Patrick Elliott's Blog, page 3
April 9, 2016
Origin Story
So, the prompt this week led me down the path of choose your own adventure. So, I decided to experiment.
You did not realize it when you woke up this morning, but this is the day you become a super hero. Or you thought you did not, but obviously you actually did. You packed your lunch and went to school, as usual. You carried your cartoon lunch box, as usual.
Chemistry class started out like normal. Being partnered with the hottest girl in school distracted you though. Despite your shaking hands, and your tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth you attempted to carefully mix the components to the specifications the teacher wrote on the board. But your partner's posterior kept distracting you. The fact that she was laughing at all of your lame nerd jokes did not help either.
At step five she asked you to the upcoming dance. Your hands were shaking so badly you could not measure accurately. The fact that you turned your head is the only reason the concoction did not end up in your eyes. So you still have your eyesight, and that's something.
As you said yes the toxic looking purple goo violently expanded. The foam covered your hands, causing a tingling sensation. There was no pain, but it was not pleasant. Eighteen hand washings later your skin is still stained violet. Your chemistry professor has assured you there are no harmful side effects from the compound you were creating. Still, it's hard to be sure.
Lunch comes after chemistry. Opening your box you find no trace of the meal you packed for yourself. Instead, sitting next to the empty thermos is a note. A note from your past self. You read with great trepidation, and trembling hands.
Dear me,
We have just had an accident. I ate all of our lunch for breakfast. This may seem greedy, but I promise there is a reason. The compound still on our skin will give us super powers, based on the next thing we eat. Choose wisely.
Love,You
Obviously precognition and an extensive vocabulary will be amongst your powers. Your meal choice will determine the last and greatest of your abilities. Looking around you see a few options. You realize you must choose wisely as your responsibility to the world will be determined in this moment...
To gain X-Ray vision and start the path of a perverted gray hero, eat some carrots and turn to page 5.
To obtain mental powers such as mind reading and telekinesis, destining you for a secret identity revolving around government work after graduation, gobble some fish and turn to page 9.
For physical based powers and the life of a mindless bruiser that makes it on looks and charm without substance, grab some spinach and turn to page 15.
To choose the life of a villain and powers of darkness and danger, leave the school, snack on the nearest baby and turn to page 666.
In order to gain powers of domination, teaching, and creating obedience, swallow the note itself and continue on to the next page...
#shortstory #authot #Awethors #comedy #experimentation #writer #writing #writingprompt
You did not realize it when you woke up this morning, but this is the day you become a super hero. Or you thought you did not, but obviously you actually did. You packed your lunch and went to school, as usual. You carried your cartoon lunch box, as usual.
Chemistry class started out like normal. Being partnered with the hottest girl in school distracted you though. Despite your shaking hands, and your tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth you attempted to carefully mix the components to the specifications the teacher wrote on the board. But your partner's posterior kept distracting you. The fact that she was laughing at all of your lame nerd jokes did not help either.
At step five she asked you to the upcoming dance. Your hands were shaking so badly you could not measure accurately. The fact that you turned your head is the only reason the concoction did not end up in your eyes. So you still have your eyesight, and that's something.
As you said yes the toxic looking purple goo violently expanded. The foam covered your hands, causing a tingling sensation. There was no pain, but it was not pleasant. Eighteen hand washings later your skin is still stained violet. Your chemistry professor has assured you there are no harmful side effects from the compound you were creating. Still, it's hard to be sure.
Lunch comes after chemistry. Opening your box you find no trace of the meal you packed for yourself. Instead, sitting next to the empty thermos is a note. A note from your past self. You read with great trepidation, and trembling hands.
Dear me,
We have just had an accident. I ate all of our lunch for breakfast. This may seem greedy, but I promise there is a reason. The compound still on our skin will give us super powers, based on the next thing we eat. Choose wisely.
Love,You
Obviously precognition and an extensive vocabulary will be amongst your powers. Your meal choice will determine the last and greatest of your abilities. Looking around you see a few options. You realize you must choose wisely as your responsibility to the world will be determined in this moment...
To gain X-Ray vision and start the path of a perverted gray hero, eat some carrots and turn to page 5.
To obtain mental powers such as mind reading and telekinesis, destining you for a secret identity revolving around government work after graduation, gobble some fish and turn to page 9.
For physical based powers and the life of a mindless bruiser that makes it on looks and charm without substance, grab some spinach and turn to page 15.
To choose the life of a villain and powers of darkness and danger, leave the school, snack on the nearest baby and turn to page 666.
In order to gain powers of domination, teaching, and creating obedience, swallow the note itself and continue on to the next page...
#shortstory #authot #Awethors #comedy #experimentation #writer #writing #writingprompt
April 3, 2016
While You're Here
While you're here, looking at free stories, do me a favor and check out these two links. The first is a cooking site that is a business my father is trying out in his golden years, though they might be rust years for him. You never know these days. The second is a site featuring yours truly, because I'm God Damned Awesome!
https://cookingmadeeasyforeveryonecom.wordpress.com/2016/03/11/cooking-made-easy-for-everyone/
http://thewritersemporium.blogspot.com.au/2016/03/meet-out-featured-author-patrick-elliott.html
#shamelessselfpromotion
https://cookingmadeeasyforeveryonecom.wordpress.com/2016/03/11/cooking-made-easy-for-everyone/
http://thewritersemporium.blogspot.com.au/2016/03/meet-out-featured-author-patrick-elliott.html
#shamelessselfpromotion
Thursday
These days, they all blend together. Just another day, I think it was Thursday. Shit, shower, and shave, just like I did on Wednesday. Like most adults, I had mornings down to a science. As the towel carried the last drops of moisture to the floor, the coffee pot finished its magical mission. Delivering the nectar of the benevolent gods into a transparent casing, prepared for my digestion.
The rationing was the worst. Two cups of coffee a day is not nearly enough for a writer. There was plenty of whiskey at least, but still... not enough coffee. On top of that, when I looked in the fridge I realized if I wanted pleasure to last the week, I had to choose. Sugar or cream, but definitely not both.
I decided I could drink it black on Saturday, so I opted for both anyway.
I stood at the window, thinking about how I needed to get back to the real world. I needed to get back to it soon, but mornings are special. I sipped from my cup of decadently rich coffee and stared through the glass.
And into the darkness. The Void, someone was paid way too much to come up with that term. That was back when money mattered though. When there were still such things as ad men. That was back when our currency was made of paper. Now, it consisted of something more important. Now it was made of art.
I needed to get back to the real world.
I took another shallow draught of my beverage. I stared into the darkness, and we all know what happens when you do that. It filled me, or it refilled me. Inspiration was hard to come by after we recreated the world in our image. I remembered when the darkness that inspired me to write was literary. Now it was literal.
I imagined a sunrise. The kind I would have seen before the clandestine agency that separated those of us who created from those of you who consumed did their work. I knew there was one. My clock told me it was time for such things.
I could not see it though, just the void. That bothered me. That spoke to my artist's soul. It filled the inner being with words for the paper. I needed to get back to the real world.
I finished my coffee.
I sat down to write. Back to the real world, my real worlds. I had as many people from our previous reality to populate them as any of the other artists. Later I would log on and we would discuss what we were doing with them. I wanted a good story to tell.
Perhaps it was the all encompassing darkness that made me decide to write something light, and the varying degrees of such.
#shortstory #writing #Awethors
The rationing was the worst. Two cups of coffee a day is not nearly enough for a writer. There was plenty of whiskey at least, but still... not enough coffee. On top of that, when I looked in the fridge I realized if I wanted pleasure to last the week, I had to choose. Sugar or cream, but definitely not both.
I decided I could drink it black on Saturday, so I opted for both anyway.
I stood at the window, thinking about how I needed to get back to the real world. I needed to get back to it soon, but mornings are special. I sipped from my cup of decadently rich coffee and stared through the glass.
And into the darkness. The Void, someone was paid way too much to come up with that term. That was back when money mattered though. When there were still such things as ad men. That was back when our currency was made of paper. Now, it consisted of something more important. Now it was made of art.
I needed to get back to the real world.
I took another shallow draught of my beverage. I stared into the darkness, and we all know what happens when you do that. It filled me, or it refilled me. Inspiration was hard to come by after we recreated the world in our image. I remembered when the darkness that inspired me to write was literary. Now it was literal.
I imagined a sunrise. The kind I would have seen before the clandestine agency that separated those of us who created from those of you who consumed did their work. I knew there was one. My clock told me it was time for such things.
I could not see it though, just the void. That bothered me. That spoke to my artist's soul. It filled the inner being with words for the paper. I needed to get back to the real world.
I finished my coffee.
I sat down to write. Back to the real world, my real worlds. I had as many people from our previous reality to populate them as any of the other artists. Later I would log on and we would discuss what we were doing with them. I wanted a good story to tell.
Perhaps it was the all encompassing darkness that made me decide to write something light, and the varying degrees of such.
#shortstory #writing #Awethors
March 27, 2016
That Imaginary Line
I've never been good at spending my time doing nothing. I guess that's why I started training for a marathon. Which is kind of stupid, since I'm not very fit, much less a runner. I think I was mostly trying to distract myself. Some thoughts live deep in the brain, in that forgetting place. They like to travel though, don't they? I knew even then that some of those were trying to visit the land of my upper mind. Being the kind of thoughts you forget I didn't know what they were, but I was pretty sure I didn't want to either.
You're supposed to run half the marathon, and you work up to it. Unfortunately there was a block, one I couldn't seem to cross. I reached that imaginary line, at Mason Ave and Dixon St, and pain bloomed in the middle of my brain. Like an inferno burning to life in the dry, gray tinder that rested there.
Seven days, the same number as the ones I watched from down the street. Seven days from reaching my wall at that intersection. That's when I saw the curtains twitch. I ignored it, just somebody watching. Weird though, because nobody ever looked at me. Not even the ones on the street.
The next day I saw a face, and eyes staring. No big deal though. Just someone curious about my run. Maybe about why I kept pulling up short at the end of their block. They'd get bored of it soon. Then another seven days pass, and they were still watching.
I stopped, like I always did, looking at the vacant lot, kitty-corner to where my feet cemented themselves to the ground. I saw the curtains move, like they were rustled by the wind. The anger my people are known for bloomed in my mind; a desert rose in the flames burning there. I crossed the street.
My hands clenched into fists and the fire burned brighter. I didn't know why, but this person had no business watching me. I knew it was a woman, because as I pounded on the door, I smelled her perfume. It had that faint patina of roses, like hers always did.
When Leesa opened the door, my jaw dropped. There was no way. She...
"You're dead."
"You're so sure?"
"When the accelerant took, you were on the wrong side. The building... it was a building right? A church."
"Go on, you are almost there."
"The building burned to the ground. Everyone inside was to die, a sacrifice to the cause. You were in there with them. You were supposed to be with me as I ran out but you weren't. There's no way you survived."
"John, dear John. Nobody survived."
#shortstory #author #Awethors #writer #writing
You're supposed to run half the marathon, and you work up to it. Unfortunately there was a block, one I couldn't seem to cross. I reached that imaginary line, at Mason Ave and Dixon St, and pain bloomed in the middle of my brain. Like an inferno burning to life in the dry, gray tinder that rested there.
Seven days, the same number as the ones I watched from down the street. Seven days from reaching my wall at that intersection. That's when I saw the curtains twitch. I ignored it, just somebody watching. Weird though, because nobody ever looked at me. Not even the ones on the street.
The next day I saw a face, and eyes staring. No big deal though. Just someone curious about my run. Maybe about why I kept pulling up short at the end of their block. They'd get bored of it soon. Then another seven days pass, and they were still watching.
I stopped, like I always did, looking at the vacant lot, kitty-corner to where my feet cemented themselves to the ground. I saw the curtains move, like they were rustled by the wind. The anger my people are known for bloomed in my mind; a desert rose in the flames burning there. I crossed the street.
My hands clenched into fists and the fire burned brighter. I didn't know why, but this person had no business watching me. I knew it was a woman, because as I pounded on the door, I smelled her perfume. It had that faint patina of roses, like hers always did.
When Leesa opened the door, my jaw dropped. There was no way. She...
"You're dead."
"You're so sure?"
"When the accelerant took, you were on the wrong side. The building... it was a building right? A church."
"Go on, you are almost there."
"The building burned to the ground. Everyone inside was to die, a sacrifice to the cause. You were in there with them. You were supposed to be with me as I ran out but you weren't. There's no way you survived."
"John, dear John. Nobody survived."
#shortstory #author #Awethors #writer #writing
March 17, 2016
Holistic Mediocrity Overseers
Over time the stale scent of blood becomes like a lover's perfume. You know it is still there, and on a good day you still catch a whiff of it. Most minutes though... most times... you just forget the thing that used to define every moment with her (her the woman, or her the city) fades into the background. It tickles the olfactory part of your mind that defines memory but no longer stokes desire.
When I first moved to Detroit, that coppery smell reminded me that reclamation was perfectly legal for a doctor. Used cybernetics have a limited value though, and an even smaller window of re-usability. Working as a wandering doc for hire was more satisfying. Most days.
That day reminded me that the fifty-third modification to the Hippocratic Oath meant there were always choices to make. Sometimes simple choices. Most often very complex choices with untold ramifications.
From guys with purple spines on the outside, to women with orange, ceramic heads that replaced their original brain cases, I've seen some weird shit. That day took the cake. Hell, that might have been what it was about.
The seven foot tall, broad, muscular man falling down in front of me made me think of soldiers in the third class wars. He looked tough. But with the forgetting of honor and the absence of training... well... they were all posers as big as the white gang bangers in the nineteen eighties. With all the grace of a slaughtered hog he slipped to his knees, a gaping knife wound in his gut.
His assailant, a nuvo punk, ran down the street; brandishing his blade in front of him. Just as I stooped to look at the victim, fate stepped in. As the fickle bitch so often does.
The assailant tripped and landed on his own knife. Perhaps it was a drug induced walking coma. If I saw his eyes I am sure they would have cleared. He was screaming in pain. His cries for help echoed in my brain. He screamed about what just happened?
Like I said... He might not have known. End of the day? He made a choice and he was responsible for it. Just like any of us. He should be held accountable. I was responsible for my own choices too. I had one to make now. Two patients, one traveling doctor. I did what any man of morals and means would have done.
I pulled out my street doc pad and scanned it. The information on both patients jumped out for my fingertips to scroll through. I stood and walked towards the assailant. You would have too.
He had better insurance.
#shortstory #author #Awethors #socialcommentary #writer #writing #writingprompt
When I first moved to Detroit, that coppery smell reminded me that reclamation was perfectly legal for a doctor. Used cybernetics have a limited value though, and an even smaller window of re-usability. Working as a wandering doc for hire was more satisfying. Most days.
That day reminded me that the fifty-third modification to the Hippocratic Oath meant there were always choices to make. Sometimes simple choices. Most often very complex choices with untold ramifications.
From guys with purple spines on the outside, to women with orange, ceramic heads that replaced their original brain cases, I've seen some weird shit. That day took the cake. Hell, that might have been what it was about.
The seven foot tall, broad, muscular man falling down in front of me made me think of soldiers in the third class wars. He looked tough. But with the forgetting of honor and the absence of training... well... they were all posers as big as the white gang bangers in the nineteen eighties. With all the grace of a slaughtered hog he slipped to his knees, a gaping knife wound in his gut.
His assailant, a nuvo punk, ran down the street; brandishing his blade in front of him. Just as I stooped to look at the victim, fate stepped in. As the fickle bitch so often does.
The assailant tripped and landed on his own knife. Perhaps it was a drug induced walking coma. If I saw his eyes I am sure they would have cleared. He was screaming in pain. His cries for help echoed in my brain. He screamed about what just happened?
Like I said... He might not have known. End of the day? He made a choice and he was responsible for it. Just like any of us. He should be held accountable. I was responsible for my own choices too. I had one to make now. Two patients, one traveling doctor. I did what any man of morals and means would have done.
I pulled out my street doc pad and scanned it. The information on both patients jumped out for my fingertips to scroll through. I stood and walked towards the assailant. You would have too.
He had better insurance.
#shortstory #author #Awethors #socialcommentary #writer #writing #writingprompt
March 10, 2016
Running to Brigid
Mother always told me some jealous woman would be my downfall. Not even she considered that two of them might work in conjunction. Let me back up a bit.
You ever notice how when the hero/protagonist/poor schmuck caught up in shit he's just not prepared for falls down in fiction it's always epic? I mean, one of two things happens.
Either some guy with the good looks of Reeve and the powers of Pitt ends up overmatched. I mean, he can't be beat but the writer puts some block in his way. Could be someone from his home dimension, a fatal flaw like an attraction to easy women, or just an overindulgence in alcohol. So he falls down but gets back up. Three pages later he's back on the straight and narrow. He works hard, overcomes his demons, usually inspired by some amazingly written dialogue between him and his, except in that moment, unimportant but oddly wise friend. You know, the guy who doesn't even know who he's dealing with and is slogging along when his buddy could end all of his misery in a heartbeat. But the dick doesn't do it, does he? No. He keeps that pal in misery, probably because it provides the earthy wisdom needed for that one moment. Anyway, the dude gets over it all, comes out swinging and wins the day.
Or... some schlub who never had a damn chance is put into a situation they could never hope to survive. Usually with great comedic affect and bowel liquefying terror they are taken to the darkest corners of humanity. They trip over a well placed stick, thrown in their path by the evils of a mad scientist, two dimensional monster, or conspiracy meant to represent the evils of either corporations or bits of government that espouse the opposite ideals of the author. Then, either the miscreant is beat upon mercilessly by this tormenting entity to prove there is no hope and we must all rise up as one to take everything back. Or, he gets in one lucky sucker punch and, unrealistically, wins the day. Thus appeasing the boorish masses rooting for the little guy and a happy ending.
Real life is a lot less complicated.
I won my spot in the Olympic relay on a radio contest. I was stoked, because it included a trip and some tickets. I managed to wrangle the time off from the minimum wage job strangling my life and making such trips impossible.
I was to take the torch, get the flame from Hera, or at least where she used to live, power walk the first leg, and hand it off. Problem is, I've never been great at tying my shoes.
Long story short, I leaned over and tripped on a damnable, loose lace. I fell into the pit of fire. Now I'm stuck here wondering how this could happen to me, why I never knew fire hurt so much, and why the smell of my own burning flesh makes me so insightful about flawed literary tropes.
#shortstory #author #writer #writing #Awethors
March 3, 2016
Prostrating Westward
On a man's wedding day he is supposed to be the third happiest person in the room, except when he is fifth or sixth. Normally his joy is dwarfed only by that of the bride and her mother. Then there are weddings like mine.
In a wedding like mine the groom can be fifth or sixth. They come in after the beaming joy of both mothers, two fathers relieved they get to see their son married after all, and before or after the other groom.
So, there I was, staring into his eyes. Dueling crying mothers sounding in the background. The justice of the peace droning on with words that, if my parent's had their wish, should have been droned by a clergyman. I didn't care about things like that though.
When our eyes met, I was purely happy. So was he. That was what mattered to me. Then the jay pee said the dreaded words. There were concerns you see. My ex was... well, a bit psycho is putting it mildly. Psychotically dedicated to things best forgotten would be a bit more accurate.
It was like a Clark Gable movie, well, and edgy Gable movie. The Justice spoke to the heavens and the heathens. "Should anyone here present know of any reasons that this couple should not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace."
I looked around. I had nightmares about this all week. I knew it was going to happen, even as I hoped that it wouldn't. It all came undone, just as I dreamed.
The doors burst open. As one, my ex streamed in. The whole group of them carrying their trademark signs.
Jesus will laugh when you have AIDEs - Read one.
Reenact Soddom - Said a second.
And, of course, the classic that would never die - God hates fags!!!
There were many, many others. Most of them were variations of those three though. I saw microphones in some off hands too.
My ex, and they never gave up. He started ululuating and I started crying. Our mothers bemoaned our fate and the destruction of their special day. Then the chanting started.
Long story short? Most of the guests fell into the background in horror. Unable to raise their hands against religious men and women. No matter how zealotous and evil they were. Not everyone was willing to stand passively by.
After years of questionable acceptance, some men will fight for their sons when a threat comes from the outside. Other men are willing to take on the wrath of heaven itself for what they believe in and those that they love.
That's why I'm here. It's supposed to be my honeymoon. Instead of Paris I'm sitting on a hard bench. Waiting to bail out my father, father in law, and new husband. Yes, husband. Thank God some officiants can get the "I Dos" out quickly.
#shortstory #writer #author #rights #socialcommentary #writing #writingprompt
In a wedding like mine the groom can be fifth or sixth. They come in after the beaming joy of both mothers, two fathers relieved they get to see their son married after all, and before or after the other groom.
So, there I was, staring into his eyes. Dueling crying mothers sounding in the background. The justice of the peace droning on with words that, if my parent's had their wish, should have been droned by a clergyman. I didn't care about things like that though.
When our eyes met, I was purely happy. So was he. That was what mattered to me. Then the jay pee said the dreaded words. There were concerns you see. My ex was... well, a bit psycho is putting it mildly. Psychotically dedicated to things best forgotten would be a bit more accurate.
It was like a Clark Gable movie, well, and edgy Gable movie. The Justice spoke to the heavens and the heathens. "Should anyone here present know of any reasons that this couple should not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace."
I looked around. I had nightmares about this all week. I knew it was going to happen, even as I hoped that it wouldn't. It all came undone, just as I dreamed.
The doors burst open. As one, my ex streamed in. The whole group of them carrying their trademark signs.
Jesus will laugh when you have AIDEs - Read one.
Reenact Soddom - Said a second.
And, of course, the classic that would never die - God hates fags!!!
There were many, many others. Most of them were variations of those three though. I saw microphones in some off hands too.
My ex, and they never gave up. He started ululuating and I started crying. Our mothers bemoaned our fate and the destruction of their special day. Then the chanting started.
Long story short? Most of the guests fell into the background in horror. Unable to raise their hands against religious men and women. No matter how zealotous and evil they were. Not everyone was willing to stand passively by.
After years of questionable acceptance, some men will fight for their sons when a threat comes from the outside. Other men are willing to take on the wrath of heaven itself for what they believe in and those that they love.
That's why I'm here. It's supposed to be my honeymoon. Instead of Paris I'm sitting on a hard bench. Waiting to bail out my father, father in law, and new husband. Yes, husband. Thank God some officiants can get the "I Dos" out quickly.
#shortstory #writer #author #rights #socialcommentary #writing #writingprompt
February 27, 2016
Rich Man's Shoes
When I lived a life of hate, they loved me.
Always ready with their sharp toothed smiles. I laughed, with just a hint of shame, every time those green scaled monsters bit those better off than I. Until one day I decided to remove the negative from my life. Swimming, peacefully, with alligators made me decide I should try to do the same with my fellow humans.
There were moments, in my time as the alligator whisperer, when the beasts responded to my desires and attacked the objects of my hate. Other than the press conferences and the shows, people left me alone. They knew something was off. Maybe not how I hated them, but they knew I wanted their distance.
After the guru time, everything is different. Time on the talk show circuit and getting to know my fans. I smile now, instead of spreading my lips and showing my teeth. Now they cheer when I enter the arena.
It is my first time back with my big green friends and they seem happy to see me. The roar of the audience startles them like it always has. Today though, they swish and sway, agitating, just like a washing machine.
I wave to my adoring public one last time before stepping through the gate. Something is wrong here. I know more about these creatures than any other scientist alive. I also have the balls to step in with them when the others stick to the lab. That's an old me thought. I let it go. The gators aren't happy to see me. No matter how well they pretend otherwise.
They know the act, they swim away from me. Their eyes hunt the audience for prey. They seek those I would gladly have fed to them a month ago. I do not point though, I let them find their own path. Part of knowing your course is leaving everyone to discover theirs. Even our animal friends.
With no enemy to destroy on my command they turn and look back at me.
For a moment it seems like the old act, but I read more in their eyes. I am weak. They know it. I left the path. Hate was never something I wanted in my heart, but when it was there it created a bond. Now, they need a new leader. In the savage way of the swamp, there is only one way to pick a new alpha.
While the old one is alive.
Especially when he has betrayed the cause.
I hear the screams, the horror, the terror. I am at peace though. This is the wild, the way it should be. One sacrifice for mankind. One noble act for all to see, witness the nature of these creatures I know so well.
I learn another lesson. One wise men have known for centuries. When one is free they feel no fear. Not even at the end of a weapon.
When I turn to a life of love, they hate me.
#shortstory #politicalcommentary #socialcommentary #author #writer #writing
Always ready with their sharp toothed smiles. I laughed, with just a hint of shame, every time those green scaled monsters bit those better off than I. Until one day I decided to remove the negative from my life. Swimming, peacefully, with alligators made me decide I should try to do the same with my fellow humans.
There were moments, in my time as the alligator whisperer, when the beasts responded to my desires and attacked the objects of my hate. Other than the press conferences and the shows, people left me alone. They knew something was off. Maybe not how I hated them, but they knew I wanted their distance.
After the guru time, everything is different. Time on the talk show circuit and getting to know my fans. I smile now, instead of spreading my lips and showing my teeth. Now they cheer when I enter the arena.
It is my first time back with my big green friends and they seem happy to see me. The roar of the audience startles them like it always has. Today though, they swish and sway, agitating, just like a washing machine.
I wave to my adoring public one last time before stepping through the gate. Something is wrong here. I know more about these creatures than any other scientist alive. I also have the balls to step in with them when the others stick to the lab. That's an old me thought. I let it go. The gators aren't happy to see me. No matter how well they pretend otherwise.
They know the act, they swim away from me. Their eyes hunt the audience for prey. They seek those I would gladly have fed to them a month ago. I do not point though, I let them find their own path. Part of knowing your course is leaving everyone to discover theirs. Even our animal friends.
With no enemy to destroy on my command they turn and look back at me.
For a moment it seems like the old act, but I read more in their eyes. I am weak. They know it. I left the path. Hate was never something I wanted in my heart, but when it was there it created a bond. Now, they need a new leader. In the savage way of the swamp, there is only one way to pick a new alpha.
While the old one is alive.
Especially when he has betrayed the cause.
I hear the screams, the horror, the terror. I am at peace though. This is the wild, the way it should be. One sacrifice for mankind. One noble act for all to see, witness the nature of these creatures I know so well.
I learn another lesson. One wise men have known for centuries. When one is free they feel no fear. Not even at the end of a weapon.
When I turn to a life of love, they hate me.
#shortstory #politicalcommentary #socialcommentary #author #writer #writing
February 16, 2016
Brainquakes
Fractions, we were learning fractions. Maybe that's why numbers float through the black, punctuating the words that replace dreams. One twenty-sixth, more or less. That's how much of my life has been spent in this place. The bed isn't as comfortable as the one at home, but mom insists it's just as pretty. I think she put my favorite sheets on it, the ones with the racecars on them. Mom cries a lot. Thousands of tears. There's a term for big numbers that aren't real. I don't know if I don't remember the word or if I don't know it yet.
Thirty-four, that's the number of times the doctor has told my parents that I can't see or hear them. Fractions again, she's half right. I haven't seen anything since the speedometer at a careful twenty-five and dropping, and the face. I've heard everything since mom's scream though. I heard that, and so much more afterward. Things that will stay with me forever. Some I want to keep around for years, and others that make me want forever to come tomorrow.
A sideways eight, the symbol for how many times mom cries at my bedside. She feels bad about the accident. I want to hold her hand as her pretty face floats through the dark sky that is my world now. I know her face isn't really pretty, she gets snotty, puffy and pink when she cries. I also know it's not her fault.
Another face fills my world, the teen girl, her eyes filled with terror as she looks up from her phone and sees me. She knows what she's done, twenty seconds or so before she rams into the door that barely protects me. Enough to keep me alive. He's just a kid! Life's not fair! Why didn't I listen to the commercials? Even at my age I see all that on her face.
Seven, the number of heaven according to dad. I may find out soon. Also the number of days since I heard him say the girl is in a room just down the hall. Twelve is the number of times mom has reminded him it isn't his place to judge and that forgiveness is better. Six times she added the plea that I'm still alive, and just as many times he has said, "We don't know for how much longer."
Zero, not really a number but it's how many seconds he spends actually meaning it when he says he'll leave it alone. One syringe goes missing. It's also the number of nurses that end up crying by my bed, horrified that she let this happen and is going to lose her job. Two, the numbers going up again, that's how many guys in blue show up. Two and a half, that's how many rights they read him.
If only I could talk instead of hear. Maybe he would have listened to me. I didn't think she'd do it again, but now he knows she won't.
#shortstory #author #writer #writing
Thirty-four, that's the number of times the doctor has told my parents that I can't see or hear them. Fractions again, she's half right. I haven't seen anything since the speedometer at a careful twenty-five and dropping, and the face. I've heard everything since mom's scream though. I heard that, and so much more afterward. Things that will stay with me forever. Some I want to keep around for years, and others that make me want forever to come tomorrow.
A sideways eight, the symbol for how many times mom cries at my bedside. She feels bad about the accident. I want to hold her hand as her pretty face floats through the dark sky that is my world now. I know her face isn't really pretty, she gets snotty, puffy and pink when she cries. I also know it's not her fault.
Another face fills my world, the teen girl, her eyes filled with terror as she looks up from her phone and sees me. She knows what she's done, twenty seconds or so before she rams into the door that barely protects me. Enough to keep me alive. He's just a kid! Life's not fair! Why didn't I listen to the commercials? Even at my age I see all that on her face.
Seven, the number of heaven according to dad. I may find out soon. Also the number of days since I heard him say the girl is in a room just down the hall. Twelve is the number of times mom has reminded him it isn't his place to judge and that forgiveness is better. Six times she added the plea that I'm still alive, and just as many times he has said, "We don't know for how much longer."
Zero, not really a number but it's how many seconds he spends actually meaning it when he says he'll leave it alone. One syringe goes missing. It's also the number of nurses that end up crying by my bed, horrified that she let this happen and is going to lose her job. Two, the numbers going up again, that's how many guys in blue show up. Two and a half, that's how many rights they read him.
If only I could talk instead of hear. Maybe he would have listened to me. I didn't think she'd do it again, but now he knows she won't.
#shortstory #author #writer #writing
February 11, 2016
A Transcendental Mediation
This week's prompt. Write a story beginning with the title of the book you most recently read and ending with the name of your favorite character you have written. Of course it's one with my story in it.
The Awethology Dark... I held it in my hands, hushed reverence issued from my body until it surrounded me. In the placid plasma of my nether universe I allowed my mind to focus on things left unsaid and words undone. This book was a wonder, in more than one sense of the word.
One wondered why this, of all books, survived the culling. The answer was the same as always. A dedicated fan base who squirreled it away. With other non-precious valuables. So it survived when the great works fed the flames.
Despite all that, these stories gave me hope in my darkest hours.
It is difficult to say if the book had any cultural value in the old world. In this new desolation, a place where people no longer had to desperately seek battles to fight, it was as good as the bible. Freedom, equality, thought and creativity. All these things echoed from the book.
Perhaps that could be said of all tomes. I am sure everyone with a bit of tattooed, dead tree felt the same about theirs. It was, after all, why we hid them from the reclaimers. Those charged by our so called government with collecting all art of "worth" for homes of those with power and influence, and destruction of all the others. The subversive works were sought even harder than those most desired.
We risked death, and worse, to keep our prizes safe. They could never undo the damage. Hell, they could not even act as a panacea for the plague of those ruling us. They were like Ritalin for our troubled minds though. They were all the same.
But this one was mine.
During the day it eased my fears. It reminded me that there were worse worlds, many of them in the past, even if only in the imaginations of others. It quelled the terror of the men and women seeking the very thing itself. In the darkened hours it cloaked me from the consuming silence. When evil edged into my mind and I waited for the sounds of more bombs dropping it stilled the voices inside. With louder voices and worse violence.
I knew. I knew beyond a doubt. I must take this to him. It could help him even more than me. I must risk it all, as these writer's had, and travel roads unknown. The man who might lead us out of darkness. The one who could teach us to overthrow those keeping us in cuffs and ignorance. I would take the first steps tomorrow and bring my book to him.
Swift.
#shortstory #Awethors #authors #shamelessselfpromotion #writer #writing #writingprompt
The Awethology Dark... I held it in my hands, hushed reverence issued from my body until it surrounded me. In the placid plasma of my nether universe I allowed my mind to focus on things left unsaid and words undone. This book was a wonder, in more than one sense of the word.
One wondered why this, of all books, survived the culling. The answer was the same as always. A dedicated fan base who squirreled it away. With other non-precious valuables. So it survived when the great works fed the flames.
Despite all that, these stories gave me hope in my darkest hours.
It is difficult to say if the book had any cultural value in the old world. In this new desolation, a place where people no longer had to desperately seek battles to fight, it was as good as the bible. Freedom, equality, thought and creativity. All these things echoed from the book.
Perhaps that could be said of all tomes. I am sure everyone with a bit of tattooed, dead tree felt the same about theirs. It was, after all, why we hid them from the reclaimers. Those charged by our so called government with collecting all art of "worth" for homes of those with power and influence, and destruction of all the others. The subversive works were sought even harder than those most desired.
We risked death, and worse, to keep our prizes safe. They could never undo the damage. Hell, they could not even act as a panacea for the plague of those ruling us. They were like Ritalin for our troubled minds though. They were all the same.
But this one was mine.
During the day it eased my fears. It reminded me that there were worse worlds, many of them in the past, even if only in the imaginations of others. It quelled the terror of the men and women seeking the very thing itself. In the darkened hours it cloaked me from the consuming silence. When evil edged into my mind and I waited for the sounds of more bombs dropping it stilled the voices inside. With louder voices and worse violence.
I knew. I knew beyond a doubt. I must take this to him. It could help him even more than me. I must risk it all, as these writer's had, and travel roads unknown. The man who might lead us out of darkness. The one who could teach us to overthrow those keeping us in cuffs and ignorance. I would take the first steps tomorrow and bring my book to him.
Swift.
#shortstory #Awethors #authors #shamelessselfpromotion #writer #writing #writingprompt
