main food source, and the carnivores followed. It wasn't long before we were all gone.
--
No, you're wrong. This is what happened.
It wasn't nearly as dramatic as our mutual friend would have you all believe. Under our oceans are volcanos that decided to all erupt over the span of a few centuries. These eruptions released dust and particles into the atmosphere, which prevented plant photosynthesis and increased the quantity of carbon dioxide. Volcanic gases from molten rock increased global temperatures for too many years for us to successfully adapt. It was a slow process but our numbers thinned as plants died. While the plants recovered, the food chain had been irrevocably disrupted: the herbivores had died off and the carnivores were left to fight among themselves.
--
I want what you guys are smoking, because you're both wrong.
It was a giant meteorite, but it didn't freeze us to death. Instead, it generated a massive heat wave that wiped out most of us. Quick and messy. Those who survived couldn't take the temperature spike and lack of oxygen in the air and eventually succumbed as well. The world became a wasteland.
--
I can see the heat has addled your brains.
The way I remember it, the ecosystems underwent a sudden change from flowering angiosperms to seed-bearing gymnosperms. With angiosperms being the main staple of herbivores' diets, a loss of their primary food source and an inability to diversify spelled an inevitable doom. The dying herbivores thinned their herd, and those who adapted were too few in number to repel their predators. With the herbivores gone, the carnivores turned on each other and we all know how that would end.
--
I just remember something ripping into my side, me falling over, then a pressure on my neck.
--
We wanted to know how our world ended, not yours.
--
Oh, sorry. Well can't help you there.
--
Well, those are all fine and dandy theories. But can no one explain why we're here in - what did that mammal say? - the year 2420?
--
I don't know, but has anyone checked out those large tanks with leaking liquid nitrogen leaking out of it? It looks like we were transferred from there into these cages.
--
Do you think... wait I hear footsteps. Everyone act natural!
--
Hmm all the subjects seem to be healthy and motor functions look normal. Not bad after being frozen for over 65 million years. I hope their memories are as optimal.
This is how the world ended.
We saw it first, so large it blotted out the sun. Then, the sound, a rumbling bass that shook us to our very core. As night crept closer we subconsciously sought shelter, even as we told ourselves that it would ultimately be futile. Those who were too slow or large huddled under the largest tree or next to the largest land formation they could find. For a minute we could see the sky again.
We watched as it landed over the horizon. The ground began to shake, and giant sheets of water reached for the clouds. Dust and particles rose to darken the sky. Trees collapsed and a nearby mountain ejected boiling lava down its slopes. It suddenly became difficult to breathe as greenhouse gases spread across the atmosphere. We panicked and began fighting for shelter in the caves or running, though with a volcano in one direction and a tsunami in the other, there weren't many places to run to.
The smaller creatures were swept away by the rushing water or crushed by falling trees. Some of the larger ones couldn't keep their balance and fell over: those that weren't trampled were too injured to get up on the shaky ground.
Those who survived the first few days found the temperature dropping as the sun was blocked by the atmospheric particles. Plants withered and died, making life even worse. The herbivores quickly died out without their main food source, and the carnivores followed. It wasn't long before we were all gone.
--
No, you're wrong. This is what happened.
It wasn't nearly as dramatic as our mutual friend would have you all believe. Under our oceans are volcanos that decided to all erupt over the span of a few centuries. These eruptions released dust and particles into the atmosphere, which prevented plant photosynthesis and increased the quantity of carbon dioxide. Volcanic gases from molten rock increased global temperatures for too many years for us to successfully adapt. It was a slow process but our numbers thinned as plants died. While the plants recovered, the food chain had been irrevocably disrupted: the herbivores had died off and the carnivores were left to fight among themselves.
--
I want what you guys are smoking, because you're both wrong.
It was a giant meteorite, but it didn't freeze us to death. Instead, it generated a massive heat wave that wiped out most of us. Quick and messy. Those who survived couldn't take the temperature spike and lack of oxygen in the air and eventually succumbed as well. The world became a wasteland.
--
I can see the heat has addled your brains.
The way I remember it, the ecosystems underwent a sudden change from flowering angiosperms to seed-bearing gymnosperms. With angiosperms being the main staple of herbivores' diets, a loss of their primary food source and an inability to diversify spelled an inevitable doom. The dying herbivores thinned their herd, and those who adapted were too few in number to repel their predators. With the herbivores gone, the carnivores turned on each other and we all know how that would end.
--
I just remember something ripping into my side, me falling over, then a pressure on my neck.
--
We wanted to know how our world ended, not yours.
--
Oh, sorry. Well can't help you there.
--
Well, those are all fine and dandy theories. But can no one explain why we're here in - what did that mammal say? - the year 2420?
--
I don't know, but has anyone checked out those large tanks with leaking liquid nitrogen leaking out of it? It looks like we were transferred from there into these cages.
--
Do you think... wait I hear footsteps. Everyone act natural!
--
Hmm all the subjects seem to be healthy and motor functions look normal. Not bad after being frozen for over 65 million years. I hope their memories are as optimal.
Lone_Prodigy
Member
John you better write part 2 (shakes fist).
There it was behind the shed. After weeks of waiting it was finally ready. Long, slender and deadly the icicle would do nicely. It was the tool that would set everything right. So many things that were right once were now wrong.
It had started with Toby, his parents divorced and he moved California. I only found out when I awoke from hibernation and found him gone. Then Officer Hinkle was killed by some druggie. Bertie the mailman died of a heart attack. Sal's parents foreclosed on the house and he was living in Florida with his grandparents. Even Jenny's parents died in a car accident. One by one life had taken my friends from me until only Jenny and I were left.
I could see her through the window. The little girl that I once knew was now a grown woman pacing alone in her house. She used to laugh with me and cry with me. Now she only cried.
Her friends were mine and she watched as they died, and moved away leaving her in her prime alone in a sleepy town full of old people waiting to die. Jenny herself was waiting to die. She had told me herself. She couldn't bear to live in the house her parents had left her, so empty of everything but the memories they made together. With no friends left and no funds to move Jenny settled down and waited for something. Anything. Every winter night I watched through the window as she cried over her lost family and friends. When we talked she talked about how she longed to die. Her whole life was death.
There was a satisfying snap as I broke the icicle off the shed's roof. Things would have to move quickly now. I, most of all, understood just how quickly things could melt.
I ran to the lonely house and opened the door. Jenny was pacing in her front room when I found her. She turned with a sad smile at first that was replaced by shock as I drove the icicle into her chest.
It nearly broke but I had chosen the icicle well and drove it deep into her.
Jenny looked up to me with a mixture of relief and surprise as I cradled her to the ground.
"Frosty...." She said shivering, "It's...it's so cold."
A few more shivers and she was dead.
I stood and moved to the chair by the fireplace where I had seen Jenny sit and cry for so many nights. The chair she used to sit in and read with her dad. I sat, prepared to melt one more time, for the last time. I felt my form beginning to lose shape quickly. The fire was warm. Warm and wonderful.
It had started with Toby, his parents divorced and he moved California. I only found out when I awoke from hibernation and found him gone. Then Officer Hinkle was killed by some druggie. Bertie the mailman died of a heart attack. Sal's parents foreclosed on the house and he was living in Florida with his grandparents. Even Jenny's parents died in a car accident. One by one life had taken my friends from me until only Jenny and I were left.
I could see her through the window. The little girl that I once knew was now a grown woman pacing alone in her house. She used to laugh with me and cry with me. Now she only cried.
Her friends were mine and she watched as they died, and moved away leaving her in her prime alone in a sleepy town full of old people waiting to die. Jenny herself was waiting to die. She had told me herself. She couldn't bear to live in the house her parents had left her, so empty of everything but the memories they made together. With no friends left and no funds to move Jenny settled down and waited for something. Anything. Every winter night I watched through the window as she cried over her lost family and friends. When we talked she talked about how she longed to die. Her whole life was death.
There was a satisfying snap as I broke the icicle off the shed's roof. Things would have to move quickly now. I, most of all, understood just how quickly things could melt.
I ran to the lonely house and opened the door. Jenny was pacing in her front room when I found her. She turned with a sad smile at first that was replaced by shock as I drove the icicle into her chest.
It nearly broke but I had chosen the icicle well and drove it deep into her.
Jenny looked up to me with a mixture of relief and surprise as I cradled her to the ground.
"Frosty...." She said shivering, "It's...it's so cold."
A few more shivers and she was dead.
I stood and moved to the chair by the fireplace where I had seen Jenny sit and cry for so many nights. The chair she used to sit in and read with her dad. I sat, prepared to melt one more time, for the last time. I felt my form beginning to lose shape quickly. The fire was warm. Warm and wonderful.
___________________________________
Bell's Curve or when the penny drops
___________________________________
Ian Bell walked the plank to the front of the college classroom. He smiled broadly before he began.
All of you know me...
The classroom of five friends and a dodgy seminar tutor laughed. The urbanites were dressed for a new Autumn. There was a dress wearer with a woolly jumper underneath; a knee length 'coater' with the remnants of a baked bean stain; a mini skirt wearing clubber, who had wrangled on a pair of tights, still awake from last night; her boyfriend beside her who had also braved the cold winds with a t-shirt; the professionally fitted suit wearing tutor and Mirah, who dressed like a fashionista, today all in gypsy brown with a cool black shades. Mirah chewed her bubble gum and rocked her long legs to and fro.
Bell shrugged. A demonstration, he said taking a breath.
Mirah pulled her shades down, then took it off and rested it on her perfectly straightened forest black hair pile. She twirled her fingers in a circle motion then started jotting down a few choice words into her deliciously cool ipad, about one Ian Bell.
My name is Ian Bell. Possibly the smartest person attending this College. I don't really know. Some of you think that I may be arrogant, or at least... immodest. Well that's just me. Biographies are supposed to be a truthful reflection of your self. So here's I! I have ten A*s in GSCEs; and have 5 A*s at A level. The last time I had an I.Q. Test; I was around 155. Top 1 percent. My father makes a couple of hundred grand a year, as does my mother, so I'm also lucky to have had a privileged upbringing-
Ian! Mirah said causing Ian to stop his speech midway. Ian saw her studied poise, the questioning glance. Pseudologia fantastica. Remember? she mouthed.
Of course. I... as you all know... He began honestly enough. I am of course none of those things. So why did I just tell you that? Truth is I dont exactly know I just start off speaking then go on a tangent. And that becomes a reality. Fictitious and Im completely aware that it is fictitious but it just rolls off the tongue. My therapist says that it is perhaps because my life by its self is not good enough. Which is strange because I dont have a therapist.
He got a laugh out of his audience.
Like everything else, Psychologists have only gone and given it a name. Pseudologia fantastica. Pathological Liar in layman terms.
Ians voice, normally so well projected, lowered in power and enthusiasm as his shoulders too gave way. He shrugged.
How many times have you lots heard of a pathological liar? Eh. I will say one truth though. Its embarrassing. Suffering from that.
A silent pause filled the room as the penny dropped.
What do you mean suffer from it Ian? Can you give us some examples? The bespeckled tutor asked. His fingers had a mind of its own, and were currently playing with a black ball point pen.
Weve all told white lies, yes? Think of the ones, that you tried desperately to wriggle out of. Now imagine having to do that everyday. Then imagine, having to be that person, who is supposed to be super intelligent, but fails at it. Who is supposed to be rich, but walks around in tatters. And then imagine when the penny drops when he realizes that he isnt fooling anyone Ian looked at the pale new mopped floors.
Any other questions?
Is Mirah really your girlfriend?
No, Ian said laughing.
Of course I am! Mirah burst in.
For Gawd sakes Mirah. He was clearly trying to be jovial.
Ian placed his hands on the teachers desk behind him and pulled himself up to sit on top of it. The truth is. Im Mr Average. Average grades, Average intelligence, Average life. My real I.Q. score is around the 100 mark. Right at the top of the Bells curve. Nobody is actually supposed to be at the top, as it is a hypothetical where your I.Q. result is equivalent to your age, giving you 1 when you divide the two together, and off course you then multiply that by a 100 to give a I.Q. score. (Age/I.Q. test result) x 100= I.Q. Test result.
Mirah raised her hand. Being Average doesnt mean you are dumb though. It should mean that you have the most in common with the most people. You should be a social highlight if anything.
Well you would say that though, Ian replied. I mean thank you for that.
Melanie, jumper beneath a dress, raised her hand. The truth isnt necessarily easy though. Everybody lies. How do we know you arent trying to be something special, by telling us that you suffer from what was it-? Pseudolog-
Pseudologia fantastica, Mirah added.
Pseudologia fantastica. Maybe it is just another effort to special ize your self, I mean?
Ian Bell smiled. Then that smile journeyed into a laugh. Well
Melanie smiled along with him. I dont get it, whats so funny?
Aesops fable, Mirah added. The boy who cried wolf?
Melanies eyes lit. Ahh. Okay. Even when liars tell the truth, they are never believed. The liar will lie once, twice, and so then gets screwed when he tells the truth I actually dont think its too bad Ian. I just think of you as like the story teller in our group you know.
Thank you Ian said, hiding his hands in his jean pockets. I think thats my fifteen minutes.
Mirah pulled up the seat beside her, as her sunglasses came down again. You did well, Mr Bell I wish I had your ability to be such a natural in front of a crowd. I just completely melt.
Ian smiled. Well, I guess there is that. I never really get nervous.
Close up, it looked a tougher smile then he let on. Mirah reached for Ians hands under the table. There was a distinct, very private tremor in his hands. One that he could not hide under the embrace.
Mirah looked up at Ian Bell, open mouthed as he looked at another student, script in hand, walk the plank to the front of the classroom to talk a little about her self.
___________________________________
End.
___________________________________
"Tell me when your heart stops," Myrah asked.
"What?" Ian replied in a whisper. "It's over. I'm not on trial anymore."
Myrah lowered her shades to the tip of her nose. "How very telling... because that's exactly the thing babe. You were never on trial."
Ian's heart beat at a quicker pace. He tried to steady his hand.
"It's alright..." Myrah spoke, now beneath a whisper.
Ian's heart began bleeding, the shakes grew worse, visibily so. Myrah looked on at the person getting giddy on stage. She kept a tight grip of Ian's hand.
Ian lost complete control of his trembles. "I think I'm having a heart attack... trust me.."
"It'll pass. Trust me."
"I'm not lying..."
"I know you're not, Ian Bell. Just tell when me when your heart stops..."
"Do you know what's happening to me..?"
"I think so. Just keep breathing. We can go outside if you want."
Ian sat firmly in his seat. And tried consciously to control his breathing.
Myrah googled Panic attack on her ipad, and then showed Ian.
"Tell me when your heart stops..." Myrah said pulling her shades back on as she put her head on Ian's shoulders. "Everything's going to be ok."
Bell's Curve or when the penny drops
___________________________________
Ian Bell walked the plank to the front of the college classroom. He smiled broadly before he began.
All of you know me...
The classroom of five friends and a dodgy seminar tutor laughed. The urbanites were dressed for a new Autumn. There was a dress wearer with a woolly jumper underneath; a knee length 'coater' with the remnants of a baked bean stain; a mini skirt wearing clubber, who had wrangled on a pair of tights, still awake from last night; her boyfriend beside her who had also braved the cold winds with a t-shirt; the professionally fitted suit wearing tutor and Mirah, who dressed like a fashionista, today all in gypsy brown with a cool black shades. Mirah chewed her bubble gum and rocked her long legs to and fro.
Bell shrugged. A demonstration, he said taking a breath.
Mirah pulled her shades down, then took it off and rested it on her perfectly straightened forest black hair pile. She twirled her fingers in a circle motion then started jotting down a few choice words into her deliciously cool ipad, about one Ian Bell.
My name is Ian Bell. Possibly the smartest person attending this College. I don't really know. Some of you think that I may be arrogant, or at least... immodest. Well that's just me. Biographies are supposed to be a truthful reflection of your self. So here's I! I have ten A*s in GSCEs; and have 5 A*s at A level. The last time I had an I.Q. Test; I was around 155. Top 1 percent. My father makes a couple of hundred grand a year, as does my mother, so I'm also lucky to have had a privileged upbringing-
Ian! Mirah said causing Ian to stop his speech midway. Ian saw her studied poise, the questioning glance. Pseudologia fantastica. Remember? she mouthed.
Of course. I... as you all know... He began honestly enough. I am of course none of those things. So why did I just tell you that? Truth is I dont exactly know I just start off speaking then go on a tangent. And that becomes a reality. Fictitious and Im completely aware that it is fictitious but it just rolls off the tongue. My therapist says that it is perhaps because my life by its self is not good enough. Which is strange because I dont have a therapist.
He got a laugh out of his audience.
Like everything else, Psychologists have only gone and given it a name. Pseudologia fantastica. Pathological Liar in layman terms.
Ians voice, normally so well projected, lowered in power and enthusiasm as his shoulders too gave way. He shrugged.
How many times have you lots heard of a pathological liar? Eh. I will say one truth though. Its embarrassing. Suffering from that.
A silent pause filled the room as the penny dropped.
What do you mean suffer from it Ian? Can you give us some examples? The bespeckled tutor asked. His fingers had a mind of its own, and were currently playing with a black ball point pen.
Weve all told white lies, yes? Think of the ones, that you tried desperately to wriggle out of. Now imagine having to do that everyday. Then imagine, having to be that person, who is supposed to be super intelligent, but fails at it. Who is supposed to be rich, but walks around in tatters. And then imagine when the penny drops when he realizes that he isnt fooling anyone Ian looked at the pale new mopped floors.
Any other questions?
Is Mirah really your girlfriend?
No, Ian said laughing.
Of course I am! Mirah burst in.
For Gawd sakes Mirah. He was clearly trying to be jovial.
Ian placed his hands on the teachers desk behind him and pulled himself up to sit on top of it. The truth is. Im Mr Average. Average grades, Average intelligence, Average life. My real I.Q. score is around the 100 mark. Right at the top of the Bells curve. Nobody is actually supposed to be at the top, as it is a hypothetical where your I.Q. result is equivalent to your age, giving you 1 when you divide the two together, and off course you then multiply that by a 100 to give a I.Q. score. (Age/I.Q. test result) x 100= I.Q. Test result.
Mirah raised her hand. Being Average doesnt mean you are dumb though. It should mean that you have the most in common with the most people. You should be a social highlight if anything.
Well you would say that though, Ian replied. I mean thank you for that.
Melanie, jumper beneath a dress, raised her hand. The truth isnt necessarily easy though. Everybody lies. How do we know you arent trying to be something special, by telling us that you suffer from what was it-? Pseudolog-
Pseudologia fantastica, Mirah added.
Pseudologia fantastica. Maybe it is just another effort to special ize your self, I mean?
Ian Bell smiled. Then that smile journeyed into a laugh. Well
Melanie smiled along with him. I dont get it, whats so funny?
Aesops fable, Mirah added. The boy who cried wolf?
Melanies eyes lit. Ahh. Okay. Even when liars tell the truth, they are never believed. The liar will lie once, twice, and so then gets screwed when he tells the truth I actually dont think its too bad Ian. I just think of you as like the story teller in our group you know.
Thank you Ian said, hiding his hands in his jean pockets. I think thats my fifteen minutes.
Mirah pulled up the seat beside her, as her sunglasses came down again. You did well, Mr Bell I wish I had your ability to be such a natural in front of a crowd. I just completely melt.
Ian smiled. Well, I guess there is that. I never really get nervous.
Close up, it looked a tougher smile then he let on. Mirah reached for Ians hands under the table. There was a distinct, very private tremor in his hands. One that he could not hide under the embrace.
Mirah looked up at Ian Bell, open mouthed as he looked at another student, script in hand, walk the plank to the front of the classroom to talk a little about her self.
___________________________________
End.
___________________________________
"Tell me when your heart stops," Myrah asked.
"What?" Ian replied in a whisper. "It's over. I'm not on trial anymore."
Myrah lowered her shades to the tip of her nose. "How very telling... because that's exactly the thing babe. You were never on trial."
Ian's heart beat at a quicker pace. He tried to steady his hand.
"It's alright..." Myrah spoke, now beneath a whisper.
Ian's heart began bleeding, the shakes grew worse, visibily so. Myrah looked on at the person getting giddy on stage. She kept a tight grip of Ian's hand.
Ian lost complete control of his trembles. "I think I'm having a heart attack... trust me.."
"It'll pass. Trust me."
"I'm not lying..."
"I know you're not, Ian Bell. Just tell when me when your heart stops..."
"Do you know what's happening to me..?"
"I think so. Just keep breathing. We can go outside if you want."
Ian sat firmly in his seat. And tried consciously to control his breathing.
Myrah googled Panic attack on her ipad, and then showed Ian.
"Tell me when your heart stops..." Myrah said pulling her shades back on as she put her head on Ian's shoulders. "Everything's going to be ok."
crowphoenix
Banned
I'm sorry. "Little germ" always makes me think of gay midget assassin doctors.ronito said:
crowphoenix
Banned
I just happen to like my killers well trained in what they're cutting.ronito said:
crowphoenix
Banned
Deleted due to TOS change.
ZephyrFate
Banned
This Land of Concrete
Word Count: 1475
Soft-touch footsteps echoed along the rooftops as we nimbly raced along each residential household like a playground. Even moreso, we'd play those old schoolyard games like tag or some shit, just to pass the time. Passing time was all that was left anymore. The rest of life was so boring compared to what lay here, this endless urban meadow. Instead of flowers, there were buildings, instead of ants, there were people; a perfect cement facsimile of the wilderness that was extant.
We only lived for the free running, the thrill of making this sprawl of human existence something more than window shopping and Amazon.com. Every construct was an obstacle, and the goal was to find a way up and over it, past it, dominating it. There wasn't a word for 'impediment' no it was more like 'temporary slowdown' and then when that's over it's easy sailing on brick-and-mortar seas.
There were five of us; Alena, the tough white chick with blonde hair falling down along her shoulders and hazel eyes. Maybe they were green. No... most definitely hazel. That's how I remember her... hazel. She was thin and wiry, with a mousy look to her face that made her almost tomboyish, despite the hair. Her voice came out in thin whispers:
Fuck off. Her green eyes narrowed then, when I'd told her she was hot shit and I wanted to bang her. In retrospect I should probably have told her that she was ugly and maybe I would have gotten a more thrilling response, less de facto and more impetuous or snarky. I liked to think she only spoke when she needed to, not when she wanted to. The rest of her vestiges of personality were little more than shrugs and nods, fucking tantalizing am I right?
I knew she wanted me, the skater-turned-parkour-runner that I was, scruffy as fuck complete with shaggy black hair and pale skin. I'm sure I was a poster-child for hot man and she was just putting up the ole' resistance angle. Friendzoned.
Greg joined us out of spite, he saw us running along one of our obstacle courses (pretty much just some area with a bunch of walls and hedges and shit) and had decided for quite some time that he was gonna call the police on us, until he saw the looks on our faces. A sort of unrestrained freedom was what we liked to call the free running look stern focus and unrelenting passion all summated by a stone-cold passivity that left no impressions or questions. It was then he told us:
Looks like you guys are having fun... what do you call that stuff?
Free running, bro. I responded, cracking a wry smirk in his direction.
How do you do it? He asked, tilting his head slightly.
Simply let go.
He was built like a wrestler, all muscle and not much flexibility. He looked like a retard out in the field for some time, but after losing weight and taking some yoga classes he seemed to be back on track with us, able to keep up and he was the only one of us who could make some of the larger jumps.
And finally little Yonah, some young ethnic chick who took a buncha gymnastics classes and could scale around fire exit stairs like no one else. She was quick like a lioness on the hunt, but she looked like she was only twelve when I think she was probably eighteen. Probably. I don't fucking know don't ask me. Her entrance into our little cadre of misfit caged-up parrots was enigmatic... we were jumping between some buildings in lower Manhattan when she suddenly appeared alongside us. She looked at us with a stoic expression and we asked no questions because damn that girl could leap and twist. She even got all cocky and did some near impossible stunts off of some of the riskier jumps. Girl was a prodigy in the making and she didn't even know it:
Where you from, girl? I asked her, bemused expression all painted on my face.
Nowhere. Her single response.
Where's nowhere?
She gestured all around her, smiling. Her eyes were filled with some inferno that I swear to God coulda consumed me right there. She loved this shit, I mean loved this shit. And I knew that she would fit in well.
So the four of us stood atop a roof one day, looking out into the city expanses and she was the only who said anything:
This is ours.
---
But what kind of kingdom is this, anyway? We're no rulers and things go on without us doing jack shit about it, but there's one thing the rest of these ants can't do: Live free. They're all easily fit into a small container with no breathing holes so they suffocate, and choke, until society throws them out. So all we have left to do is hop around buildings and jump over stairwells and whatever else the concrete sprawl throws at us, and that gives us the only ways of escape.
There was always that cliché of 'thinking outside the box' weighing over us, like some sorta stalker angel waiting to impale us with some heavenly spear when we took the wrong path. But looking at us you'd figure that we saw the city as nothing more than a box. If we continue to push the limits of what the box gives us, we make the box bigger in some weird metaphorical way. The only true fight were the skyscrapers.
Skyscrapers were God's way of saying to those of us with wanderlust that, No matter how far you jump, or how high you climb, I will always be higher. And even though those buildings teabagged by the heavens were small fry compared to some decent-size mountain, to the city-dweller that was the impasse. A veritable STOP sign for a runner of liberty.
So I figured that we would we learn how to scale it. All late at night and on some side where we'd be least likely seen. We'd wear all black and look as if we blended into the night... and maybe we'd make it to the top.
We're not rulers 'till we climb Mt. Motherfucker.
How in the fuck d'ya think we'll do that? Alena replied, all eyes turning to her as if shellshocked that she'd take the time to speak. Fuckin' grenade bomb in a conversation that was.
Use what we've learned climbing the smaller stuff, and just apply it to somethin' thirty or fourty times bigger, of course!
They all looked at me like I was stepping foot out of some insane asylum on a super cold morning so not only was I insane, I was blue in the face. I watched Greg shake his head, turn on his heel, and walk off to the other end of the roof we were on. He looked out on the horizon and said no words. But I could see them in his footsteps:
We'll... get... caught.
There... won't be... any place... to run.
They were all nervous, all of them scared. We were radical but not this radical. But they knew the truth, just like I did. They knew that I was right, so painfully right that it kicked them in the crotch. The girls looked at each other, then at me, as if wondering if any decision would come of their flighty gazing.
I'm out. You're on your own. Alena remarked, hopping down the fire exit stairs. But her steps were filled with hesitancy and lacked the staccato rhythm of someone reliant upon the choice they made.
Yonah's eyes and face darted to the ground after Alena left, like a child without their parents to guide them. She reached to me, pulled me into a hug, and then pushed away. I crinkled my brow, wondering why she'd ever do that, wondering if she thought we were friends. All that remained was Greg, and as I walked over to him he turned to me.
You always wanted to push limits. He mumbled, like he was talking to no one in particular.
Nothin' else to do around here. You want to do what everyone else does? All cubicles and 9-5?
I never got an answer.
---
The skyscraper looked impossibly tall, reaching futilely up to the heavens. Must have been fifty stories, and yet the very top looked like paradise. At the very least, up there, I'd feel like I was majestic, like a king with no servants.
So I got a foothold on one of the window ledges, and began to climb. It was a super cold morning, and I must have been blue in the face.
Word Count: 1475
Soft-touch footsteps echoed along the rooftops as we nimbly raced along each residential household like a playground. Even moreso, we'd play those old schoolyard games like tag or some shit, just to pass the time. Passing time was all that was left anymore. The rest of life was so boring compared to what lay here, this endless urban meadow. Instead of flowers, there were buildings, instead of ants, there were people; a perfect cement facsimile of the wilderness that was extant.
We only lived for the free running, the thrill of making this sprawl of human existence something more than window shopping and Amazon.com. Every construct was an obstacle, and the goal was to find a way up and over it, past it, dominating it. There wasn't a word for 'impediment' no it was more like 'temporary slowdown' and then when that's over it's easy sailing on brick-and-mortar seas.
There were five of us; Alena, the tough white chick with blonde hair falling down along her shoulders and hazel eyes. Maybe they were green. No... most definitely hazel. That's how I remember her... hazel. She was thin and wiry, with a mousy look to her face that made her almost tomboyish, despite the hair. Her voice came out in thin whispers:
Fuck off. Her green eyes narrowed then, when I'd told her she was hot shit and I wanted to bang her. In retrospect I should probably have told her that she was ugly and maybe I would have gotten a more thrilling response, less de facto and more impetuous or snarky. I liked to think she only spoke when she needed to, not when she wanted to. The rest of her vestiges of personality were little more than shrugs and nods, fucking tantalizing am I right?
I knew she wanted me, the skater-turned-parkour-runner that I was, scruffy as fuck complete with shaggy black hair and pale skin. I'm sure I was a poster-child for hot man and she was just putting up the ole' resistance angle. Friendzoned.
Greg joined us out of spite, he saw us running along one of our obstacle courses (pretty much just some area with a bunch of walls and hedges and shit) and had decided for quite some time that he was gonna call the police on us, until he saw the looks on our faces. A sort of unrestrained freedom was what we liked to call the free running look stern focus and unrelenting passion all summated by a stone-cold passivity that left no impressions or questions. It was then he told us:
Looks like you guys are having fun... what do you call that stuff?
Free running, bro. I responded, cracking a wry smirk in his direction.
How do you do it? He asked, tilting his head slightly.
Simply let go.
He was built like a wrestler, all muscle and not much flexibility. He looked like a retard out in the field for some time, but after losing weight and taking some yoga classes he seemed to be back on track with us, able to keep up and he was the only one of us who could make some of the larger jumps.
And finally little Yonah, some young ethnic chick who took a buncha gymnastics classes and could scale around fire exit stairs like no one else. She was quick like a lioness on the hunt, but she looked like she was only twelve when I think she was probably eighteen. Probably. I don't fucking know don't ask me. Her entrance into our little cadre of misfit caged-up parrots was enigmatic... we were jumping between some buildings in lower Manhattan when she suddenly appeared alongside us. She looked at us with a stoic expression and we asked no questions because damn that girl could leap and twist. She even got all cocky and did some near impossible stunts off of some of the riskier jumps. Girl was a prodigy in the making and she didn't even know it:
Where you from, girl? I asked her, bemused expression all painted on my face.
Nowhere. Her single response.
Where's nowhere?
She gestured all around her, smiling. Her eyes were filled with some inferno that I swear to God coulda consumed me right there. She loved this shit, I mean loved this shit. And I knew that she would fit in well.
So the four of us stood atop a roof one day, looking out into the city expanses and she was the only who said anything:
This is ours.
---
But what kind of kingdom is this, anyway? We're no rulers and things go on without us doing jack shit about it, but there's one thing the rest of these ants can't do: Live free. They're all easily fit into a small container with no breathing holes so they suffocate, and choke, until society throws them out. So all we have left to do is hop around buildings and jump over stairwells and whatever else the concrete sprawl throws at us, and that gives us the only ways of escape.
There was always that cliché of 'thinking outside the box' weighing over us, like some sorta stalker angel waiting to impale us with some heavenly spear when we took the wrong path. But looking at us you'd figure that we saw the city as nothing more than a box. If we continue to push the limits of what the box gives us, we make the box bigger in some weird metaphorical way. The only true fight were the skyscrapers.
Skyscrapers were God's way of saying to those of us with wanderlust that, No matter how far you jump, or how high you climb, I will always be higher. And even though those buildings teabagged by the heavens were small fry compared to some decent-size mountain, to the city-dweller that was the impasse. A veritable STOP sign for a runner of liberty.
So I figured that we would we learn how to scale it. All late at night and on some side where we'd be least likely seen. We'd wear all black and look as if we blended into the night... and maybe we'd make it to the top.
We're not rulers 'till we climb Mt. Motherfucker.
How in the fuck d'ya think we'll do that? Alena replied, all eyes turning to her as if shellshocked that she'd take the time to speak. Fuckin' grenade bomb in a conversation that was.
Use what we've learned climbing the smaller stuff, and just apply it to somethin' thirty or fourty times bigger, of course!
They all looked at me like I was stepping foot out of some insane asylum on a super cold morning so not only was I insane, I was blue in the face. I watched Greg shake his head, turn on his heel, and walk off to the other end of the roof we were on. He looked out on the horizon and said no words. But I could see them in his footsteps:
We'll... get... caught.
There... won't be... any place... to run.
They were all nervous, all of them scared. We were radical but not this radical. But they knew the truth, just like I did. They knew that I was right, so painfully right that it kicked them in the crotch. The girls looked at each other, then at me, as if wondering if any decision would come of their flighty gazing.
I'm out. You're on your own. Alena remarked, hopping down the fire exit stairs. But her steps were filled with hesitancy and lacked the staccato rhythm of someone reliant upon the choice they made.
Yonah's eyes and face darted to the ground after Alena left, like a child without their parents to guide them. She reached to me, pulled me into a hug, and then pushed away. I crinkled my brow, wondering why she'd ever do that, wondering if she thought we were friends. All that remained was Greg, and as I walked over to him he turned to me.
You always wanted to push limits. He mumbled, like he was talking to no one in particular.
Nothin' else to do around here. You want to do what everyone else does? All cubicles and 9-5?
I never got an answer.
---
The skyscraper looked impossibly tall, reaching futilely up to the heavens. Must have been fifty stories, and yet the very top looked like paradise. At the very least, up there, I'd feel like I was majestic, like a king with no servants.
So I got a foothold on one of the window ledges, and began to climb. It was a super cold morning, and I must have been blue in the face.
The Three Advisors (1500)
Many years ago, in a certain land, there was a king. This king was not the strongest of kings, nor the greatest, nor the wisest. But he was a good man, and the people of his kingdom were happy.
It happened that one winter, the queen took ill and died. And the king took a new wife, a neighboring kings daughter, strong, proud, and beautiful. The people whispered that she was full young to marry the king, being little older than his son, the prince.
One day, guardsmen brought the new queen and the prince before the king. The queens clothing was in disarray, her face bruised and bloodied. She looked at the king, and her eyes flashed. "Husband," said she. "Your son plans to feed you poison. He offered me insult, and asked my aid in his plot. When I refused, he grew wroth and struck me."
The prince said nothing. When the king looked at him, he shook his head.
"You see?" said the queen. "He offers no defense. He knows that his lies would show through." Her eyes flashed again. "For such offenses as he has committed, the penalty is death."
Still the prince said nothing.
The kings heart fell, but the queen was right. The penalty was death, and if the prince would not defend himself, the king must order it. He gestured for the guardsmen to take the prince away.
But the kings first advisor stepped forward, and he spake thus:
"There once was a man of this kingdom, a woodcutter, who had a faithful dog.
Now, it happened that one year, when the winter was hard and the winds were fierce, the man's wife gave birth to a child, a baby boy, and did not survive the birth.
The man cradled his son in his arms and marveled at him, even as he grieved at his wife's death.
The next morning, the man resolved to travel into town and fetch the priest to bless his son and help his wife's spirit to the afterlife. He feared to leave the babe alone in his hut, so he told the dog to watch over him. "Let nothing happen to my son," the man said. The dog barked and wagged its tail.
The woodcutter had not been gone an hour when a serpent crossed the threshold of the hut. Its fangs were sharp and venom glinted at their points. The dog barked, and growled, but the serpent came on, drawn by the cries of the baby boy. The dog barked and growled again, and at last leapt upon the serpent, biting it, crushing the foul head in its jaws.
When the man arrived home, the dog, triumphant, stood outside the door wagging its tail.
But all the man saw was the dogs bloody muzzle. "You have killed my child," he cried, and taking up his axe, he cleaved the dog's head from its body. Whereupon he heard a cry from within the hut, and entered to find a serpent dead upon the floor, and the babe safe in its cradle.
"Forgive me," he said to the dog, "you were more faithful than I."
The lesson is: trust not a judgment made in haste."
The king nodded gravely at the lesson offered by his advisor. "The prince shall not be put to death today. We will see what he says tomorrow." And the guards took the prince to a cell at the bottom of the palace.
The next day, the prince was brought forth once more, and once more he remained silent.
"Still he dares not speak," said the queen. "My husband, you have waited a day as you promised. Still the prince does not dispute what I told you, that he plotted to usurp you and that he offered me insult. He must be put to death."
The king's heart sank, but he could not disagree with the queen's words. He gestured for the guardsmen to take the prince away.
But the king's second advisor stepped forward, and he spake thus:
"There once was a man of this kingdom, a thief, who was quick of wit and quicker to steal.
One day the thief passed by an inn, and he noticed that the innkeeper wore a fine and fashionable coat. The thief vowed that he would have the coat for himself.
The thief went to the innkeeper and conversed with him for a time. And when the conversation began to wane, the thief yawned widely, and then howled like a wolf. The innkeeper started, and asked what was the matter.
The thief was quick to reply. "Ah sir," he said. "I have a great and terrible curse on me. Every time I yawn, I howl like a wolf, and should I yawn three times in succession, I am transformed into a wolf entire, and set upon those near me."
The innkeeper's eyes opened wide in fear, and he took a step back. In his fear his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth, and he found he could not say another word. And the thief yawned a second time, and howled like a wolf again.
At this the innkeeper trembled, and would have fled inside the inn had not the thief taken hold of his coat. "Ah sir!" said the thief. "Please do not leave me! Only converse with me some more and keep me from yawning." And as he finished saying this, he yawned once again and howled.
The innkeeper shrugged out of his coat and fled into the inn, screaming.
And the thief walked away with the fine and fashionable coat.
The lesson is: trust not all tales, but seek the truth beneath."
The king nodded at the lesson. "The prince shall not be put to death today. We will think again on the queen's tale, and see what may be seen tomorrow." And the guards took the prince to a cell at the bottom of the palace.
The next day, the prince was brought forth a third time. Still he remained silent.
"My husband," said the queen. "Is not this enough? Have I not said what passed between the prince and I? Is it not true that he speaks not in his own defense?"
The king was moved by her words, and gestured for the guardsmen to take the prince away.
But the king's third advisor came forward, and he spake thus:
"There once was a man of this kingdom, a lord, who had a beautiful wife. And his wife had taken a lover, a man from the king's bodyguard.
It happened that one day, the man sent a messenger to the woman, to find whether her husband was home. The woman espied the messenger and found herself overcome with longing. She took the messenger to her chambers, meaning to make him her lover.
But the guardsman didn't wait for his messenger's return. He, too, came to the house, and the woman bid the messenger hide in her inner chamber, fearing the guardsman's anger should he discover she had taken another lover.
While the woman was occupied with the guardsman, the lord returned home. She could not bid her lover hide in her inner chamber, as the messenger was there, so she leapt to her feet and said, "Quickly, leave the house with your sword bared, cursing me at the top of your voice!"
The guardsman did so, and the lord came into the woman's room. "What was that man about," said the lord, "Leaving with sword drawn, cursing you at the top of his voice?"
"Ah husband!" said the wife. "That man's servant came to me trembling in fear, for he had been terribly mistreated by his master. I gave him refuge, and would not let the man inside the house, fearing that he would kill the poor servant!"
The lord called the messenger from the inner chamber, and told him he might leave in safety, and gave him food and money. And he said to his wife, "You have done a kind thing." And he was pleased at his wifes virtue.
The lesson is: trust not a woman, for they are base and fickle creatures."
The king nodded, but now his heart was full of fury. The truth was clear--the queen had importuned the prince, rather than the reverse. The queen had plotted the king's death, and planned to put his son in his place. And the queen had cursed the prince, stopping his tongue to prevent him from speaking in his own defense.
The king ordered the queen put to death, and the guardsmen took her away, her eyes still flashing.
And the king's heart was sore, but he was also glad that his son had not been at fault. The prince gave him wine, and he drained the glass.
The king collapsed, writhing in pain.
The prince stood over him, and spake thus: "The lesson is: trust not in old men's fables."
Many years ago, in a certain land, there was a king. This king was not the strongest of kings, nor the greatest, nor the wisest. But he was a good man, and the people of his kingdom were happy.
It happened that one winter, the queen took ill and died. And the king took a new wife, a neighboring kings daughter, strong, proud, and beautiful. The people whispered that she was full young to marry the king, being little older than his son, the prince.
One day, guardsmen brought the new queen and the prince before the king. The queens clothing was in disarray, her face bruised and bloodied. She looked at the king, and her eyes flashed. "Husband," said she. "Your son plans to feed you poison. He offered me insult, and asked my aid in his plot. When I refused, he grew wroth and struck me."
The prince said nothing. When the king looked at him, he shook his head.
"You see?" said the queen. "He offers no defense. He knows that his lies would show through." Her eyes flashed again. "For such offenses as he has committed, the penalty is death."
Still the prince said nothing.
The kings heart fell, but the queen was right. The penalty was death, and if the prince would not defend himself, the king must order it. He gestured for the guardsmen to take the prince away.
But the kings first advisor stepped forward, and he spake thus:
"There once was a man of this kingdom, a woodcutter, who had a faithful dog.
Now, it happened that one year, when the winter was hard and the winds were fierce, the man's wife gave birth to a child, a baby boy, and did not survive the birth.
The man cradled his son in his arms and marveled at him, even as he grieved at his wife's death.
The next morning, the man resolved to travel into town and fetch the priest to bless his son and help his wife's spirit to the afterlife. He feared to leave the babe alone in his hut, so he told the dog to watch over him. "Let nothing happen to my son," the man said. The dog barked and wagged its tail.
The woodcutter had not been gone an hour when a serpent crossed the threshold of the hut. Its fangs were sharp and venom glinted at their points. The dog barked, and growled, but the serpent came on, drawn by the cries of the baby boy. The dog barked and growled again, and at last leapt upon the serpent, biting it, crushing the foul head in its jaws.
When the man arrived home, the dog, triumphant, stood outside the door wagging its tail.
But all the man saw was the dogs bloody muzzle. "You have killed my child," he cried, and taking up his axe, he cleaved the dog's head from its body. Whereupon he heard a cry from within the hut, and entered to find a serpent dead upon the floor, and the babe safe in its cradle.
"Forgive me," he said to the dog, "you were more faithful than I."
The lesson is: trust not a judgment made in haste."
The king nodded gravely at the lesson offered by his advisor. "The prince shall not be put to death today. We will see what he says tomorrow." And the guards took the prince to a cell at the bottom of the palace.
The next day, the prince was brought forth once more, and once more he remained silent.
"Still he dares not speak," said the queen. "My husband, you have waited a day as you promised. Still the prince does not dispute what I told you, that he plotted to usurp you and that he offered me insult. He must be put to death."
The king's heart sank, but he could not disagree with the queen's words. He gestured for the guardsmen to take the prince away.
But the king's second advisor stepped forward, and he spake thus:
"There once was a man of this kingdom, a thief, who was quick of wit and quicker to steal.
One day the thief passed by an inn, and he noticed that the innkeeper wore a fine and fashionable coat. The thief vowed that he would have the coat for himself.
The thief went to the innkeeper and conversed with him for a time. And when the conversation began to wane, the thief yawned widely, and then howled like a wolf. The innkeeper started, and asked what was the matter.
The thief was quick to reply. "Ah sir," he said. "I have a great and terrible curse on me. Every time I yawn, I howl like a wolf, and should I yawn three times in succession, I am transformed into a wolf entire, and set upon those near me."
The innkeeper's eyes opened wide in fear, and he took a step back. In his fear his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth, and he found he could not say another word. And the thief yawned a second time, and howled like a wolf again.
At this the innkeeper trembled, and would have fled inside the inn had not the thief taken hold of his coat. "Ah sir!" said the thief. "Please do not leave me! Only converse with me some more and keep me from yawning." And as he finished saying this, he yawned once again and howled.
The innkeeper shrugged out of his coat and fled into the inn, screaming.
And the thief walked away with the fine and fashionable coat.
The lesson is: trust not all tales, but seek the truth beneath."
The king nodded at the lesson. "The prince shall not be put to death today. We will think again on the queen's tale, and see what may be seen tomorrow." And the guards took the prince to a cell at the bottom of the palace.
The next day, the prince was brought forth a third time. Still he remained silent.
"My husband," said the queen. "Is not this enough? Have I not said what passed between the prince and I? Is it not true that he speaks not in his own defense?"
The king was moved by her words, and gestured for the guardsmen to take the prince away.
But the king's third advisor came forward, and he spake thus:
"There once was a man of this kingdom, a lord, who had a beautiful wife. And his wife had taken a lover, a man from the king's bodyguard.
It happened that one day, the man sent a messenger to the woman, to find whether her husband was home. The woman espied the messenger and found herself overcome with longing. She took the messenger to her chambers, meaning to make him her lover.
But the guardsman didn't wait for his messenger's return. He, too, came to the house, and the woman bid the messenger hide in her inner chamber, fearing the guardsman's anger should he discover she had taken another lover.
While the woman was occupied with the guardsman, the lord returned home. She could not bid her lover hide in her inner chamber, as the messenger was there, so she leapt to her feet and said, "Quickly, leave the house with your sword bared, cursing me at the top of your voice!"
The guardsman did so, and the lord came into the woman's room. "What was that man about," said the lord, "Leaving with sword drawn, cursing you at the top of his voice?"
"Ah husband!" said the wife. "That man's servant came to me trembling in fear, for he had been terribly mistreated by his master. I gave him refuge, and would not let the man inside the house, fearing that he would kill the poor servant!"
The lord called the messenger from the inner chamber, and told him he might leave in safety, and gave him food and money. And he said to his wife, "You have done a kind thing." And he was pleased at his wifes virtue.
The lesson is: trust not a woman, for they are base and fickle creatures."
The king nodded, but now his heart was full of fury. The truth was clear--the queen had importuned the prince, rather than the reverse. The queen had plotted the king's death, and planned to put his son in his place. And the queen had cursed the prince, stopping his tongue to prevent him from speaking in his own defense.
The king ordered the queen put to death, and the guardsmen took her away, her eyes still flashing.
And the king's heart was sore, but he was also glad that his son had not been at fault. The prince gave him wine, and he drained the glass.
The king collapsed, writhing in pain.
The prince stood over him, and spake thus: "The lesson is: trust not in old men's fables."
Cryo: 1,500 words
---
The morning passes without incident, just another boring morning, but in the afternoon, right after lunch, the captain wakes up and Im panicking because he wasnt supposed to be cracked out of the tube until the fifteenth. Its still six days before we reach Eketa and hes spluttering, trying to get up, theres cold fog rolling out from the bay, and his shriveled arms wave in the air as if hes drowning. I run over there with a pack of juice but its obvious he wont be able to drink it, its too early, theres still tubes hooked into veins pumping out merkalo fluid and pumping in blood, hes gasping, his eyes are open and they are yellow and terribly dry.
I try to calm him down but hes flailing around with his stick-thin limbs, so Im forced to sedate him and he crumples back into the pod. His form is wasted, I can see his ribs and how his skin has developed a pale, cracked parchment quality. I wait and watch as the machine finishes filling up his body with blood and I rig him up with the IV drip. Eight hours, I think, before he wakes up again--I got him good with the tranquilizer.
I get to the control deck and have a conversation with Dai, because this shouldnt have happened--Ive worked graveyard shifts plenty of times, and this is a first, a premature awakening, straight out of a horror movie except that Im no protagonist, and as everyone knows, the janitor is always zombie food.
Whats wrong with the captain?
It doesnt respond, but instead--it issues a warning.
Theres something wrong with the ship after all.
Were being pulled in.
#
Im running through the cryobay frantically prepping everyone for a quick revival. Its still hours before theyll be ready but Im popping them out anyways. The process is taking longer than expected because Im having to manually bypass the safeguards for each pod. Theres also this curious sense of disorientation, as if Im being pulled in two directions at once, a gift from the grav tether hooking our ship in. Dai had popped the captain out of cryo by itself, but now, as we are pulled in by space pirates out of all things, its leaving me to do the dirty work as it preps whatever defense systems we have. Im not sure if we even have anything asides from stunners and cattle lances. After all, no one gets attacked anymore, space is--or was--a peaceful place.
Space pirates. Its so terribly juvenile. Its an ancient military grade Masthead and its pulling us in with gravity hooks. Were not being pulled in straight, thanks to a nearby asteroid which is interfering with its own gravity focus, were being pulled in as if we were a fish still trying to arc away from the fisherman, on a slowly descending curve. Theres still a hour or so before were completely reeled in and they board and Im thinking to myself, oh god, please dont rape me or do whatever space pirates do. Space pirates--how absolutely ridiculous in this day and age, who pirates in space anymore? Its straight out of the pulps, and Ive listened to my fair share of those. The one common theme they share is that everyone dies.
I finish prepping all of them for an early release. Forty of them, all set to wake like dominoes falling down in quick succession, one after another without pause. Dai will have to take care of the rest. Itll be a painful revival but theyll have to deal with it. I sprint back to the control room.
#
Dai tells me that, as it turns out, they are not space pirates. Its no one, really, theres no one on that Masthead, or everyone on it is dead--Dais attempt to communicate with the vessel go unanswered, and it assures me with bland competence that there isnt anyone alive on that vessel, its scans have confirmed it. Its rather disappointing, and my little vision of geriatric pirates tumbling out of a dropship in rocket powered wheelchairs go poof.
They could just as easily be zombies, Dai.
If only AIs did humor--alas, it is entirely humorless. Your earlier assumption that these were pirates have gone unfounded, Assistant Horie.
You know what separates the dumb AIs from the smart ones? The smart ones tell awful jokes.
Why did you prep everyone for an early revival? It was entirely unneeded.
I thought they were space pirates. In that case we needed everyone to get up and start moving, grab a weapon, fight back. Ill be damned if I die like a hero with no one to witness it.
But these were not pirates.
I know. Im sorry, I guess. But youre the one who cracked the captains pod open--what was up with that?
Standard emergency procedures. It was an unexpected event, which may have required his authority for me to respond in an appropriate fashion.
All right--so now what? Do you put him back to sleep?
No. I have been trying to revive him for the last fifteen minutes, to no avail. He is dead.
What?
He is no longer breathing. His heart has stopped. There is no pulse. He is dead. The temperature of his body is slowly lowering to that of the environment around him.
For fucks sake, what happened?
You, it replies, made a mistake with the tranquilizers dosage. The shock of being applied with a sedative so soon after coming out of cryo has killed him.
Well, I say. Well, goddamn.
So what now?
I have made for you a short list of lawyers you may contact, once we reach Eketa. Be assured that this incident has been fully documented, along with incriminating footage of the deed. The file has already been secured inside my black box.
No, I say, what about the Masthead?
It is pulling us in, still.
So... what about it?
I will need the captains approval before I can take the appropriate measures--however, the captain is dead.
I can assume command or whatever, then. The rules still let you do that, right? If there is no one fit to take command?
Yes--however, your judgment is in doubt after this incident with the captain. The part you played in his death may also cast a negative light on your behavior after the deed. Please keep in mind that everything you do or say may be used against you in mercantile court.
Crack someone else out of the pod, then. Isnt Lee the next one down in the chain of command?
It will be thirty-two minutes before they are fit for duty, Assistant Horie. The gravity tether will likely cause our vessel to crash with the Masthead with distressing results long before Lee wakes up.
You pulled the captain out pretty fast, why not him?
I force-rigged the captains pod for fast recovery. However, youve already prepped the rest of the pods in the cryo bay for a standard awakening procedure.
I can already hear the suspenseful music playing out through the speakers as the dim-witted protagonist speaks, his voice fraught with fear. I mean, goddamn. So what can we do, then?
Assume command, Assistant Horie.
But you said earlier that it would fuck me over if I did.
Of course. However, even if the ship is ruined thanks to collision with the Masthead, my box will likely survive the impact, and be retrieved. They will then see your inaction in display, and provided--unlikely as it is--that you survive the crash, youll most likely be indicted with gross negligence along with manslaughter.
But if I do take command...
At this point, Dai actually makes a joke of sorts. It plays back my voice, when I said it would fuck me over if I did.
You know, I say to Dai, this is the longest conversation weve ever had.
No response. The AI clearly has had his say. There are no windows in the control deck, only monitors, and the calculations along with the view from the cameras attached to the port are all visible. Were going to be hitting the Masthead soon--hitting it hard.
Ive seen my fair share of movies. Another common theme that runs through the more optimistic of the stories is that when the protagonist is presented with two unappealing choices, a third choice usually opens up, this one full of happiness and joy, with a satisfying conclusion waiting at the end of it. Of course, the sad ones all end with the protagonist insane or dead. I make my decision, knowing what kind of ending Ill likely get. The conclusion is rarely a happy moment for characters like me--although Im no character, just a sad man on a sad ship. If I was a character, Id ask for a better life.
Hey, Dai? Call me captain.
No.
Fine. Anyways--just do it, will you?
And it all ends happily. Boom, bang, and peace reigns on the ship.
---
The morning passes without incident, just another boring morning, but in the afternoon, right after lunch, the captain wakes up and Im panicking because he wasnt supposed to be cracked out of the tube until the fifteenth. Its still six days before we reach Eketa and hes spluttering, trying to get up, theres cold fog rolling out from the bay, and his shriveled arms wave in the air as if hes drowning. I run over there with a pack of juice but its obvious he wont be able to drink it, its too early, theres still tubes hooked into veins pumping out merkalo fluid and pumping in blood, hes gasping, his eyes are open and they are yellow and terribly dry.
I try to calm him down but hes flailing around with his stick-thin limbs, so Im forced to sedate him and he crumples back into the pod. His form is wasted, I can see his ribs and how his skin has developed a pale, cracked parchment quality. I wait and watch as the machine finishes filling up his body with blood and I rig him up with the IV drip. Eight hours, I think, before he wakes up again--I got him good with the tranquilizer.
I get to the control deck and have a conversation with Dai, because this shouldnt have happened--Ive worked graveyard shifts plenty of times, and this is a first, a premature awakening, straight out of a horror movie except that Im no protagonist, and as everyone knows, the janitor is always zombie food.
Whats wrong with the captain?
It doesnt respond, but instead--it issues a warning.
Theres something wrong with the ship after all.
Were being pulled in.
#
Im running through the cryobay frantically prepping everyone for a quick revival. Its still hours before theyll be ready but Im popping them out anyways. The process is taking longer than expected because Im having to manually bypass the safeguards for each pod. Theres also this curious sense of disorientation, as if Im being pulled in two directions at once, a gift from the grav tether hooking our ship in. Dai had popped the captain out of cryo by itself, but now, as we are pulled in by space pirates out of all things, its leaving me to do the dirty work as it preps whatever defense systems we have. Im not sure if we even have anything asides from stunners and cattle lances. After all, no one gets attacked anymore, space is--or was--a peaceful place.
Space pirates. Its so terribly juvenile. Its an ancient military grade Masthead and its pulling us in with gravity hooks. Were not being pulled in straight, thanks to a nearby asteroid which is interfering with its own gravity focus, were being pulled in as if we were a fish still trying to arc away from the fisherman, on a slowly descending curve. Theres still a hour or so before were completely reeled in and they board and Im thinking to myself, oh god, please dont rape me or do whatever space pirates do. Space pirates--how absolutely ridiculous in this day and age, who pirates in space anymore? Its straight out of the pulps, and Ive listened to my fair share of those. The one common theme they share is that everyone dies.
I finish prepping all of them for an early release. Forty of them, all set to wake like dominoes falling down in quick succession, one after another without pause. Dai will have to take care of the rest. Itll be a painful revival but theyll have to deal with it. I sprint back to the control room.
#
Dai tells me that, as it turns out, they are not space pirates. Its no one, really, theres no one on that Masthead, or everyone on it is dead--Dais attempt to communicate with the vessel go unanswered, and it assures me with bland competence that there isnt anyone alive on that vessel, its scans have confirmed it. Its rather disappointing, and my little vision of geriatric pirates tumbling out of a dropship in rocket powered wheelchairs go poof.
They could just as easily be zombies, Dai.
If only AIs did humor--alas, it is entirely humorless. Your earlier assumption that these were pirates have gone unfounded, Assistant Horie.
You know what separates the dumb AIs from the smart ones? The smart ones tell awful jokes.
Why did you prep everyone for an early revival? It was entirely unneeded.
I thought they were space pirates. In that case we needed everyone to get up and start moving, grab a weapon, fight back. Ill be damned if I die like a hero with no one to witness it.
But these were not pirates.
I know. Im sorry, I guess. But youre the one who cracked the captains pod open--what was up with that?
Standard emergency procedures. It was an unexpected event, which may have required his authority for me to respond in an appropriate fashion.
All right--so now what? Do you put him back to sleep?
No. I have been trying to revive him for the last fifteen minutes, to no avail. He is dead.
What?
He is no longer breathing. His heart has stopped. There is no pulse. He is dead. The temperature of his body is slowly lowering to that of the environment around him.
For fucks sake, what happened?
You, it replies, made a mistake with the tranquilizers dosage. The shock of being applied with a sedative so soon after coming out of cryo has killed him.
Well, I say. Well, goddamn.
So what now?
I have made for you a short list of lawyers you may contact, once we reach Eketa. Be assured that this incident has been fully documented, along with incriminating footage of the deed. The file has already been secured inside my black box.
No, I say, what about the Masthead?
It is pulling us in, still.
So... what about it?
I will need the captains approval before I can take the appropriate measures--however, the captain is dead.
I can assume command or whatever, then. The rules still let you do that, right? If there is no one fit to take command?
Yes--however, your judgment is in doubt after this incident with the captain. The part you played in his death may also cast a negative light on your behavior after the deed. Please keep in mind that everything you do or say may be used against you in mercantile court.
Crack someone else out of the pod, then. Isnt Lee the next one down in the chain of command?
It will be thirty-two minutes before they are fit for duty, Assistant Horie. The gravity tether will likely cause our vessel to crash with the Masthead with distressing results long before Lee wakes up.
You pulled the captain out pretty fast, why not him?
I force-rigged the captains pod for fast recovery. However, youve already prepped the rest of the pods in the cryo bay for a standard awakening procedure.
I can already hear the suspenseful music playing out through the speakers as the dim-witted protagonist speaks, his voice fraught with fear. I mean, goddamn. So what can we do, then?
Assume command, Assistant Horie.
But you said earlier that it would fuck me over if I did.
Of course. However, even if the ship is ruined thanks to collision with the Masthead, my box will likely survive the impact, and be retrieved. They will then see your inaction in display, and provided--unlikely as it is--that you survive the crash, youll most likely be indicted with gross negligence along with manslaughter.
But if I do take command...
At this point, Dai actually makes a joke of sorts. It plays back my voice, when I said it would fuck me over if I did.
You know, I say to Dai, this is the longest conversation weve ever had.
No response. The AI clearly has had his say. There are no windows in the control deck, only monitors, and the calculations along with the view from the cameras attached to the port are all visible. Were going to be hitting the Masthead soon--hitting it hard.
Ive seen my fair share of movies. Another common theme that runs through the more optimistic of the stories is that when the protagonist is presented with two unappealing choices, a third choice usually opens up, this one full of happiness and joy, with a satisfying conclusion waiting at the end of it. Of course, the sad ones all end with the protagonist insane or dead. I make my decision, knowing what kind of ending Ill likely get. The conclusion is rarely a happy moment for characters like me--although Im no character, just a sad man on a sad ship. If I was a character, Id ask for a better life.
Hey, Dai? Call me captain.
No.
Fine. Anyways--just do it, will you?
And it all ends happily. Boom, bang, and peace reigns on the ship.
Eddie was startled when he noticed a woman sitting right next to him. She was beautiful; young. They were seated before a mammoth fireplace in a yawning atrium. To their left, massive curtains were drawn back revealing tall, frosted windows framing a frozen lake and a nearby mountain range. Thick chunks of snow floated down like goose feathers. A bearskin rug lay at their feet. Despite the blaze before them Eddie could see his breath. He shivered and folded his arms against the chill. He was upset to discover he was wearing that awful, itchy sweater he hated.
He felt a blanket fall on his shoulders. He gazed at the angel beside him and found all of his complaints swallowed and sinking deep into his belly.
She looked familiar.
Eddie realized who she was. "You're that girl from last week," he finally said proudly. "I guess I got a groupie."
He laughed. She smirked. There appeared to bit a bit of pain in that otherwise heavenly face.
"We were going through your album," she replied. "We didn't quite finish."
She placed a thick binder on his lap with care, lovingly.
Eddie found a way to break his stare from her face and regard the heavy tome. There was an explosion of the senses. He could taste lemonade on a porch on an indian summer evening. He could feel uncut grass between his toes. He could feel an arcing momentum and the freedom of flight. He could see the reflection of the morning sun off of the rippling surface of a pond. He plunged into it and felt the shock of cold.
He opened up the book and flipped through dozens of hand drawn scenes. The styles varied from page to page, yet something unique yet indefinable linked all of the images to a single artist. Most of the pictures featured a pair of identical boys. Towards the end of the book, only one boy was featured. The age of the subjects never changed. There were absolutely no words; nothing by which to interpret.
Eddie began to speak before he was even aware of it. "I was never very good with words. But I used to be a pretty good artist."
The young woman reached over and flipped the album to about the halfway mark. "This is where we left off. Could you tell me what happened here?"
Eddie obliged. He looked at the page for a minute: a scene at a beach. A hut made of green palm leaves bordered the yellow sun and sand; red bikinis and the great blue. The twin boys stood under the shade of the hut, relatively monochromatic. Their faces were dark and their long shadows merged into one towering figure.
"This was the first day of our spring break in the Florida Keys," he finally said. "Joe and I - I have a twin, I don't remember I mentioned him."
The woman smiled - a real smile this time. "Yes, we talked a lot about Joe. I notice that Joe isn't present much in the final half of your album. Did you have a falling out?"
Eddie didn't know how to respond to this. He felt himself at the edge of a cliff and the bottom fell away into infinity. He closed his eyes and focused on the Florida Keys.
Joe took another sip of his beer and pointed out at all of the gorgeous, nearly naked women of impressionable age. "How could you want to leave this, Eddie? To chase down someone that wants nothing to do with us?"
"There's so much we don't know about ourselves. Maybe if we find him, we'll find out our real strengths and weaknesses. We'll find out if we're going to be bald, diabetic; doomed to a string of loveless marriages," said Eddie.
"Brother, you got some dark issues. We should be enjoying this, where we're at now. This is paradise and you want to piss on it," said Joe.
"C'mon, it'll be an adventure. We have two weeks and a huge credit line. I think we can find him, dig up our past and be back in the Keys with coed's panties wrapped around our heads in no time. Hell, you might even end up sleeping with a not-so-distant cousin," offered Eddie.
"I'll do it for the panties," said Joe. "Where do we start?"
"According to our birth certificates, DeKalb County, Alabama," said Eddie.
"Oh, this has the promise of incest already," said Joe. He lifted his bottle and finished it with one last swig.
"What happened next?" asked a young woman.
Eddie stirred and gazed at her for a moment. She was beautiful; young. He felt a weight on his lap and regarded a drawing of a beach. He saw his breath condense before him. The woman flipped the page over.
The next drawing was of a rustic house, like a small chapel, set against a thick forest. A small mountain gently rose from the canopy horizon. Small specks of men skiied down the longest of its slopes. A woman stood at the doorway of the house, its interior dark and murky.
"Mentone, Alabama. No more than five hundred people. They all remembered our dad. He might have been their greatest export," said Eddie. "I'm sorry, weren't you here last week?"
"That's right. You were taking me through your lovely album. We didn't quite finish," said the woman. She offered no more information.
The woman in the drawing was much more forthcoming in comparison.
"We're going to see the town bicycle, Eddie? Are you hoping to get a piece? If all you wanted was tail, we should have stayed in Miami," said Joe.
"You should probably let me do the talking, Joe," said Eddie.
The two boys were bundled in flannel, jeans and long underwear. March was as unkind to this part of Alabama as the years were to Angela Woods. A couple of knocks were met with the muffled sound of Uggz, creaking hinges and a pink neglige barely concealing a skeleton of a woman. One hand held a Zack Morris phone and the other a filtered cigarette. Smoke seemed to ooze out of every pore. The smoke rose up the bald mountain behind her house, muddy and grave after months of sleeping beneath snow.
He felt a blanket fall on his shoulders. He gazed at the angel beside him and found all of his complaints swallowed and sinking deep into his belly.
She looked familiar.
Eddie realized who she was. "You're that girl from last week," he finally said proudly. "I guess I got a groupie."
He laughed. She smirked. There appeared to bit a bit of pain in that otherwise heavenly face.
"We were going through your album," she replied. "We didn't quite finish."
She placed a thick binder on his lap with care, lovingly.
Eddie found a way to break his stare from her face and regard the heavy tome. There was an explosion of the senses. He could taste lemonade on a porch on an indian summer evening. He could feel uncut grass between his toes. He could feel an arcing momentum and the freedom of flight. He could see the reflection of the morning sun off of the rippling surface of a pond. He plunged into it and felt the shock of cold.
He opened up the book and flipped through dozens of hand drawn scenes. The styles varied from page to page, yet something unique yet indefinable linked all of the images to a single artist. Most of the pictures featured a pair of identical boys. Towards the end of the book, only one boy was featured. The age of the subjects never changed. There were absolutely no words; nothing by which to interpret.
Eddie began to speak before he was even aware of it. "I was never very good with words. But I used to be a pretty good artist."
The young woman reached over and flipped the album to about the halfway mark. "This is where we left off. Could you tell me what happened here?"
Eddie obliged. He looked at the page for a minute: a scene at a beach. A hut made of green palm leaves bordered the yellow sun and sand; red bikinis and the great blue. The twin boys stood under the shade of the hut, relatively monochromatic. Their faces were dark and their long shadows merged into one towering figure.
"This was the first day of our spring break in the Florida Keys," he finally said. "Joe and I - I have a twin, I don't remember I mentioned him."
The woman smiled - a real smile this time. "Yes, we talked a lot about Joe. I notice that Joe isn't present much in the final half of your album. Did you have a falling out?"
Eddie didn't know how to respond to this. He felt himself at the edge of a cliff and the bottom fell away into infinity. He closed his eyes and focused on the Florida Keys.
Joe took another sip of his beer and pointed out at all of the gorgeous, nearly naked women of impressionable age. "How could you want to leave this, Eddie? To chase down someone that wants nothing to do with us?"
"There's so much we don't know about ourselves. Maybe if we find him, we'll find out our real strengths and weaknesses. We'll find out if we're going to be bald, diabetic; doomed to a string of loveless marriages," said Eddie.
"Brother, you got some dark issues. We should be enjoying this, where we're at now. This is paradise and you want to piss on it," said Joe.
"C'mon, it'll be an adventure. We have two weeks and a huge credit line. I think we can find him, dig up our past and be back in the Keys with coed's panties wrapped around our heads in no time. Hell, you might even end up sleeping with a not-so-distant cousin," offered Eddie.
"I'll do it for the panties," said Joe. "Where do we start?"
"According to our birth certificates, DeKalb County, Alabama," said Eddie.
"Oh, this has the promise of incest already," said Joe. He lifted his bottle and finished it with one last swig.
"What happened next?" asked a young woman.
Eddie stirred and gazed at her for a moment. She was beautiful; young. He felt a weight on his lap and regarded a drawing of a beach. He saw his breath condense before him. The woman flipped the page over.
The next drawing was of a rustic house, like a small chapel, set against a thick forest. A small mountain gently rose from the canopy horizon. Small specks of men skiied down the longest of its slopes. A woman stood at the doorway of the house, its interior dark and murky.
"Mentone, Alabama. No more than five hundred people. They all remembered our dad. He might have been their greatest export," said Eddie. "I'm sorry, weren't you here last week?"
"That's right. You were taking me through your lovely album. We didn't quite finish," said the woman. She offered no more information.
The woman in the drawing was much more forthcoming in comparison.
"We're going to see the town bicycle, Eddie? Are you hoping to get a piece? If all you wanted was tail, we should have stayed in Miami," said Joe.
"You should probably let me do the talking, Joe," said Eddie.
The two boys were bundled in flannel, jeans and long underwear. March was as unkind to this part of Alabama as the years were to Angela Woods. A couple of knocks were met with the muffled sound of Uggz, creaking hinges and a pink neglige barely concealing a skeleton of a woman. One hand held a Zack Morris phone and the other a filtered cigarette. Smoke seemed to ooze out of every pore. The smoke rose up the bald mountain behind her house, muddy and grave after months of sleeping beneath snow.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
"Help! Please, open the door and let me in! I need to use the phone! It's an emergency! Open the damned door!"
A woman's voice penetrated the oaken door, her shrill scream laced with sobs and scattered bits of muttering.
Slowly, the aging owner of the home placed his daily newspaper on the arm of his recliner and rose from the leather chair. His polished shoes left nary a scuff on the hardwood floors as he carefully made his way to the door. Once there, he looked out through the frosted glass pane, but couldn't see any shapes dancing around in the light cast by porch lamp.
"Come on, you've got to help me! Hurry!"
"Hold on just a moment please."
His weathered hand grasped the bronze door knob and turned it.
Cladunk!
As he was pulling the door open, it suddenly stopped in its tracks and slipped from his grasp. The small, three-inch chain lock prevented it from moving any further.
"One more minute. I didn't realize I had this locked."
He peeked around the edge of the door as he was speaking to catch a glimpse of the woman who had interrupted his evening ritual. She was short, so all the man could see of her was the part in her straight black hair. A white bit of scalp could be seen through her dark mass of hair.
"Hurry up! I was attacked earlier and I'm bleeding. Help me!"
SKREEEEEAAAAAK! BING DING LING! THUD!
A disastrous cacophony assaulted the airways as the door burst inward and chain links came crashing to wooden floors. A bright scarlet fountain burst from the elderly man's face as he fell to the ground, his portrait imprinted on the door in red. Three men burst through the open entrance and began assaulting the man. Tennis shoes and sneakers connected with his gut, the woolen sweater-vest on his torso provided little protection against the furious blows. As he lay there, moaning in pain, the girl skipped into the room, as happy as could be. She turned to face the fallen man and giggled at his state of distress. Then, she pulled a pack of cigarettes out her leather jacket pocket and lit one up. She dragged on the end of it for a bit and then dropped the ash on the newspaper lying across the armrest of the recliner.
"Thanks for letting me in, pal," she said as she dropped herself onto the couch. Several layers of makeup covered her face in a pattern similar to that of a clown's. She waved her cigarette at the masked men she was with and they continued on with their furious rampage.
Barely able to breathe, the elderly man man reached through the battering of blows in an attempt to grab something.
CLUNKALANK!
A drawer from the table next to the door skittered to the ground. The man rolled over and quickly grabbed the object inside of it.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Three .45 caliber rounds left the barrel of the M1911 and drilled into the right leg of each of his attackers. Simultaneously, a screech escaped from all three of them. A female voice joined the symphony moments later.
Drawing heavy breaths, the homeowner struggles to stand up. Once up, he looks over his conquered foes. They're writhing all over the ground. Rage coloring his face, the man separates the men from the pile they're laying in and forces them onto their knees. He runs a hand through his sweaty gray hair before lifting his right foot and slamming into the ceramic mask covering the guy in the middle's face. A crack appeared across the middle of the mask. Another stomp and the mask shatters completely, revealing the face of a white teenager. The man, rage controlling his movements, picks up a ceramic shard and impales it into the kid's right eye. Next, he turns to the guy on his right and pulls on the back of his burlap mask, suffocating him to death. Tired now, he points the pistol in his hand at the guy on his left and puts a bullet into his head.
Extremely weary now, the man turns to the woman and yells, "I try to help you and this is how you repay me?"
She merely sits there, her face morphed in a screaming position, yet no sound escapes her lips.
"Is this what my help is worth? IS IT?"
He grabs her by her long, sleek hair and slams her head against his coffee table.
"Giggle! Giggle, damn it! THIS IS A FUCKIN' JOKE, RIGHT? LAUGH, YOU CUNT!"
Tears and blood run down her face, smearing her makeup facade. The man continues to slam her face against the table, never letting go of her mucked up hair.
____
"Help! Please, open the door and let me in! I need to use the phone! It's an emergency! Open the damned door!"
A woman's voice penetrated the oaken door, her shrill scream laced with sobs and scattered bits of muttering.
Slowly, the aging owner of the home placed his daily newspaper on the arm of his recliner and rose from the leather chair. His polished shoes left nary a scuff on the hardwood floors as he carefully made his way to the door. Once there, he looked out through the frosted glass pane, but couldn't see any shapes dancing around in the light cast by porch lamp.
"Come on, you've got to help me! Hurry!"
"Hold on just a moment please."
His weathered hand grasped the bronze door knob and turned it.
Cladunk!
As he was pulling the door open, it suddenly stopped in its tracks and slipped from his grasp. The small, three-inch chain lock prevented it from moving any further.
"One more minute. I didn't realize I had this locked."
He peeked around the edge of the door as he was speaking to catch a glimpse of the woman who had interrupted his evening ritual. She was short, so all the man could see of her was the part in her straight black hair. A white bit of scalp could be seen through her dark mass of hair.
"Hurry up! I was attacked earlier and I'm bleeding. Help me!"
SKREEEEEAAAAAK! BING DING LING! THUD!
A disastrous cacophony assaulted the airways as the door burst inward and chain links came crashing to wooden floors. A bright scarlet fountain burst from the elderly man's face as he fell to the ground, his portrait imprinted on the door in red. Three men burst through the open entrance and began assaulting the man. Tennis shoes and sneakers connected with his gut, the woolen sweater-vest on his torso provided little protection against the furious blows. As he lay there, moaning in pain, the girl skipped into the room, as happy as could be. She turned to face the fallen man and giggled at his state of distress. Then, she pulled a pack of cigarettes out her leather jacket pocket and lit one up. She dragged on the end of it for a bit and then dropped the ash on the newspaper lying across the armrest of the recliner.
"Thanks for letting me in, pal," she said as she dropped herself onto the couch. Several layers of makeup covered her face in a pattern similar to that of a clown's. She waved her cigarette at the masked men she was with and they continued on with their furious rampage.
Barely able to breathe, the elderly man man reached through the battering of blows in an attempt to grab something.
CLUNKALANK!
A drawer from the table next to the door skittered to the ground. The man rolled over and quickly grabbed the object inside of it.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Three .45 caliber rounds left the barrel of the M1911 and drilled into the right leg of each of his attackers. Simultaneously, a screech escaped from all three of them. A female voice joined the symphony moments later.
Drawing heavy breaths, the homeowner struggles to stand up. Once up, he looks over his conquered foes. They're writhing all over the ground. Rage coloring his face, the man separates the men from the pile they're laying in and forces them onto their knees. He runs a hand through his sweaty gray hair before lifting his right foot and slamming into the ceramic mask covering the guy in the middle's face. A crack appeared across the middle of the mask. Another stomp and the mask shatters completely, revealing the face of a white teenager. The man, rage controlling his movements, picks up a ceramic shard and impales it into the kid's right eye. Next, he turns to the guy on his right and pulls on the back of his burlap mask, suffocating him to death. Tired now, he points the pistol in his hand at the guy on his left and puts a bullet into his head.
Extremely weary now, the man turns to the woman and yells, "I try to help you and this is how you repay me?"
She merely sits there, her face morphed in a screaming position, yet no sound escapes her lips.
"Is this what my help is worth? IS IT?"
He grabs her by her long, sleek hair and slams her head against his coffee table.
"Giggle! Giggle, damn it! THIS IS A FUCKIN' JOKE, RIGHT? LAUGH, YOU CUNT!"
Tears and blood run down her face, smearing her makeup facade. The man continues to slam her face against the table, never letting go of her mucked up hair.
____
I should have started earlier in the week. 
- Status