A wealthy man walking down a street decided to cut into an alley in order to avoid the raid. As he rounded the corner, he was assaulted by the stench of an unwashed homeless man who was leaning against the alley wall and was crying to himself.

The homeless man was soaking wet, due to the rain, but seemed not to notice. He had a unwieldy grey beard that was clumped together in odd places by years of dust and mud. His jacket was heavy and looked as if it were over 10 years old. His back was slightly hunched and he unconsciously bobbed his head slightly as he looked the wealthy man in the eyes.

The homeless mans eyes were dull.. hollow.. and sad.

“Spare some change, mister?” asked the bum.

The rich man, feeling pity, looked down at the homeless man and asked, "Why are you crying, my dear man? You should stand up and make a man out of yourself for your situation will never improve until you take the initiative! To answer your question, no, I will not give you money but I will tender you some advice that will hopefully get you on the track to self-recovery."


The homeless man narrowed his eyes, ever so slightly, and spat, "Sod off!"

John Dunbar said:

I just realized that "John Dunbarwife" would be a great way to get around that pesky one account rule.

Also, John Dunbarson, John Dunbardaughter and John Dunbarpetiguana.

Click to expand...

*Looks at Tag* *Nods*

AnkitT said:

It's ronitoswife. And I know that how, you ask? Definitely not through stalking.

Click to expand...

Isabel had always dreamed of getting to Brazil. The place is beautiful, they say, which is to say nothing of the people who inhabit the place. The place is filled with men sculpted from tanned muscle and the women are all curves and scented flows of hair. Everything about Brazil is drenched in sunshine and an abundance of wealth and sexy. So they say.

Life in Manhattan was not particularly easy, at least not as far as Isabel was concerned. She had done most of her growing up north of the Line, the undulating locomotive snake that crossed the island north-to-south and connected her city with the rest of the continent. They built it to hail the return of American power, to kick-start the comeback that would see a return to the glory days. Had the revolution never happened, imagine how that could have gone. Would her mother and grandmother still be alive? Would they have even been born?

At one point, it must have been a sight to behold, a vision of white painted steel and clear glass. Half a century of neglect and the attentions of generations of adventurous and inventive graffiti artists, however, had given it a distinguished coat of grime and preserved for the ages the names of such towering figures as Fizzy Pop, Veinz and Twit-Brein. Presumably, they were gifted acrobats, to have been able to scrawl their undulating signatures atop the triumphant needles and on the tubular, half-opaque strand that threaded its way through them. It was a shame, then, to think that some of them would never have found their way back down afterward.

This all passed, quite literally, over Isabel’s head. She strolled beneath it as the express from Houston quietly streaked along. She looked up and idly thought she could probably afford a ticket on that train. That would be a good first step, though she’d need a passport to even get that far. Then there was the prickly issue of bribes, which can never be adequately planned for. Bah. She would worry about that later.

Isabel walked in long strides, her brown, thin calves poking out from the bottom of her baggy shorts. Beneath a sagging hat, tiny tufts of short-cropped dye-blonde hair framed a thin face. She was not exactly beautiful, though she was striking to look at. What set her apart from other girls were her overlarge eyes, amber and watery. They gave her a look of perpetual surprise and vulnerability, which on the streets of New York was a liability: one she addressed by carrying a plasma dagger in her sleeve.

The pressing issue of now was the item she carried. It was treasure of sorts, an heirloom held onto for decades by a scatterbrained grandmother and an exhausted mother. Now that Isabel was of age, it was time to take the item south of the Line and see about selling it. This meant seeing old Marco at the back of his snooty shop on 52nd St West. And that meant going through Freddie’s domain.

He would find her, soon enough, she reflected, crossing the Rubicon that was 59th Street. He always did, and made sure everybody knew it. The trick when that happened was to make it clear that you meant him no harm and that you had nothing he could possibly want, which, thought Isabel, was easier said than done.

Freddie was considered small-time in the northern districts, and a washed-up has-been to boot. He had once controlled a considerable number of the streets Isabel had roamed as a child. Fights with younger, meaner, hungrier gangsters over the years had taken their toll, however. Eventually, he was exiled to a few streets at the edge of his former territory no one lived in; which is to say that people lived there, but they belonged to the upper classes and were as good as invisible to those who valued their bodily health.

The private police firms’ security bots tolerated Freddie as long as he refrained from stealing from their clients, attempted to intimidate them in any way or had the gall to try to look at them funny. Scanning the streets day and night, ever vigilant, they watched for crimes to stop, unless, of course, said crimes happened upon people who were behind on their premiums. You get what you pay for, after all.

Thus, what had started as a convenient place to sell rapture pops and fairy dust to rich kids had become the extent of Freddie’s kingdom, his subjects consisting of nought but some hobos and a few petty dealers. His territory was nigh-on worthless, but he adapted, as he always had. Having himself augmented, he had a web of cameras installed on each street corner and had these linked directly into his brain. Thus rather than roam aimlessly, he could sit and wait for any hapless members of the city’s underclass to come blundering into his dominion from whatever direction they may come. Some had taken to calling him Freddie the Spider, which suited him just fine.

“Afternoon, Miss Isabel,” came a fast, nasal voice behind her. “What brings a pretty little thing like you into the Spidah’s Web?”

There it is, thought Isabel. “Oh you know me, Freddie. I’m just off to visit my old friend Marco. You know old Marco, right? Runs the antique shop over on 52nd West. I’ve got some of my grandmama’s things to sell him if I can.” She turned to see a tall, thin man with sallow, almost grey complexion and a thin moustache under a Roman nose. The battered suit he wore was of an out-of-fashion but expensive cut, a relic of more lucrative times.

A smirk formed across Freddie’s gaunt, slightly wrinkled face. “Now now, Miss Isabel, don’t you go bein’ a bad girl now. You know the rules.” He put his fingers to his chest, “In Freddie’s Kingdom, Freddie gets right of first refusal.” Silence happened as he brought his face close, voice dropping to a rasp and head cocked to one side. “Especially on anything that Marco might be interested in”

His breath is foul, thought Isabel. Ugh, and he’s still smiling, the creep. She backed off a little, away from him, taking her into the entrance of an alley.

“Hey now, Freddie, you know I wouldn’t do you like that. I remember when you used to protect my neighbourhood,” she said, pointedly not adding: until you stopped and Benny Mack took over the block. “You made the streets safe and everyone from the old building remembers.”

“That so?”

“Yeah,” she said, nodding. “I’ll even show you what I’m taking to Marco. See if it’s worth anything to ya.”

Reaching into her bag, she fumbled for a bit and produced a green statuette, which Freddie snatched from her hands like a greedy little monkey, fingering it as if to find a secret chamber. There was a pause as he appraised it. Turning it over in his hands a few times, his caterpillar eyebrows furrowed. Finally, he looked at Isabel with puzzlement and said “Kermit D. Frog? The fuck is this?”

“It’s an antique, Freddie. Pre-war. Pre-revolution, even. Grandmama said there used to be a show about Kermit the Frog for kids. There’s collectors out there who’d pay a mint for something like this.”

Isabel watched as the cogs in Freddie’s head turned. He was clever as they come, but what Isabel was counting on was his also being ignorant. The worst thing that could happen to her at that moment would be for him to realise the truth. Actually, scratch that. The worst thing that could happen to her at that moment was that he’d ignore the treasure entirely and try to extract his profit from her in some other way. It did not bear thinking about.

“You know what I think? I think this thing is a worthless piece of shit and Marco is only gonna laugh you out of his shop. I think you’re holdin’ out on me. What else’ve you got on ya?”

“Check my whole bag, if you want, Freddie. Ain’t nothin’ else in there you’ll be wanting with. Go on. Take a look.”

In an instant, he was holding her leather bag and had pushed her a little further away from the street, out of sight. He paced around, scrabbling through it like a dog digging for a bone. Apart from a few morsels of food and a few bits and pieces, the leather bag housed only the statuette. He shoved both into her hands in a huff.

“I still think somethin’s up. A girl like you from north o’ the Line has got no business bein’ heah in the Spidah’s Web. Certainly not alone.” He drew in close and dropped his voice. “Maybe secretly, you came down heah to give old Freddie some company.” A meaningful pause. “Even if you didn’t, maybe that’s what I want from you.”

Isabel took a step back and found herself touching a wall. The vile reptile had positioned himself while they were talking so she was trapped in the alleyway. Shit.

“Hey now, Freddie, you know it’s not like that,” she began, “I just came to sell the statue.”

“Maybe you did. Maybe you still can... if,” came the pause, “you wanna do somethin’ for Freddie.”

“No thank you.” Her eyes darted to the entrance of the alley. It might take her a few seconds to run there, but it looked so far. “Look, if you want money, I can get you a cut once I sell it to Marco.”

“What, and risk you using his comlink and buyin’ a week’s protection from a cop shop with the proceeds? Not fucking likely. You must think I’m a damn fool.”

“A minute ago, you said it was a worthless piece of shit.”

The slap struck like a bullet, loud and unexpected.

“Don’t you sass me, girl!” he growled under his breath - the police firms looked down on those who broke noise ordinances. His voice calmed. “Maybe I still think it is a worthless piece of shit. Doesn’t change your situation any.”

Isabel brought her hand to her cheek. The sting had set in. Her eyes were watering.

“The statue or you give old Freddie some sweet. Your choice, darlin’.”

A sudden buzz pierced the silence as Freddie’s smile gave way to a look of surprise. Isabel’s plasma dagger was at his throat, close enough to give off the slightest whiff of burnt hair.

“Step.... back,” came the command. “Hands where I can see them.” Freddie obliged.

Holding out the dagger, she positioned herself between Freddie and the street corner.

An angry welt was visible on Freddie’s neck. “Leave the frog heah and I won’t come aftah you,” he rasped.

Isabel took out the statuette from her bag and placed it gingerly on the floor. Then she ran for it.

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

The Houston train sliced across the countryside, silent but for the whoosh of the air it displaced. Isabel sat in her 4th class seat, trying her best to ignore the big sweaty woman beside her. She reflected now on how she got here and remembered how Marco’s eyes had lit up when he saw it, her treasure.

One of a kind, he said. How did it survive for so long, suffered through such abuse, he asked. Your great grandparents must have been rich indeed, he’d remarked. Don’t you worry about Freddie, he said. I’ll give him cash for what he has, keep him happy, but it’ll be peanuts compared to what I would pay for this. A bargain at twice the price, he let slip under his breath in a moment of distraction.

Her biggest surprise, in retrospect, was finding out just how big a name Prada had once been.

I realised yesterday, that it was the 25th anniversary of the Poetry Thread. The nominations are up, if people wanted to vote, em... go vote!

We'd really appreciate it.

Or if you just like reading or writing poetry your self, now is the best time to jump in.

Enjoy.

Hey guys. I've admired these thread from a far for a while, but I'll be submitting something this time.

“Get to the top of the hill you son of a bitch. Come on you fat fuck.”

Josh grunts at himself as he runs up the steep ski trail. His feet move slower with each stride, his arms swinging in an attempt to compensate for his tired legs. The trail is still muddy from melted snow, and his white running shoes sink a half inch into the earth with each step. He gasps for each breath, grunting a little when he exhales. Josh tries to maintain a good runner’s posture, but he can’t help but lean forward.

He reaches the top of the hill and transitions into a labored walk, his hands on his hips. A sharp breeze makes its presence known. It evaporates the sweat on Josh’s forehead and legs. His eyes wander to the grey landscape: cloudy skies, bare trees, and brown grass. Winter’s over, but it’s not Spring yet. Josh stops for a few seconds, sighs, and continues.

He walks the mile back to the parking lot. By the time he reaches his Impala, the only evidence of his run is salty skin and muddy socks. On the drive back to his apartment he listens to 93.5 KDWI. First comes Baba O’Reily, then Brown Sugar, then Stairway to Heaven. Josh sighs louder and louder for each song, reaching almost a growl for Stairway to Heaven. After Stairway the DJ speaks.

“The time is teeeeeeeennnn thirty nine. You’re listening to K-D-W-I where classic rock LIVES FOR...”

Josh punches radio knob, silencing it. His fist slams on the top of the steering wheel.

“Haven’t listened to that shit in 6 fucking months and I swear to God I’ve heard the same 15 shitting minutes of radio before.”

Outside the scenery changes from pine trees to cherry trees and lawns. Josh passes his childhood home and its new wood porch and follows it with his eyes until it’s out of sight. A few minutes later the lawns turn from bluegrass to crab grass. The siding on the homes gains blemishes and craters. The porches become less square and more rounded, an effect of neglect and time. Pepsi bottles and twelve pack containers slowly fill the storm drains. Overweight men and women wearing fifteen-year-old windbreakers reflect light into Josh’s eye. He attempts to keep his eyes on the cracked road, but his apartment building forces his eyes to stray.

Josh finds a spot on the street for his impala. He gets out and looks around; no one within a block.

“Good”

He unlocks the broken glass door of the building; a piece of plywood patches a hole in the glass. Inside faint touches of mold and dust hang in the air. Dirty, fluorescent light fixtures give the peeling white paint a dank yellow glow. Josh half jogs up the steps, his head down. His legs are sore, but he doesn’t slow. Two people pass him going down the steps, but Josh doesn’t look up. He sees their feet: a black woman with sparkly gold flats, and a white man wearing shorts and dirty white Nikes.

Inside his apartment a desk with a laptop, an unmade bed, a pile of dirty clothes, and fifteen year old TV on a fish tank stand greet Josh. Above Josh’s bed, fraying shades cover three quarters of the two windows, filling the apartment with damp, grey light.

Josh rips his clothes off and throws them in the pile. He makes a right turn, then a left turn into his bathroom. He switches on the light, a lone light bulb attached to the ceiling, and examines himself in the full body mirror on the backside of the door. His finger pokes at his stomach, arms and chest checking for muscle. Then he tries to shape his overgrown, sweat encrusted brown hair.

“Jesus I need a haircut.”

In the shower Josh washes his hair, runs a bar of soap over his entire body, and masturbates, all in about ten minutes. Then he stands under the stream of water for twenty minutes, staring at the soap scum which clings to the side of the tub.

After the shower Josh dresses himself. He puts on his favorite yellow flannel and his favorite pair of black Levis. He walks back to the bathroom and combs his hair, parting it on the left. A perfect line of scalp emerges from his forehead to the back of his head. Then he paces around the apartment, stopping now and then to pound the wall. A worn flip phone lies in repose on his desk. Josh’s arm inches towards it, and his fingers wrap around it, but his arm snaps back after a second, leaving the phone on the desk.

Josh runs to his bed and jumps on to it. He slams his head against the stained, white pillowcase. The motions become less and less violent until they cease. Josh’s face presses against the pillow, and his hair dries, once again becoming an overgrown mop.

After an hour or so Josh turns his head towards his desk, one eye drawn to the laptop. He sighs and shuffles over to his desk. Then he opens the drawer and throws his flip phone in the back. Facebook glows on the laptop screen. Josh posts a status.

“Just went on my first run of the season, Jesus am I ever out of shape.”

Then he sits for hours, browsing the snapshots of people he once knew.

i have a somewhat unrelated question but thought this would be a good place to ask: are there any good websites/forums you guys know of where I can share things I've written (or am going to write)? is there a thread of gaf for that sort of thing?

This is as good a thread as any to be honest. There's also the writing workshop thread and the poetry thread.

Ashes1396 said:

This is as good a thread as any to be honest. There's also the writing workshop thread and the poetry thread.

Click to expand...

Wouldn't the workshop thread be best for sharing pre-written stuff? This one is about coming up with something for a deadline (which is harder than it sounds)

viciouskillersquirrel said:

Wouldn't the workshop thread be best for sharing pre-written stuff? This one is about coming up with something for a deadline (which is harder than it sounds)

Click to expand...

*nods in agreement*

And of course you have to have written it during the challenge it self.

BananaBomb said:

i have a somewhat unrelated question but thought this would be a good place to ask: are there any good websites/forums you guys know of where I can share things I've written (or am going to write)? is there a thread of gaf for that sort of thing?

Click to expand...

Share like "here's something cool I wrote"? Or for getting feedback and critique?

oh damn, i'm again pushing the limit. 1,600 words done and still not close to finishing.

Kill your darlings J.D. Get rid of the useless conversation; well as much as possible. I still think you would have won the thread you had your last ineligible entry in.

Oh, he definitely would have. That story was fantastic.

*sigh*

I just trimmed some more fat off my entry. It's a little leaner, but there's so much more I wanted to say :-(

viciouskillersquirrel said:

*sigh*

I just trimmed some more fat off my entry. It's a little leaner, but there's so much more I wanted to say :-(

Click to expand...

Aah, but old man say: does it need to be said?

Ashes1396 said:

Aah, but old man say: does it need to be said?

Click to expand...

Strictly speaking... no. Which is why I cut it.

Still hurts, though.

viciouskillersquirrel said:

Strictly speaking... no. Which is why I cut it.

Still hurts, though.

Click to expand...

Blake's notebook..

I have been struck by an epiphany. And I was this close to submitting my piece. I will submit the story once I've had a bit of sleep.

2000 words? Fuck. We were having such a great time with 2500-3000, too.

Time to kill my darlings.

I finally have an idea I can work with.

Time to work.

Tim the Wiz said:

2000 words? Fuck. We were having such a great time with 2500-3000, too.

Time to kill my darlings.

Click to expand...

I wonder what we could pull off with something really drastic... like 1000.

viciouskillersquirrel said:

I wonder what we could pull off with something really drastic... like 1000.

Click to expand...

we've had less iirc.

timedog's brevity thread.

@viciouskillersquirrel: I read like the first few paragraphs before I stopped, because you have plenty of time left, and you could still change it. But for what it's worth, the first few paragraphs seem alright man. As others will attest, I'm not a fan of long sentences in general; and verbiage prose, so if I'm okay, I guess others will be. In fact I thought it was pretty good. So far anyway.*

Maybe leave it to rest for an afternoon or something; then look at with some fresher eyes. An afternoon is hardly anything I suppose, but it's better than nothing.

*Guess is a guess! I speak for myself! and I'm a slow reader, even if I do rush my typing. I think most people on this board are quicker readers than I.

The Lonely Ones

It had been almost an hour. Dan was about to pluck up the nerve to start walking the cold, frost-dappled streets to the train station when a white van came to a stop in front of him. Its driver, a white-haired reedy scarecrow of a man, gave the nod universal to taxi drivers everywhere.

He opened the front door. Warmth flooded out and, jumping the height to the first step with ease, he quickly seated himself and shut the door behind him with relish. He gave a contented sigh and looked around the dashboard for the driver’s name. Stu Rawlings was engraved next to an incongruously younger photographic version of the skeleton beside him, side-burns flashing down a thicker face and Hawaiian shirt open to reveal a rich mane of coarse-black chest hair. Dan turned back to the driver. It was him, alright.

“I’ve been waiting an hour and a half here, Stu,” he said.

“Dispatch must’ve screwed up.” The driver stared back at him. “I get ‘em when I get them.”

“Sure.”

Something was playing on the speakers, the volume soft and low, a catchy beat and rhythm that felt familiar, but remained only a flicker in his memory. Dan looked out the window, wiping away the condensation of breath on the window to take another end-of-the-day glance at the factory he found himself working at. Just another cog in the machine of the dilapidated and dying manufacturing industry. But he’d done the right thing, hadn’t he? It was his child, after all. And she was his fiance now. Fuck, he knew her complaints - that he’d taken a taxi home again, that he wasn’t responsible enough, that he wasn’t smart enough - were all waiting for him when he walked through the front door, but it was worth it, right?

“Where we headed, mate?”

“Wharton Road, Stu,” he said. “I’ll show ya from there.”

Stu put the van in motion, clocking out of the car-park into the road at 40 ks and humming a little something under his breath. A cursory glance was shared, but permission wasn’t truly asked for as Stu cranked up the volume on his speakers. Those half-familiar tunes began blaring out, and a little smile surfaced on Dan’s face.

“Your tunes?” he asked.

“Absolutely.” Stu took one hand off the wheel and pointed a finger at Dan’s waist. “Buckle up, kid.”

“Yeah.” He clicked the seat-belt into place.

“The Band.”

“Which band?” Dan said.

Stu chuckled. “You remember Bob Dylan, right? Tell me that, at least.”

“Good with a harmonica,” he said. “Something like that?”

“Something like that.” Stu was shaking his head now. “You should look him up.”

Dan cracked a nervous smile. “Maybe, I will.”

“I swear, brother. You must have amnesia or something.” Stu’s strange eyes were on him again. They seemed weirdly heavy now, as if imbued with some awful transcendent knowledge. “It’s like you don’t remember shit from before the eighties.”

Dan felt his smile giving way. Was this guy high? But they were coming up on Wharton now. He’d get out and count his blessings. Except the van blasted past the turn.

“Hey, we missed the turn there, Stu,” Dan said.

“That turn?” Stu looked over with a puzzled expression spreading over his lean profile. “We’re going home, brother. Where it started.”

They were going ten ks faster now, and heading for a nearby highway.

Shit. The guy was fucking high. Dan started scrabbling with his seat-belt, trying to unbuckle it, but it wouldn’t give.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” He shouted, drowning out the licks of a guitar which oozed summer sensuality and good times on a lyric that promised just that. “And why won’t this seat-belt unbuckle?”

“Ha - h’m. Need to get it fixed, mate.” Stu stayed unconcerned, focused on the wheel. “Keep forgetting to.”

Dan reached out to grab the driver’s shoulder. “Where the hell are we going?”

“The hills, brother. Where it happened.” Stu turned over to give him a view of that disturbing glint nestled in his eyes, the raw putrid certainty of a mad-man. “The hills.”

“What?”

“It’s only five minutes out from here,” Stu said. “I have to show you the bones. Remember what she used to say, brother? Bones are all that’s left when our souls are gone.”

“Why the fuck am I still talking to you?” Dan searched his jacket pockets for a moment, then whipped out his mobile. He dialled emergency. “Yeah? Hello. Yes, I’ve been taken by this man. I’m in a car, and he is transporting me against my will. No, he’s a taxi driver and I--”

Stu grabbed the mobile and chucked it in the back seat.

“I know you like your jokes, brother, but this isn’t the time,” Stu said. “I need you.”

His right arm stuck at a bad angle, Dan took a swing with his left, landing it awkwardly on Stu’s collar bone. As Dan heaved backward for a proper hook to the face, Stu let go of the wheel.

“Don’t even try it, old man,” Dan said. The outer edges of his stomach glimmered with panic - that is, a distinctly queasy feeling - for the first time.

A strangely somber look washed over Stu’s face. “I need you.” The fist came bearing down on Dan’s face and--

He woke up to pain. The deep, bruised kind ran the gamut of his face. His tongue slipped over his teeth, finding them blessedly firm and intact.

The car had stopped some time ago, and Stu was out of the driver’s seat. He was in the hills alright: wrapped up in a seat-belt that wouldn’t open and trapped with a mad-man in the middle of nowhere. There was a small wooden house up ahead, the only building visible from Dan’s one hundred and eighty degree position. The land all around was encumbered with thick, tangled brush and limitless stretches of eucalyptus trees.

The front door of the house opened. Stu was coming out with a pair of garden clippers. Sunlight harshly reflected back into Dan’s eyes off the silver sheen of the blades. Stu was coming straight for him.

“I’ve done nothing to you,” he shouted through the open window. “I’ve done nothing.”

Stu opened the door and looked down at him, for all the world seeming like a confused boy wandering what was wrong with his favourite toy.

Stu’s voice was low and urgent. “I need to show you.” The clippers descended towards Dan’s chest.

Dan closed his eyes as the clippers snapped with deadly menace and cut at him below. But at that moment, he felt the seat-belt holding him down give way. The bindings were loose. He could move.

He jumped at Stu, his momentum spilling them onto the grass outside the car door. All Dan could picture was his son. His wife. God, they were worth it. They were worth everything.

He was pummelling Stu now, sitting astride him as they struggled. His enemy was well past the point of resistance, but the blood didn’t satiate him. The clippers found their way into his hands and he found himself stabbing them deep into Stu’s chest, shutting his eyes to the screams of the older man. Four words repeated on Stu’s shrieking mouth: “I need you, brother”, rambled out in varying tones of sadness and pain. And, then, nothing. No sound, no breath: only still flesh.

A minute later, Dan noticed again that the sky was blue. The blood had pushed him over the edge. In that moment, he wanted to dance, scream, fuck; he could have done it all right there on Stu’s corpse. For a moment, he was exhilarated. It might have been only a moment, but, even looking over the tortured face and distorted tendrils of flesh and skin and intestines peeking through the shirt now stuck through with the pair of silver clippers, Dan knew he would do it, if necessary, again and again and again. No matter the burden. No matter the cost. He had to live. He had to.

Dan crawled most of the way to the back seat of the car. He reached his mobile. He made the call. He collapsed.

An hour later, the place was crawling with police. It was raining, but tracksuit-fitted cops were littered around the scene of the killing nonetheless - looking and collecting and scraping and looking. A middle-aged detective glared at him as he sat slumped against the front wheel of the car. Stu, or what was left of him, was behind the detective, the clippers still buried in the body’s chest.

It wasn’t what he expected. No-one had said anything yet. It seemed like the detective had made sure it would only be him doing the talking.

The detective gave him his back, crouching to look down at Stu’s body again.

The first words came out. “Do you know what it’s like? Getting that call?” There was a dangerously soft lilt to the voice. It was a voice building up to something. A voice wrapped up in something. “The person talking thinks they’re being sympathetic but they sound as compassionate as someone reeling off a laundry list. And, worse, there’s the knowledge that you’ll never see them again.” A pause mired in silent acknowledgement. Of someone? “And then the excuses. Accident, involuntary, automatism. We say we’re better than our forefathers but death is just as inconsequential as it always was. Fuck it all. You know what you are. A killer.”

The detective turned back, his eyes craters of aching tiredness. “Shit, I need a drink.”

“He was crazy.” The words came out in waves of gushing fright, Dan’s mouth suddenly a geyser of torrential desperation. “He killed whoever those bones belonged to, the ones he kept talking about, and the bastard was going to kill me, too.”

“You’re right. He was crazy. But that’s all.” The detective brought out a small silver whiskey bottle from a coat pocket. Several of the uniforms gave him sharp looks, but he ignored them and took a swig. “The bones in the backyard are the bones of his mother. She’s been missing for nearly three decades. The father copped to the murder a long time ago and it drove your poor guy here mad.” A piece of smudged paper appeared from within another crevice of the detective’s coat, becoming instantly ruined in the rain shattering down on them. “He’s been in and out of mental hospitals for the last twenty years. Says here that he became obsessed with finding the body. Guess he did. Guess he had to show somebody.”

Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no. “He kept calling me brother.”

“One Richard Rawlings. Deceased last year. Heart-attack.” A wolfish grin appeared on the detective's otherwise blank face. “Don’t have any records on that, but it doesn’t take a head-doctor to figure he was in denial about that when you came along.”

“It was a mistake. I thought he was going to--”

The detective seemed to be in motion for the first time; his finger pointed at him with the weight of a gravity-inducing brass pendulum. “Get this fucker out of my sight.”

The ground became unsteady under Dan’s feet. It helped the uniforms as they dragged him towards the blue-and-white police car on the dirt road behind him.

“Please, I have a child. A family.” The rain washed away the tears pouring down his face, covering the shame and horror and grief in a way his hands never could. “Please!”

The procession to the car stopped. The detective came over, his face glowering in the gloom of police headlights and barely-there moonlight.

One of the policeman holding him cleared his throat. “Hey, Reynolds, he’s just a kid--”

“Scum is scum.” The smell of alcohol wafted over Dan, engulfing his senses. “Better get a good lawyer, killer.”

They took him away.

viciouskillersquirrel said:

I wonder what we could pull off with something really drastic... like 1000.

Click to expand...

Considering I just struggled making it under 2000 with seven words to spare, you won't find me overflowing with confidence on that score, yeah? However, another flash round in the vein of Timedog's thread certainly wouldn't be a bad idea, though. Certainly not.

Ugh, I honestly think my stories are tailor made for 5000~ words. I have no issue with killing babies (metaphorically at least), but I don't think my brain understands the 'limit' part of word limit when structuring these story ideas.

Mike Works said:

Ugh, I honestly think my stories are tailor made for 5000~ words. I have no issue with killing babies (metaphorically at least), but I don't think my brain understands the 'limit' part of word limit when structuring these story ideas.

Click to expand...

Woah. "Darlings", man. Nobody said anything about babies (metaphorical or otherwise)!

You might just be made to write novels, though. Plenty writers down the years have found short story writing to be, as a norm, anathema for them. (RIP Octavia Butler.)

Mike Works said:

Ugh, I honestly think my stories are tailor made for 5000~ words. I have no issue with killing babies (metaphorically at least), but I don't think my brain understands the 'limit' part of word limit when structuring these story ideas.

Click to expand...

Yep. Best get that in. Just so that everybody is clear on the matter. We're not talking about real darlings.



On topic. Yep, last story was hovering around the ~4000 word mark, before I got it down to around 3000, then realised that I had to chop down another five hundred words.

The one I am writing now is definitely a sub 2000 word story though.

Ashes1396 said:

Kill your darlings J.D. Get rid of the useless conversation; well as much as possible. I still think you would have won the thread you had your last ineligible entry in.

Click to expand...

I actually made it my goal this time to cut dialogue down to a minimum, because I resort to it too often, whether it's good or bad. This one is very low on conversation by my standards. Of course the less dialogue I have, the less people seem to like my stories, so maybe not the best idea. Or I just need to work on me prose.

John Dunbar said:

I actually made it my goal this time to cut dialogue down to a minimum, because I resort to it too often, whether it's good or bad. This one is very low on conversation by my standards. Of course the less dialogue I have, the less people seem to like my stories, so maybe not the best idea. Or I just need to work on me prose.

Click to expand...

Oh. Now that I think about it... See this is why criticism and advice is difficult. There are so many ways a story can be written, that sometimes we actively look for so called 'faults' when in actual fact, we are actually pointing towards abnormalities from the story 'ideal'.

And I worry now whether I'm tearing a limb, rather than helping to build muscle.

viciouskillersquirrel said:

I wonder what we could pull off with something really drastic... like 1000.

Click to expand...

Go look at the early threads, dude. Back in my day... *ahem*. That is, at first we had some pretty low limits.

Is anyone else here as much of a terrible procrastinator as me? I've got a 4000 word story half finished and a 1000 word commentary that needs to be submitted before 12pm tomorrow - had two weeks to write the thing, can't believe I've left it to the last minute again. Looks like I'll be pulling an all nighter to get it done and also finish my story for this challenge :/

So far, I've got nothing. Things have been a pleasant sort of crazy down here, but the truth of the matter is I'm still being hyper-critical over everything. So, I've been trying to do some exercises to get my voice back and quiet the nagging doubt, but I don't think I'll be making it this time.

The fact that I don't have an idea isn't really helping either.

The Wicked Witch of Woodshire
(2,000 words)

In Woodshire Forest lived a witch. A wicked one, as one might presume, full of hate and anger. But above all this witch’s hate was not directed at the plump children she devoured, or at the locals whose families she had cursed throughout the generations. Her bane was her self-loathing. Her seasoning of choice for the chubby cherubs she savoured were her own tears; salt most natural, and all too common. What could she have done but eat the children who had mocked her all her life and bring pox upon the families that had persecuted her sisters from time immemorial? Eye for an eye makes the whole world blind, but for all she had seen vision seemed of little importance. But what a vision she had.

One day, on April 30th, two sisters entered the forest. Twins, not even their parents could tell them apart from their faces, but luckily one’s hair was dark as raven and the other’s light as gold. Hand in hand Liza and Lucy made their way down a sun-dappled path of mossy roots, a woven basket with a bulging coverlet swaying from Liza’s free hand, as they searched for some woodland paradise for their picnic.

But their trek did not go unnoticed; through the eyes of a sparrow perched on a branch they were watched with envy and rage. In the middle of the forest, in a forlorn cottage, in a deep soft armchair the witch sat in a trance of a seer. The eyes of her paralysed body were fixed on the wall; two dark orbs, as dark as a starless night sky. She blinked, and the darkness of her eyes condensed into two small dots in bloodshot scleras, and her body regained its animation.

“Bring them to me,” she said, and grim laughter filled the gloom behind her.

Liza and Lucy had by now found a venue for their picnic, and had spread their checkered blanket on the grass. But before they had time to open their basket they saw a faint blue glow amidst the trees ahead. They remained still, eyes glued to the light, until a swarm of pulsing white dots with fiery blue rims flew towards them.

“Fairies!” exclaimed Lucy, the one with hair of burnished gold, as the dots surrounded them and flew in gorgeous patterns all around. “They’re so beautiful!”

“Don’t touch them!” warned Liza, the one with hair of polished jet, as Lucy offered her hand for the fairies to land on. “We’re not even supposed to be here.”

“Oh Liza,” laughed Lucy. “They’re fairies! They’re harmless!”

The fairies were not discouraged by Liza’s trepidation, and circled around her with great speed. She suddenly felt light, and realized her feet no longer touched the ground. When she too lifted her hand, a fairy landed on her fingers and began pulsing rapidly.

The two sisters began laughing loudly amidst the playful fairies, and joined hands in the air. Spellbound, they barely noticed they began to move, and hand in hand they danced on air through the woods in a vortex of blue fairy light.

And as they thus danced through the air, a dreamy chant from an old poem emanated from the fairies:

Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
The world’s more full of weeping than you can understand

Azure sparks as bright as fire in the dark surrounded the merry-go-round of the sisters floating on air without a care, all smiles and laughs, bending the grass under them like a breeze from flower to flower in a sunshine shower; a sweet dream of early summer with heightened senses of old magic.

The ethereal dance ended at a clearing in the middle of the forest, and suddenly Liza woke from her reverie as sunlight died; the sky was filled with dark clouds on this one spot, above a desolate hut they were heading towards. She felt dizzy from the spinning and tried to stop, but her laughing sister held on tight.

They finally landed at the door of the hut, and Lucy began to walk towards it, now holding her sister by one hand as the fairies chanted. But Liza resisted, and her hand slipped from her sister’s as Lucy disappeared inside in blue fairy glow. The last thing Liza saw before the door shut was her smiling sister, and small, cruel faces with sharp teeth.

The house under the cloudy canopy was dim even on a late April afternoon, and Lucy could see nothing at first. Then a silver candelabrum lit up, and the spell broke, and she too saw what her sister had seen. There were no fairies, but laughing grinning goblins. She took a step towards the door to run as the goblins rushed towards her, pulling her from her golden locks deep inside the room, mocking her cries and resistance.

Just as she had resigned to her fate of being mauled by those violent gremlins, they seized their assault and turned towards a door. The witch stood framed by the doorway, smiling as her fingers tapped on the door jamb.

The goblins scattered as the witch moved towards Lucy, the long hem of her robe hiding her feet, giving her the impression of floating.

“What a precious guest we have for our Walpurgis Night feast,” the witch cooed as she gently caressed Lucy’s cheek with her long narrow fingers. So gently, in fact, that Lucy was not certain had it been the witch’s fingers that had brushed against her, or was it just air.

“But I was certain you had a sister,” continued the witch. “Pray tell us, where is she?”

“We coulds have grabs her, Lady,” said a goblin at her feet. “we coulds have grabs ‘em both.”

“No!” Screamed the witch, slapping the eager goblin, which was no bigger than a child of six or seven, so hard it let out a loud squeal and fell on its knees. “They must come out of their own free will!”

As the sobbing goblin held its cheek, a large shiny drop of mucus dangled from its nostril and fell on the ground. As Lucy’s eyes followed the falling phlegm, something glimmering on the goblin’s chest caught her eye; a tiny horseshoe necklace. Her moist eyes lit up with recognition as she studied the goblin’s face. The elongated chin, ears and nose, the enormous catlike eyes, the sharp tiny teeth of a piranha, and the bald dome of dull grey skin of its head could not disguise the true owner of that face.

“Wil-, Wilfred Bailey? Is that you?”

The goblin appeared confused for a moment, as if it had heard some foreign words whose definition it had known long ago. The witch smiled at this new development.

“Wilfred,” said Lucy. “It is you, isn’t it?”

The confusion on the goblin’s face gave way to anger as it revealed its sharp teeth and leaped at Lucy, its razor sharp claws pointed at her. Lucy tried to protect herself by covering her face with her hands, but the attack never came. Wilfred the goblin had stopped in midair, the witch’s long hand holding it by its neck.

“We do not attack out guests, you little beast” the witch said with a voice of haughty contempt. “No matter what they call you.”

The witch threw poor Wilfred down so hard it screamed from pain as its leg crashed on the floor. On one leg and hands it hopped away to sulk in a dark corner.

Before Lucy could say anything, she again felt her body become weightless, and the witch seemed to be moving away from her. But then her back hit something hard and an iron door slammed shut in front of her; she was trapped in a large cage hung from the ceiling.

“Keep her company until the feast,” the witch said. “It would not be possible without her,” and disappeared through the door.

Left alone with the goblins the bars of her prison were a comfort, but the situation was dire. She saw poor Wilfred sobbing in the corner, holding its injured leg, and she realized her only chance. She called out to him, and despite trying to ignore the girl, every time he heard her say ‘Wilfred’ something stirred inside him. Finally he could not resist, and limped over to her.

“What wants ugly girl?”

“Wilfred, don’t you remember me? We were friends. Years ago.”

“We has no names. We what Lady wants.”

“Why do you let her treat you like that, Wilfred?” Lucy cried.

“Lady gives what we deserves. We naughty boys, plays in the forest. Naughty boys gets to serve Lady. Naughty girls...”

With a mischievous grin on its face the goblin limped over to a brittle wooden chest under a pile of torn dresses hanging from a nail, and flung it open. Lucy screamed as she saw the shadowy pile of skulls within.

*

Outside Liza had been sitting by a base of a tree at the edge of the clearing with tears in her eyes, grieving her lost sister and regretting letting her go in so easily. She had been too scared by those cruel faces in the dark to go near the house again, but now her sister’s scream startled her to her feet.

She ran to the door, half hoping it would be locked, but it opened by itself the moment her fingers touched it. She saw nothing inside, but as she stepped over the threshold, the door slammed shut and she too was in the realm of the silver candelabrum. She saw the goblins grinning at her, and her sister in her cage. She ran to her, but the cage door would not budge. The maniacally laughing goblins approached the new arrival when the witch again appeared at the door.

“We gots both,” they chanted. “We gots both!”

The witch stared at the trembling girl whose hands were spread to protect her caged sister, surrounded by hissing goblins. But while the witch’s eyes were directed at the girl, her gaze saw through time; such sisterly love reminded her of her own again. Centuries ago, on a dismal dawn of May 1st, a grey overcast sky hung heavy over the brown ground still soft and muddy from the night rain. She saw a solitary mirthless tree on a wet hill, its crooked leafless branches like dirty claws. Now on her knees, she looked up and reached to grab a pair of filthy boots, the dirt from their slow dance of death falling on her face and clinging to her tears, and she saw her sister’s distorted face look down on her above its swollen throat.

The witch came to, and the goblins around her were frightened by her deranged face.

“Oh, what have I done to you, little darlings,” the witch wailed as she desperately began caressing the little goblins, her ancient wrinkly face now only tired and forlorn, the harsh cruelty having subsided; a blunt rusty blade remained of a sharp dagger. “Such innocent creatures, what beasts I’ve made you. What beasts!”

The goblins, confused by their Lady’s distress, stared at the witch and each other in turn. “Lady no wants eat?” they asked with uncertain voices.

“No, my darlings,” the witch cried, the cage door suddenly opening. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything!”

As Liza helped Lucy out of the cage, something happened that caused them to flee the hut and never return. The goblins jumped at their Lady, and tore her open with their claws and teeth.

Now in that hut in the middle of the forest, in a deep armchair, sits a witch with her lifeless eyes fixed on the wall, her goblin minions forever waiting for their Lady’s command.

That took a lot of cutting, and I'm not sure did I do a good job with it. I usually end up way under the limit (or just not bother cutting at all, nyack nyack) so it's questionable did I make the right choices with what to leave out. Or maybe it's all nonsense and it makes no difference. We shall see.

Also, the bit of poetry is from William Butler Yeats's The Stolen Child. Didn't have the words to shove in the credit in the actual story.

I don't think footnotes count in the wordcount. Just add it at the bottom, if you really want. But maybe that post is enough. I've referenced stuff without acknowledging. Half the fun's lost if its that easy.

Poetry thread is up.

Back on topic; it looks good at first sight. Very good actually.

I'm going to take it easy and just enjoy the stories this week.

Ashes1396 said:

@viciouskillersquirrel: I read like the first few paragraphs before I stopped, because you have plenty of time left, and you could still change it. But for what it's worth, the first few paragraphs seem alright man. As others will attest, I'm not a fan of long sentences in general; and verbiage prose, so if I'm okay, I guess others will be. In fact I thought it was pretty good. So far anyway.*

Maybe leave it to rest for an afternoon or something; then look at with some fresher eyes. An afternoon is hardly anything I suppose, but it's better than nothing.

*Guess is a guess! I speak for myself! and I'm a slow reader, even if I do rush my typing. I think most people on this board are quicker readers than I.

Click to expand...

Truth to tell, I cut a paragraph or two of background information and that was most of the difference. Pruning words out of sentences only got me so far.

It's actually better as a result, but I do like the world-building little details writers put into stories. :/

viciouskillersquirrel said:

Truth to tell, I cut a paragraph or two of background information and that was most of the difference. Pruning words out of sentences only got me so far.

It's actually better as a result, but I do like the world-building little details writers put into stories. :/

Click to expand...

Aaron's your man for that. If he enters, he might provide a crit for you.

Hey, yeah. Are we getting our Aaron and Timedog stories or what?

Killing babies *laughs*

Er, not that I'm laughing at the idea of actually killing babies.

Scribble said:

Killing babies *laughs*

Er, not that I'm laughing at the idea of actually killing babies.

Click to expand...

touché

oh god. At work. Feel very sleepy. Get your work in folks. I mean stories. Get your stories in. Last few hours left.

Starting at the last minute again. Why do I keep doing this?

"The Date" (1403 words)

Josh fiddled with his napkin as he was waiting for his date. After gazing out the window, he decided to rehearse his cheat sheet that was handed to him from his church therapy group, “Straight Arrow.” But he began losing his appetite as he looked at the erotic pictures. So instead, he tried to focus on the words: The female body is a delicate beauty. Breasts provide bountiful curves. The voice of a woman is pleasing and soft. He didn’t even want to go to the next page yet – the page that he was taught to review before intercourse.

He saw a woman walk towards him and he quickly folded away his leaflet and stuffed it in his pocket. As she walked towards him, he thought of how pathetic she looked, walking in footwear that left her off-balance. For a brief moment, he had a flashback of Steve: the way he would boldly walk up to Josh and pull him close, bringing Josh’s torso close to his in an embrace that could never shatter.

Josh blinked hard and tried to shut out the image. “Forgive me, Lord,” he whispered to himself.

He stood up and smiled, since the woman seemed to be searching. “Excuse me miss, are you Margaret?”

“Yes, I am,” she responded. “Nice to meet you, Josh,” she said with a smile.

Josh put out his hand and she shook it, limply. Her hand felt like refrigerated bologna meat.

The progression of the dinner date was as slow as molasses. But Josh could feel more “normal” when he just thought of Margaret as a person rather than a potentially hot date, or maybe even, a longer commitment. In a constant battle of trying to think of her as “hot” but also appear “normal,” rather than awkwardly disgusted, he grew fatigued.

“Say, do you want take off and grab some coffee… or something?” he inquired.

Margaret’s face lit up with a mischievous smirk as he said “or something” and so, after Josh took an extra second to think of paying the entire bill, the two headed out. Josh stopped himself from firmly patting Margaret on her shoulder blades. Instead, he gently placed his hand on the small of her back as he guided her over a puddle on the sidewalk.

“Wouldn’t women be offended by another assuming that they lack the coordination to step over a puddle themselves?” pondered Josh. With his hand still guiding her, he felt her reptile-like silk shirt. Furthermore, all he could feel from the blouse’s contour were bones, instead of the muscular firmness he so desired. So desired. Steve’s back was a perfect “V” and his shirt outlined his frame as if he were royalty.

“Lord…” he said quietly.

“What?”

“Loud! It’s so loud out here with all this traffic, isn’t it?” he tried to laugh it off.

“Yeah it is. Do you want to come back to my place? It’s a lot quieter,” Margaret suggested. Josh was so excited about being able to report his progress back to the group!

“Definitely,” he grinned, with an amalgam of excitement and anxiety brewing in his stomach.

Margaret belabored up the steps to her apartment. With Josh trailing right behind, he also found it slightly more difficult to navigate the stairs at his normal pace – his momentum stunted by Margaret and her masochistic heels. To add to her heels (or because of them?), Margaret seemed to sway from side-to-side. Josh couldn’t believe how her stride could be so discombobulated and inefficient.

On a couch, under a throw, Josh excelled. He talked about Oprah book club novels rather than how he needed to get a plumber on Saturday. He talked about the upcoming town hall meeting on making the local museum open for longer hours rather than discussing Georges St. Pierre’s strategy in the latest Ultimate Fighting Championship. And instead of talking about the high resolution screen of his new laptop, he discussed how omega-3s can boost brain power in young children. Most of all, he listened, and nodded intently.

But right when he began mentioning the myelin sheath of neurons, he felt this small and cold bony form creep towards the inside of his upper right leg under the soft blanket… and jumped off the couch.

“What was that?” he asked suddenly.

Looking down at the ground and red-faced, Margaret said, “I’m sorry, that was my foot. Sorry, I was just stretching out and… didn’t realize where … there was …space.”

“Shit,” thought Josh. He just was making progress. He was actually enjoying the conversation too. It helped that his interests were so varied.

“The female body is a delicate beauty,” he recited silently. He just couldn’t believe that a warm-blooded mammal – a human being – could have such COLD feet.

He smiled and commented, “Your feet are so… CUTE.”

“Really?” she smiled. Much more relaxed now, she boasted, “I just got my nails done yesterday,” wiggling her toes out from under the blanket.

To Josh’s surprise, she propped herself on the couch on her knees so that she was almost to his standing level and put her arms around his neck. For a few moments, she gave him glances between looking down at his shirt.

Josh had to admit her eyes were sort of nice, but there were no eyebrows of real presence to frame them.

Margaret kissed him delicately on the neck. It was so light that it felt like an irritable tickle but Josh didn’t flinch. She repeated three more times and then pulled him down over her on the couch. Josh propped himself up above her and felt his neck and ears get warm. He was not ready for this stage of healing! (Besides, they were not yet wedded with God as a witness.) So Josh pretended to look deeply in her eyes, trying to create time to think. But she started kissing him again – this time, near his collar, and his top button. Josh was still propped up on his elbow but could feel his buttons being undone by spindly fingers. He felt like he was treated like a delicate butterfly in a glass case rather than an attractive, powerful man. Why was she being so careful with him? Why was she slow?

Steve was never like that. When Steve was with Josh, Steve practically ripped off Josh’s shirt with a sense of urgency. Steve’s jaw would brush against Josh’s torso and then muscle would press against muscle. The nape of Steve’s neck smelled like home in the woods and yet his prominent shoulders made Josh lose an awareness of location.

Josh tried to focus. He recalled the female anatomical drawings from his cheat sheet but he hadn’t read ahead to the intercourse page that was for six weeks from now.

“Relax, the Christ is within you,” he placated silently to himself.

With that reassurance, Josh leaned in closer and unhinged his elbow. He smelled her neck. It didn’t smell at all of the aftershave that…

“Steve…” he whispered.

“What did you say?” Margaret immediately demanded.

“What?” was all that Josh could manage to blurt back.

“You just said 'Steve',” she accused, matter-of-factly.

“I said… I said, ‘stay.’”

“What the hell? Does it look like I’m trying to go anywhere?” said Margaret. “Shit, maybe I should.”

She pulled back and brought her knees close to her chest. Of course, despite being angry and defensive, as a woman, Margaret had to automatically fix her feminine hair.

Then Josh sat on the other side of the couch, his knees facing the wall in front of him, his forehead in his hands.

Silence.

“Margaret, I’m sorry. Steve…. was my ex,” he admitted.

Silence.

“Well, actually, we never broke up. We just stopped talking altogether without any closure.”

Silence.

“You see, my God-given heart wants to be with a righteous woman but my… my ego… wants a man. Needs a man.” Josh developed a noticeable erection.

“You men. You need to communicate!” said Margaret. “Say, we can always spice things up – if you’re thinking of him, why don’t you invite your little friend Steve over, too,” she coyly suggested.

Josh was speechless. But wait a minute. He had after all learned it was difficult to please a woman with just two hands. And his church group said nothing of this alternative Margaret spoke of. It’s like the Trinity. He would be with a woman. Mission accomplished. But also with Steve. At last.

Cyan said:

Starting at the last minute again. Why do I keep doing this?

Click to expand...

Is there some other way to do it?

DumbNameD said:

Is there some other way to do it?

Click to expand...

Yes. Do it early.

Alright, I'm home now. Let's get this damn story straightened up.

Blargh. This could've been really good if I'd spent more time on it.

Butterflies in the Hurricane Season
(1791)


1.

My Son lay dead in my arms. And I knew not what to do with him.

His yellow plastic tricycle with it's blue seat and black wheels lay fallen on the patch of grass beside the road.

A blood spatted tennis ball lay perfectly still atop a roadside drain, with that sanguine liquid dripping into the sewage tunnels underneath. Drip, drip, drip.

The sun dried suburban road was devoid of the everyday public. Not a single witness to the everyday occurrence. Not amongst the living at least.

The vehicle behind the murder was east to my position. The 4x4 failed to protect it's 57 year old driver; yes, the speeding laws, the scientists, the fifty years of incremental improvements, and the hundred million dollars safety technology worked to protect it's passenger's skeleton, but what can you implant that will save you from having to see and face the shock of sending a little child flying twenty feet. No, not even the millions of years of evolution is up to the task.

Smoke from the twenty-inch state of the art tyres breaking at break-neck speed vaporised into the air. The bumper was clean; the mouse and the elephant - the fable ringing untrue.

My son lay dead in my arms. And I knew not what to do with him. I looked up at the blue sky, my faith dead on the pavement beside me.

2.

The street around me was empty; life removed. Hope lay dead under six feet of concrete.

I wondered in that moment, caught between my own life, and death surrounding me, whether anybody tweets their misery.

Would a passer-by on his mobile phone take Facebook pictures? Or Youtube me?

Would I be emailed from office to office; from Blackberry to Blackberry; from College Campus to University?

Would a Mother in New Orleans, or a Grandfather in Adelaide pass on their condolences on Reddit, Digg, or in the comment section of the New York Times?

Everything happens so fast these days. Why not slow down to read and pronounce every word, instead of being so passive with life's great sentences?

Oh I hate you life. And all that lies in between.

My son lay dead in my arms. And I knew not what to do with him. And there was nobody there to help him. Nobody there to cradle him; nobody to hold his broken arms.




3.

My son and I were under the shade of an oak tree. Birds fluttered about and sang their sweet melodies in the gay sunshine. Light filtered through the gaps between leaves. The soft wind carried a crisp packet for a while, as the world slowed down to a snail's pace. Trapped in between blinks, I could see dust hovering to and fro.

It's strange, the things that interest children. He was on his bike one second, and just sprang off in another.


“Daddy...” he'd said that morning before I'd set off to work, pulling at my trousers.
“Not now Bernard. Daddy is busy,” I'd said, biting into my toast.
“But Dad-dy...”
“Bernard. Not now.”

My son is cute; even when he is annoying. He has blond curls, that fight the straightening comb, white tooth and nails of pinkish hue. He has grey eyes you know; but nobody envied him at the nursery. He had this smile that could melt Everest; in fact the way he pronounced (or mispronounced) words so mellifluously, managed to return my focus away from the lingerie advert streaming on our fifty inch plasma screen. Dad-dy. Daad-ddyyy.

“Mummy said... Mummy said... chock-ka-chock-
“Chocolate.”
“ka-let. Get.”

His mother had looked up from the Cosmopolitan-esque article she was reading on the ipad. Her lips curled upwards to form a smile, before she returned to click on the unofficial Facebook app.

“Hmm... we'll see,” I'd said, returning my gaze, boobified by the model on TV. “Be a good boy, and daddy will see.”

I remember my father once telling me, all those eons ago, on his deathbed, that I was his quintessence.

Holding my little one now, I feel, in my son's case, this was actually true.

4.

Yet to form his character, this mindless little being, with half my puny genes, all the grace of his mother, in her fifties; he would walk about the yard, putting items in his mouth, and throwing balls about. When I left work, I was told, he was 'helping' his mother plant store grown daffodils in the garden to add zest to our beautifully kept lawn.

This was what he was probably doing, when I turned the corner in my 4x4; polluting the god damn world, with my strutting and poise. One second he was on the pavement, and the next second he was dead. There can't be many fathers in the world who killed their children. I am among those hateful few.


5.

Imagine if you will, that life slows down to a thousandth of it's natural speed. You walk out of your car to observe yourself in the world you find your self in. Your sun is falling, his arms flailing in the empty space around him. He goes out like a candle being blown out gently by the wind. Soon he will crash into the concrete with a giant thud. And you know this, but are powerless to do anything. Slow down time. Don't carry on. Slow right down.

“It's nobody's fault,” you whisper, upon turning around. You've seen her face. The widening of the mother's eyes, the pupils dilating, the open mouths, the rush of blood to her head, away from her hands and to her feet. The cup in her right hand falling out because she loosened her grip, as she is rising from her seat.

You can't undo what you have done. So slow down time. Let not this moment pass.

6.

My son hits the floor, his femur cracking on impact; the cup smashes into the tabletop, spilling out hot milk-less tea everywhere and the front air bags open up with a whoosh. The screeching tyres, the falling leaves, the tennis ball on it's third bounce.

I can see the birds flying off the trees; I see each flutter of the Humming Bird's wings. It was the noise. Danger. Evolution at work.

My son stops bouncing; the tennis ball rolls down the camber; the air bag deflates; the cup too, separated from it's handle, runs out of energy.

I sat down on the floor cradling my Bernie's head in my hands. I put my hand on his heart praying that time slows down more than it had. Hoping for a heart beat that lasts a lifetime.

Time heals, goes the cliché. Thus soon, I will be far enough away to forget what I have done.

7.

Of course a heartbeat,
a lifetime does not make.

Like a candle on a cake,
seeming all but blown away,
the eyes, they flutter,
the child awakes.

8.

Bernard Cohen's time of death was called at 17:58. What follows is an account of this hour, what the medical profession call: the golden hour, in which a whole chain of emergency services staff fight the race against time.

17:01 – James Cohen hits his child Bernard Cohen at 30 mph.
17:03 – Sandra Cohen makes a frantic call to 999: “Oh god. My son was just hit by car...” (+1 emergency call centre staff)
17:05 – St John's ambulance leaves the nearest hospital carrying Advanced Life Support (ALS) Personal. ETA 10 minutes. Full on sirens through rush hour traffic. (+3= 4)
17:06 – First responder: neighbour. (+1=5)
17:08 – Virgin sponsored Emergency Air ambulance helicopter crew dispatched. “Go, go, go, go!” Ambulance caught in rush hour traffic. (+4=9)
17:10 – Police car dispatched. (+2=11)
17:11 – London Fire Brigade despatched after regional line dispute is sorted out. (+6=17)
17:15 – Emergency Medical Despatcher arrives on scene via motorbike. (+1=18)
17:20 – Ambulance arrives on scene. Cricothyrotomy carried out.
17:20 – Paramedic calls James Cohen's time of death. No visible injury. Possible left ventricle failure. (Heart attack)
17:23 – Helicopter lands nearby.
17:23 – A&E at nearest hospital debriefed. Bernard Cohen's condition considered life threatening; critical. Severe external and possible internal bleeding. Trauma. (+3=21)
17:24 – Police arrive. Take witness statements.
17:25 – Fire Engine arrives. Car is moved and checked for hazards.
17:29 – Helicopter takes off. Emergency de-fibrillation applied on board.
17:35 – Surgery being prepared. (+3=24)
17:36 – Ambulance leaves scene. Fire engine leaves scene. Local authorities called up. Car has already been moved.
17:36 – Volunteer Blood Courier Services arrives at A&E with Blood for Bernard Cohen. (AB+ second rarest group) (+1=25)
17:37 – Air ambulance crew land on roof hospital. Met by Nurse, Doctors and Snr Physicians. (+4=29)
17:48 – Bernard Cohen receives critical care within ten minutes (what is known in the US as the platinum ten minute rule). Operating room. Severe internal bleeding and trauma cause for concern. (+3=32)
17:53 – Bernard Cohen's heart stops beating.
17:54 – Resuscitated.
17:57 – Bernard Cohen's heart stops beating again.
17:58 – Time of death called for the first time.
17:59 – Resuscitated by persistent physician.
19:01 – Transferred out of Surgery to ICU. (+3 ICU staff=35)

A crash sparks off a chain reaction that typically involves 35 people within the first hour or two. Up to 50+ in the aftermath.

9.

Rain droplets woke the sleeping ghost as he faded in and out of existence. Resting against the trunk of the Oak tree, he could not remember his son. Upon trying to form a thought, the closest he came to identifying the sleeping child – before it disappeared forever - was that it must be himself. The child had his looks after all.

There was a voice on the wind. What was it saying? He could not decipher it. Instead he heard the things that he would now never get to say:

“You won the lottery just by being born son. Healthy, skin, and bones.”

Who is that? He thought; his lips not moved by muscle. Father said that. Father did.

Lightening struck.

And then he heard clearly the voice on the wind:

“For as much as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear brother here departed...”

The universe flickered. Enjoined by the sound of thunder, every particle, including the Sun behind the raging clouds shuddered.

And it came to pass that he realised he was dead.

“It's over? It can't be over. No. No. Wait-”

“We therefore commit his body to the ground...”

Again, the universe flickered. And in that geological blink, in the absence of time, he saw the strings that made the universe whole.

“Earth to earth...”

A hole tore up in his universe. It came to pass he also realised, that he had no control, that he was infinitely small, that he was trivial. He did not think of his son in that moment, he remembered that he was a son himself.

“Ashes to ashes...”

He looked at the world for the very last time.

“Dust to dust.”




10.


He woke up to the rest of his life.

BIRTHDAY LASAGNA
Word Count: 1242

Back then I was a writer. I wrote under the pen name Brthdy Lsgna. I wrote stories about hope, and about deep breathing, and about beauty, and about lovingfulness. I once applied to write for the New York Times. What better soapbox than the New York Times, I thought, to let everyone know how beautiful the world is? I received a standardized, impersonal letter in the mail 2 months later declining my offer of employment. It had a fake, toner-ink signature of some Editor-In-Chief or some guy whose name I didn’t recognize printed underneath the seven sentence paragraph that made up the body of the letter. I threw it in the trash and never thought about it ever again. What does the New York Times know about being beautiful, anyway? Fuck the New York Times.

That day I decided I needed to get some inspiration—a literal and figurative breath of fresh air. I had to go outside where everything was imminently living. Outside, where every entity lives and quivers, as if trapped in some unwielding but not unfamiliar embrace. I had to go outside again and see the order of things—see where it all naturally lies. I decided on the convenience store down the block and I prepared heartily. I put on pants and I changed into a clean shirt. I grabbed a rolled up newspaper off the couch—just in case. I was ready to for copulation.

“OH WOW!” I yelled as I walked into 7-11, “OH FUCK! OH MY!” The clerk barely looked up, and continued scratching a lottery ticket. I walked confidently over to the hot dog case, painfully aware of the clerks every movement in the periphery over my left shoulder. “THIS HOT DOGS LOOK PERFECT!” I screamed as loud as I could before my vocal chords pulped and gave out on the last syllable. I tried to mimic the broken grammar I had heard from his mouth so many times. No movement.

I turned towards the clerk, the hot dog case now on my right. “I COME IN HERE EVERY FUCKING DAY, HERSCHEL!” I wasn’t sure that Herschel was his real name, I had only ever seen his nametag in my indirect vision. He was Herschel in my mind, though. He was Herschel in my dreams. “Here I am, Herschel. HERE I AM!!!” I switched the newspaper to my dominant right hand and I punched hard in that direction. I punched the god damn hardest.

I didn’t look at the hot dog case, and I didn’t look at the clerk, but felt my arm throbbing, the feel of liquid dripping to my elbow, and a blur erupting from the cash register. The plastic covering to the hot dog case was broken, my hand was stuck in the break, and then I felt the heat. Burning through the flesh of my hand and down to my bones. I looked forward now to see Herschel lunging at me, and a second later we both tumbled to the ground, along with the case. There was a muted thud that seemed somehow distant as my back slammed against the ground, loosening the hot dog case from my arm, making my cuts even worse. My vision went red for a moment, and when I came to my face was buried in the Cashier’s chest, and I was the centerpiece of a violent, musky struggle. Negasi, that sounds east African.

My right hand still grasped the newspaper somehow, and I traded it to my left hand, then embraced Negasi’s neck, palming the back of his skull. I could feel the red cum spurting all over his head as I gently but forcefully brought his ear to my mouth. “I just wanted to show you how beautiful those hot dogs were…” I whispered, letting the words flutter about, perverted and perfect. I let myself go limp and listened deeply to the blows reigned down upon my sinful body. After some time, all seemed quiet. The pain and the endless stream of verbal and nonverbal expletives from Negasi’s vague head crescendoed to the point where it all turned into a red wash that I could ignore as if silent. In this state I could explore the surroundings freely. Both of our feelings and intentions, as well as our bodies, melded into one thing—opposite sides of the same worm trying to eat itself.

I was dragged near the entrance and kicked the rest of the way out the door. From my side I could see the clerk locking the doors with a phone in his hand. I lay there for a moment to catch my wits, then slowly got up. “You’re still Herschel to me!” I said with whatever air I had left, and began walking further.

Soon the red trickle down my arm seemed to slow, and despite the altercation and my brisk walking pace, my heart felt calm. The heat shooting from my appendage was nothing compared to the orange glow of dusk. In this light, the world seemed to explode from within, translucently. As if objects could not fully contain their own energy, letting little bits of magic escape through semi-permeable membranes. The pastel hand of God hovered just above everything.

“THERE YOU ARE!” I said as I began to run towards the tattered man lying in the middle of Lowe’s parking lot evidently dead. I almost tripped over myself, and when I arrived at the body, I immediately felt nauseous. Not from the stench, which smelled much more like human feces than what I imagined a dead body to smell like. The adrenaline from the previous altercation was catching up to me, and my body felt like giving.

I ignored this and inspected the man, moving the blood caked newspaper to my left hand so I could give better inspection. I leaned in, bending to one knee to see his face. It was worn like weather-beat hide, and held a thick, unkempt beard which carried stuck bits of mud. The man was middle-aged but seemed somehow vigorous. He had died an honorable death. The mixture of whiskey and shit rode a current directly up my nostrils, making me cough and shudder.

I wondered what had brought the man here, to the edge of this busy lot which right now seemed the very center of civilization. I wondered the repulsive depths he had traversed in his short time. What a great, great man. An unbridled beast, who would have been celebrated as a king in ancient times. And a fitting tomb for such wanton genius, this parking lot. Not a care do they have for you, for your elegance was brutish. But unrecognized. Oh, to die like so.

It all became too much for me. The sun dipped behind the horizon and in the new darkness my body gave way. I opened the newspaper now only to see the headlines obscured with my blood. My lungs caved and my stomach tightened. Covering my mouth with the newspaper and both hands, I attempted to stop my body to no avail. It came and it came and it covered every printed word. I ejaculated this afternoon’s meal almost endlessly, weeping the entire time at the moment’s sheer beauty. What artistry, this day. When the vomit finally stopped I rolled up the newspaper and set it atop my king, who seemed almost ready to wake. Fuck the New York Times.