Weekly Short Stories Contest and Company! discussion
Weekly Short Story Contests
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Week 167 (May 16-23). Stories. Topic: A Feeling of Being Watched.
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I think I can fit this into last week's. XD But I think I'll come up with something else.
I know I can & will come up with something. My mind is already spinning around an idea.
Kat wrote: "You have until May 23 to post a story, and on May 24 and 25 we’ll vote for which one we thought was best.
Please post directly into the topic and not a link. Please don’t use a poem previously use..."
I am new here, so apologies if this is a stupid question, but is this topic for a poem or short story.
Please post directly into the topic and not a link. Please don’t use a poem previously use..."
I am new here, so apologies if this is a stupid question, but is this topic for a poem or short story.
Sorry Chris. It should be story. I edited it to be correct.
The Price of Glamour
By: Leslie (933 words - open to critique)
Fear.
The feeling would set in once I open my eyes. The feeling would inch under my skin, leaving gooseflesh in its wake until I am filled with dread, until I am paralyzed.
Psychologists often said that fear is one of the small intrinsic emotions. Small? It wasn’t small for me when it encompassed my whole being.
No one understood my fear of being watched. Every time it would swaddle me, it would leave me immobile. I would go through panic, dread and despair.
How would they understand when I was once a famous Hollywood actress? The thought might have been inconceivable for others since I loved being under the spotlight. I loved the glitz and glamour, the parties, the adoring fans and whatnot.
What they didn’t know was, every time I would turn off the lights at night, I would cringe in the dark. I was horrified. I could hardly breathe. It was like someone would choke me to death. A fight or flight. And flight would be my immediate response.
The feeling started about ten years ago, when a man was apprehended inside my place. Even if he was put to jail and died a few days after he had served his sentence, I couldn’t shake off the fear he had instilled. His manner of intimidation ranged from sending notes and flowers to showing up in my apartment at the wee hours of the morning. The worst and most horrifying experience of all was when he tried to abduct me. He was a stalker to the hilts.
Since then, I would always feel eyes on me. I would hear whispers. At first, I could only hear his voice but as days passed by, there were others. They taunted me. They jabbed me until I bleed and I could only cry in silence. No one believed me, not even my parents, not even my friends.
I could no longer work. I couldn’t bear being in the crowd.
As I sat on the bed, in the corner of the plain white room, all I wanted to do was to stay as far away as possible from the window.
“Laura, Paula is here.” Jenny appeared from the door. I flinched at the sound of her voice.
She liked being called Jenny. She had been a constant companion, who always had the warmest smile for me.
I nodded once and as expected, she smiled. I saw Paula behind her, gazing at me with pain in her eyes. I hadn’t spoken anything, yet I could almost see the tears pooling in the corner of her eyes.
“Hi, little sister.” I said, almost a whisper.
She marched towards the bed while I watched Jenny close the door.
“How are you, Laura?” Paula asked in a cheerless tone.
“I’m fine. Hanging on.” I answered. I averted her gaze as I turned my head to the direction of the door again. I thought I heard a rattling sound.
“Do you want to go outside?” She asked.
I slowly shifted my attention to her. I frowned.
“You need a bit of sun. You look so pale…” She trailed off when I gritted my teeth.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I said. I managed to appear calm, but inside, my chest had tightened.
She didn’t press me and I was relieved but it only lasted a few seconds. A tap on the window and I started to breathe cold, stale air. The sound made my nape turn numb, my hair stand on end. My head jerked to where it came from but there was nothing.
“What is it?” Paula asked.
I couldn’t speak. I started to hear the whispers. They were coming to get me. I closed my eyes and covered my ears with my hands.
“Make them go away.” I choked on the words.
Paula stood and pushed a button at the side of my bed. I hugged my knees, rocked back and forth, trying desperately to calm myself. Tears streamed down my face. My heart was beating fast.
Jenny rushed to the room, in her hand, another dreadful thing.
I didn’t want to go to sleep because when I close my eyes, I could see red eyes boring through me. Even in my sleep, I wasn’t spared of the evil stare and laugh.
Jenny took my arm but I fought with her. Two male nurses came to her rescue but I used all the strength I have to fend them off. When one of them held out a white garment, I knew, I was about to lose.
I could feel the stare from outside the window. I could hear them laugh.
“Please don’t put me in a straitjacket. I’m begging you!” I thrashed on the bed, writhing in pain as strong, sturdy hands held my frail shoulders. Jenny had successfully inserted the needle into my skin.
“Don’t. Don’t. Please. Can’t you see them? Can’t you hear them? They're coming for me.” I pleaded but I could feel the drug taking effect.
Under heavy lids, I could hardly make a clear image of Paula, Jenny and the two male nurses. They seemed to dance as they turned hazy. Behind them, peering from the window, were dark shadows I could no longer count but their distinct evil red eyes held me in place. It filled me with terror.
“It’s been three years, Jenny. Nothing’s changing.” I heard Paula say.
I wanted to stay awake but my body betrayed me. I closed my eyes, still fighting the urge to sleep. I gave up.
In my dream, I screamed.
By: Leslie (933 words - open to critique)
Fear.
The feeling would set in once I open my eyes. The feeling would inch under my skin, leaving gooseflesh in its wake until I am filled with dread, until I am paralyzed.
Psychologists often said that fear is one of the small intrinsic emotions. Small? It wasn’t small for me when it encompassed my whole being.
No one understood my fear of being watched. Every time it would swaddle me, it would leave me immobile. I would go through panic, dread and despair.
How would they understand when I was once a famous Hollywood actress? The thought might have been inconceivable for others since I loved being under the spotlight. I loved the glitz and glamour, the parties, the adoring fans and whatnot.
What they didn’t know was, every time I would turn off the lights at night, I would cringe in the dark. I was horrified. I could hardly breathe. It was like someone would choke me to death. A fight or flight. And flight would be my immediate response.
The feeling started about ten years ago, when a man was apprehended inside my place. Even if he was put to jail and died a few days after he had served his sentence, I couldn’t shake off the fear he had instilled. His manner of intimidation ranged from sending notes and flowers to showing up in my apartment at the wee hours of the morning. The worst and most horrifying experience of all was when he tried to abduct me. He was a stalker to the hilts.
Since then, I would always feel eyes on me. I would hear whispers. At first, I could only hear his voice but as days passed by, there were others. They taunted me. They jabbed me until I bleed and I could only cry in silence. No one believed me, not even my parents, not even my friends.
I could no longer work. I couldn’t bear being in the crowd.
As I sat on the bed, in the corner of the plain white room, all I wanted to do was to stay as far away as possible from the window.
“Laura, Paula is here.” Jenny appeared from the door. I flinched at the sound of her voice.
She liked being called Jenny. She had been a constant companion, who always had the warmest smile for me.
I nodded once and as expected, she smiled. I saw Paula behind her, gazing at me with pain in her eyes. I hadn’t spoken anything, yet I could almost see the tears pooling in the corner of her eyes.
“Hi, little sister.” I said, almost a whisper.
She marched towards the bed while I watched Jenny close the door.
“How are you, Laura?” Paula asked in a cheerless tone.
“I’m fine. Hanging on.” I answered. I averted her gaze as I turned my head to the direction of the door again. I thought I heard a rattling sound.
“Do you want to go outside?” She asked.
I slowly shifted my attention to her. I frowned.
“You need a bit of sun. You look so pale…” She trailed off when I gritted my teeth.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I said. I managed to appear calm, but inside, my chest had tightened.
She didn’t press me and I was relieved but it only lasted a few seconds. A tap on the window and I started to breathe cold, stale air. The sound made my nape turn numb, my hair stand on end. My head jerked to where it came from but there was nothing.
“What is it?” Paula asked.
I couldn’t speak. I started to hear the whispers. They were coming to get me. I closed my eyes and covered my ears with my hands.
“Make them go away.” I choked on the words.
Paula stood and pushed a button at the side of my bed. I hugged my knees, rocked back and forth, trying desperately to calm myself. Tears streamed down my face. My heart was beating fast.
Jenny rushed to the room, in her hand, another dreadful thing.
I didn’t want to go to sleep because when I close my eyes, I could see red eyes boring through me. Even in my sleep, I wasn’t spared of the evil stare and laugh.
Jenny took my arm but I fought with her. Two male nurses came to her rescue but I used all the strength I have to fend them off. When one of them held out a white garment, I knew, I was about to lose.
I could feel the stare from outside the window. I could hear them laugh.
“Please don’t put me in a straitjacket. I’m begging you!” I thrashed on the bed, writhing in pain as strong, sturdy hands held my frail shoulders. Jenny had successfully inserted the needle into my skin.
“Don’t. Don’t. Please. Can’t you see them? Can’t you hear them? They're coming for me.” I pleaded but I could feel the drug taking effect.
Under heavy lids, I could hardly make a clear image of Paula, Jenny and the two male nurses. They seemed to dance as they turned hazy. Behind them, peering from the window, were dark shadows I could no longer count but their distinct evil red eyes held me in place. It filled me with terror.
“It’s been three years, Jenny. Nothing’s changing.” I heard Paula say.
I wanted to stay awake but my body betrayed me. I closed my eyes, still fighting the urge to sleep. I gave up.
In my dream, I screamed.
Speech Day330 words
“I can’t shake the feeling that someone is listening, but that doesn’t make any sense. As far as I can tell, I’m the only one left alive. Lucky? Maybe.
When I was a kid, I’d often dream of being a hermit, usually when some bully was making my life miserable, somebody like Roger Peg behind me whacking me on the head with a text book when the teacher wasn’t looking. Which was often.
A nice dry cave in the desert held a certain appeal, or a rustic cabin beside a mountain lake… a simple life uncomplicated by human interaction.
But being a hermit—which is what in effect I have become—isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Sometimes I long for a little peace, just a moment or two of respite from the inner monolog.
Which is more punishing: being humiliated by an elementary school math teacher or the memory of it? Quick, give me your answer! Don’t waste the other students' time. Haven’t you been listening at all? Daydreaming again! Here, move your desk up to the front where I can keep an eye on you. Don’t drag it! Lift it!
Over and over again, Mr. Southland calls me up to the blackboard. Up there in front of the leering class, even the simplest concepts slide from my grasp. With a smirk, Roger volunteers the correct answer, which causes great merriment because Roger is notoriously dense.
Bastards!
Bastards.
Bastards…
Mr. Southland, wherever you are, if you were to call me up to the blackboard right now, I’d walk up there without hesitation.
And I still wouldn’t know the answer.
But neither would you.
There’s some comfort in that.
Seems ironic that the boy blushing and stammering in front of the class should be broadcasting to the world. Or what’s left of it.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, it’s Speech Day, the Ultimate Speech Day. I am the only contestant. The prize is the world.
No, wait. I’ve already won.”
Tim! You've got a new computer?! (I hope!) Welcome back! Too bad you missed 'Succubus' — I would have loved to see where your imagination and skill took the idea.
Tim, what a funny story! Great twist for the topic, for it to be told from the pov of the last human. Great irony!Nicely dark and terrifying, Leslie. Well written. It kept my attention throughout. And so fast!
Hi Guy. Nice to be back on the good ship WSS. Actually, my old computer is in remission at the moment, so I'm being very gentle with it.You know, I always wondered just what kind of world the meek would inherit once the others had finished with it...
AHHHHH! TIM! You're BACK! I LOVE THE STORY! AHHHH! *huggle*Okay, I'm done now.
Just kidding.
TIMMMMMMM!
I don't know if I can live up to all those capitals, but thanks.
I’ve never managed to. Thank heavens she puts a lot of my m’s in lower case.
Tim, you already live up to those capitals, lol, or else I wouldn't have used them!And M, how's this? MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!
And yes, M, you live up to those.
My story is currently 3,074 words. I will definitely be able to trim it down, but I was wondering if it is okay if my story is over 2,500 words. If not, I will either find a way to tell this story in 2,500 words or fewer or possibly write a different story. Please let me know what is acceptable. Thank you.
"Your story should be between 300 and 3,500 words long."
No problem! Good luck writing! Can't wait to read it!
Betrayal
679 Words
(Critiques Please)
Adora felt like shit. *How could I have done this?* The shock and blame in the girl’s eyes reinforced it. Adora looked around at the men who surrounded them, standing among the trees, their crossbows trained on the girl. Now even the birds continued to sing. The girl’s gaze lifted to Adora’s raised hand- the signal used to call in the men – and stared, accusing it. Adora lowered her arm and it hung uselessly at her side. The girl’s eyes studied the shadowy ground at Adora’s feet.
“Why, Adora?”
Adora looked at the elaborate tattoo on the left side of the girl’s face, trying to remind herself. *I had no choice. You don’t understand. I am a slave. Like you. Do you understand now? I had no choice. I had to turn you in.* It didn’t help. The girl began crying and dropped to her knees, crushing the leaves, her body bent with the knowledge of having to return.
“Why?” The girl asked again. “Just answer me that. Is it because you are his daughter? You are trying to get on his good side?” Her brown eyes searched Adora’s face for answers.
Adora looked around at the men again. *What are they waiting for? Granted we’re not going anywhere, but…* Then she felt it. His eyes on her. Adora looked around, but she didn’t see him. But she felt his repulsive presence. Frowning, Adora turned back to the girl. She was staring at Adora, her large eyes hard and demanding an answer. Adora hung her head.
“I had to, Jess. I…”
Jess jumped up and the crossbows raised a bit higher, but none of them came flying toward them. Jess stormed toward Adora.
“Had to?! We were alone, Adora! We could have escaped together! We could have been free, Adora!” Jess was screaming and her tears flowed. She moaned and collapsed to the ground, sobbing.
Adora was rooted to the spot as she stared at Jess. Adora shook her head, her pain increasing with each movement.
“There is no freedom for people like us, Jess. We will always be hunted down,” Adora said. Her voice was soft and held no conviction. Was she just trying to convince herself? Adora touched her own tattoo on the left side of her face. She felt his eyes on her again and she looked around, still not seeing him. *Damn it! Where are you? I know you are here. Watching me. Did I pass your damn test?!* “We are powerless, Jess,” Adora whispered, returning her gaze to her.
Adora felt his eyes watching her again, but this time when she looked up, she saw him standing just beyond the circle of men. A large, victorious smile on his face and he began his methodical clapping. The men parted, slowing him to pass through, closing the gap behind him. Adora’s stomach knotted and she felt nauseous. She didn’t quite look him in the eyes – he had beaten that habit out of her, but he still couldn’t drive her hatred of him from her heart. Not that he really cared. Obedience and loyalty, not love, was all he cared about.
“Very good, Adora, my dear daughter,” He drawled. “We never would have found her if not for you. I’m so proud of you.”
Adora snorted. *You have never been proud of anything I have ever done, you bastard.*
The man strode up to Jess, grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet. Jess stood, defeated, and offered no resistance. He stood in his highly tailored clothes and stared at Adora, waiting. In a wild moment, it flashed across Adora’s mind to defy him. To refuse him even a small thing as this. But she just as quickly squashed the idea. She tried it before and it hadn’t ended well. Adora closed her eyes and sank to her knees, bowing her head, her hands clenched beside her. *I hate you. I will always hate you.* Adora stretched out the silence as long as she dared, finally saying, “Thank you…father,” as was required. For a slave.
679 Words
(Critiques Please)
Adora felt like shit. *How could I have done this?* The shock and blame in the girl’s eyes reinforced it. Adora looked around at the men who surrounded them, standing among the trees, their crossbows trained on the girl. Now even the birds continued to sing. The girl’s gaze lifted to Adora’s raised hand- the signal used to call in the men – and stared, accusing it. Adora lowered her arm and it hung uselessly at her side. The girl’s eyes studied the shadowy ground at Adora’s feet.
“Why, Adora?”
Adora looked at the elaborate tattoo on the left side of the girl’s face, trying to remind herself. *I had no choice. You don’t understand. I am a slave. Like you. Do you understand now? I had no choice. I had to turn you in.* It didn’t help. The girl began crying and dropped to her knees, crushing the leaves, her body bent with the knowledge of having to return.
“Why?” The girl asked again. “Just answer me that. Is it because you are his daughter? You are trying to get on his good side?” Her brown eyes searched Adora’s face for answers.
Adora looked around at the men again. *What are they waiting for? Granted we’re not going anywhere, but…* Then she felt it. His eyes on her. Adora looked around, but she didn’t see him. But she felt his repulsive presence. Frowning, Adora turned back to the girl. She was staring at Adora, her large eyes hard and demanding an answer. Adora hung her head.
“I had to, Jess. I…”
Jess jumped up and the crossbows raised a bit higher, but none of them came flying toward them. Jess stormed toward Adora.
“Had to?! We were alone, Adora! We could have escaped together! We could have been free, Adora!” Jess was screaming and her tears flowed. She moaned and collapsed to the ground, sobbing.
Adora was rooted to the spot as she stared at Jess. Adora shook her head, her pain increasing with each movement.
“There is no freedom for people like us, Jess. We will always be hunted down,” Adora said. Her voice was soft and held no conviction. Was she just trying to convince herself? Adora touched her own tattoo on the left side of her face. She felt his eyes on her again and she looked around, still not seeing him. *Damn it! Where are you? I know you are here. Watching me. Did I pass your damn test?!* “We are powerless, Jess,” Adora whispered, returning her gaze to her.
Adora felt his eyes watching her again, but this time when she looked up, she saw him standing just beyond the circle of men. A large, victorious smile on his face and he began his methodical clapping. The men parted, slowing him to pass through, closing the gap behind him. Adora’s stomach knotted and she felt nauseous. She didn’t quite look him in the eyes – he had beaten that habit out of her, but he still couldn’t drive her hatred of him from her heart. Not that he really cared. Obedience and loyalty, not love, was all he cared about.
“Very good, Adora, my dear daughter,” He drawled. “We never would have found her if not for you. I’m so proud of you.”
Adora snorted. *You have never been proud of anything I have ever done, you bastard.*
The man strode up to Jess, grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet. Jess stood, defeated, and offered no resistance. He stood in his highly tailored clothes and stared at Adora, waiting. In a wild moment, it flashed across Adora’s mind to defy him. To refuse him even a small thing as this. But she just as quickly squashed the idea. She tried it before and it hadn’t ended well. Adora closed her eyes and sank to her knees, bowing her head, her hands clenched beside her. *I hate you. I will always hate you.* Adora stretched out the silence as long as she dared, finally saying, “Thank you…father,” as was required. For a slave.
Madeline, a while back, I posted one that was really long. It was so bad, though, that only Edward got past the first few paragraphs. No one else noticed that it was over the limit.
I hope to get a story on here...
Author: Madeline LundTitle: Cigarettes and Wine
Word count: 3,497
Warning: mature content (I think, but I am not sure what is considered too mature, so please let me know)
I would appreciate feedback!
Thank you.
Cigarettes and WineEdie told me she was sorry. Her right hand squeezed my left shoulder and her head tilted slightly to one side. Her eyes searched for something other than sorrow in my face, and my eyes looked at the ground. I watched a half-dried worm dying on the sidewalk by Edie’s pink heels. For a moment, I contemplated finding a cup of dirt and some water to save the worm, but then Edie’s hand patted my arm. Edie was concerned, and I wished I hadn't told her, but Jessica wanted me to talk about what happened.
A joint appeared in Edie’s left hand. She raised her eyebrows, and her pink lips formed a smile. I nodded, and the bright blue lighter in Edie’s right hand breathed fire.
Edie took a few puffs and then inspected the joint slowly. My green eyes avoided my friend’s baby blue ones as my thumb and pointer finger delicately plucked the joint from her outstretched hand and brought it to my lips. It was a quarter to noon.
We began to walk. Neither of us spoke. I felt Edie’s eyes watching me. My eyes watched my black boots avoid the cracks in the pavement. My eyes searched for drying worms, worms that had come above to appreciate the recent rain and had not made it back below the frost line before the ground grew too cold, worms whose last moments of beautiful life were trodden on by those too consumed with their own lives to watch their steps. My eyes watched the joint burn as I inhaled deeply. I passed it without glancing up, and Edie accepted it quietly.
I inspected the new tattoo on the inside of my left wrist. The delicate flower was a deep red streaked with blues and purples, but dark green vines entwined together around it like the bars of a cage. I wished it was on my left ankle and I wished it was purple and pink and white and green. I wished I had drawn the tattoo I had wanted rather than just said, “Lily flower.” I felt I was meant to get this tattoo, and I wished I had taken the time to make it perfect, but, after what happened, I wasn’t able to think properly. I simply needed to feel something other than what was repeating itself in my mind.
“I think it looks really good.” Edie’s left hand brushed my shoulder as her right hand held the joint in front of my face. I offered a weak smile and reached for my momentary release.
“Blah. We have to hurry.” Edie was checking her phone. “We don’t have a lot of time.”
Her heels clacked on the pavement loudly as she quickened her pace. I exhaled a cloud of smoke and matched her speed. I took an extra hit and then passed the joint back to Edie. Time was somehow moving too fast for my mind, perhaps because my mind was somewhere else. I wished I had thought about my actions before they got away from me. I wished I had realized the severity of the situation before it was too late. But Jessica told me it didn’t help to think about the what ifs. Jessica told me it wasn’t my fault. Jessica told me I had done nothing wrong.
“I have to hurry!” Edie’s exclamation jolted my mind from its nightmare. My eyes quickly scanned our surroundings. We were already in the bus terminal at South Station. I hadn’t even noticed that we’d entered the building. Edie was apologizing again. Edie told me she had to go; her train was at 12:20 and it was already 12:05 and she had to go all the way to the train terminal. Edie told me she couldn’t be late.
Edie lingered anyway.
I said, “It’s okay. Thanks for walking with me.”
Edie hugged me and told me she was sorry. Edie told me she could take a later train. She told me she could figure something out. If I needed her, Edie said she would wait with me, we could talk if I wanted, “we could do whatever!”
I said, “No, I’m fine. I have to go, too. I’ll talk to you after break.” I turned away. As I put my headphones in my ears, I glanced back, just for a second.
Edie had not moved. Her blue dress was shimmering, and her wet eyes were too. Her golden hair fell perfectly around her angelic face. She waved her right hand feebly in the air and then held it higher with her pinky finger pointed towards her mouth, her thumb pointed towards her ear, and her three other fingers pressed against her palm. Her smile was small and scared.
I nodded. I tried to smile, but I knew my attempt was even worse than Edie’s. Jessica told me that everything was going to be okay. Jessica told me that time makes these things easier. Jessica told me that someday this would be a faraway memory that I'd only think about if I chose to. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Someday seemed a long way away. I felt my feet take a few steps and I opened my eyes to search for somewhere to hide.
The seating of the South Station Bus Terminal had long ago been arranged into several clusters; each cluster was comprised of two 8 seat rows that were set back to back. There were a surprising number of empty seats for a Saturday afternoon just days before Christmas; the majority of the population seemed to already have traveled to their holiday destinations. I settled into a lonely seat in one of the empty clusters and looked at the screen on my iPod Classic. It was blank; I had forgotten to turn it on. I automatically pressed my thumb down on the round button in the center and proceeded to scroll through the list of song titles. My eyes stared at the screen, but my mind was somewhere else.
A man, probably in his forties, sat down next to me. I felt his eyes wandering over every inch of my body. My eyes remained on the screen in front of me, and the muscles in my chest tightened. My thumb was the only part of me that continued to move, continued to simply scroll through the list of song titles as if it had a mind of its own. Then the man leaned closer and smiled. I smelled urine and cigarettes and whiskey. I heard him ask, “Going on vacation?”
“I’m sorry?” I took the headphones out of my ears and frowned at the stranger. I wanted to ask him why he was talking to me when I was clearly giving the impression of being busy, but I’d learned never to instigate an issue when I didn’t know how the other person would react.
“You taking a trip somewhere fun?” He pointed a dirty finger at the red suitcase by my feet. I clutched my black bag to my chest.
“No,” I said. I watched a janitor sweep a dirty napkin into a dustpan and wished something would be so kind as to take me away too.
“You like coffee?”
“What?”
“Where you from?”
I knew instinctively to lie and mumbled something that could be the name of a faraway town.
“Wanna getta cup of coffee, or sumpthin?”
“I have to catch a bus.” I stood up. “I’m late.”
My bus had yet to arrive. It was scheduled to leave in 15 minutes. In the handicapped stall of the ladies restroom where no one could see me, I watched the timer on my Razr count down to zero.
I sat directly behind the driver—near the door—and stared through the closed window. I watched the trees blur into colors, and I thought about the worm I had left to die. The worm had seized the previous night’s rainfall as an opportunity to travel to a new destination, but the temperature had dropped so severely by morning the worm was trapped above the ground. No one noticed this courageous creature. No one cared about his journey to find a safe home for winter. No one recognized his curiosity to see the world above. I thought about this worm’s life, and how it had so quickly been taken away. I thought about how I could have helped him, and I promised myself I would never let a destroyed life die again.
The bus pulled to a stop in Augusta, Maine at 3:35 PM. The bus driver stood my red suitcase on its wheels, pulled the handle up, placed it in my hands, and wished me a Happy Holiday. My cheeks tensed as I forced my lips into a smile, and I averted my eyes. I mumbled my thanks, said, “You too,” and proceeded to drag my baggage away from the bus, away from the watching eyes of people.
The green leaves have fallen and dried into brown crisps, and the trees are ready to hide under white blankets. The few remaining red, yellow, and orange leaves are floating down to join their dead fellows. I think it is oddly beautiful, and I remember Autumn was once my favorite time of year.
Autumn is coming to an end. My black boots crush leaves deliberately as I wander nowhere through lonely trees. No one knows where I am. Among the tired trees and the dying leaves, I feel as though I can breathe.
But I am sad. I know I am sad, because of this feeling in my chest. Jessica told me this tightness is my body’s way of telling me I am grieving something traumatic. Jessica told me this feeling is normal for someone who has had an experience similar to mine. Jessica told me it would get better. Someday.
Jessica told me she understood why I didn’t want to go into detail about what happened during the first incident, but now the details keep replaying in my mind.
At first pain was permeating my entire body, but then something curious happened. Some part of me, perhaps my mind or my soul or perhaps something else entirely, lifted away from my physical body. Instead of hovering above to view the destruction below, however, this part of me turned and fell into his body. His being enveloped it, which allowed me only to feel what he felt and to think what he thought. I no longer felt any pain. I no longer saw the end. I felt instead a hunger, an intense hunger that needed to be satisfied. My hands groped every part of her soft, shivering flesh. As the fingers of my left hand ran lightly down her spine, my right hand slammed her face into a pillow. I thrust deep inside over and over and over again. Cries became whimpers. Jerks and kicks became twitches. My fingers played with her silky hair, wrapped around the golden strands, and pulled sharply. Her neck twisted back and her mouth gasped in the shape of a large, trembling “O.” I pulled out and grabbed her neck with both hands. Lifting her off the bed, I watched the delicate hands scramble uselessly to find purchase on the mattress, the blankets, my wrists, my hands, my arms, anything that would prevent strangulation. I released her, and she gasped one desperate breath before I grabbed her shoulder with one hand and her neck with the other. She was on her back, and I plunged deep inside once again. I watched her eyes water and then close. My lips kissed the wetness on her cheek, and my tongue tasted salt.
The ground is burning, red and orange and yellow and brown. The trees are naked. I told Edie what happened, and Edie didn’t know what to say. So I sit by myself on a rock; I am a lone castaway clinging to a grey island in the burning lake of dying leaves. I miss Lily.
I open the pack of cigarettes I had been saving and slowly remove one. I use ancient matches to light it and wish for the joint Edie and I shared just a few hours ago. I watch the match burn down until it singes my fingers. Two bottles, Shiraz and Malbec, clamor for attention at my feet. I choose to open Malbec first. Shiraz will be better when the sun sets. I take a long sip straight from the bottle and promise myself I will not leave this rock until both bottles and the pack are gone.
I promise myself I will do better in the future.
He told me I drove him crazy. He got into my dorm room even when the door was locked. He wouldn’t leave even when I begged him to “please, please go away.”
Sometimes I have nightmares. He kidnaps me. He hurts me, and his friends help him. There is no one who will help me. I am handcuffed. I am bound. I am bleeding. I am crying. I am curled up into a ball. I am dying. I am broken. I am running. I am trapped. Sometimes I cannot sleep. I turn the lights on when the sun disappears.
I light another cigarette and watch the dying sun burn the dying leaves. I clutch the bottle with both hands and wish I could stay here forever.
I wanted to speak and was really planning to do so, but when they asked me to state my name for the record, I could barely breathe. I looked at my black
boots. I looked at the tape recorder in the center of the table. I looked at the door. I mumbled, and the sound “Ro” might have escaped my lips. I wasn’t sure. I looked at Jessica. Jessica nodded and gave me a small smile. I drew circles and lines in my notebook. I wrote some things down. Jessica spoke for me.I had forgotten what his voice sounded like. It was defensive. It was stupid. It was angry and mean and loud. Dark and still not entirely healed, the tattoo on my wrist suddenly became very interesting. It wasn’t a Lily, or it wasn’t only a Lily, and that made me angry. The guy had told me he knew what he was doing.
I looked up, just once. My eyes met the eyes of the commissioner, and, for a second, nothing existed but the two of us. In his eyes I saw compassion. In his eyes I saw safety. In my eyes I believe he saw the truth. Then my hair fell in front of my face and shielded my fear.
Afterwards, Jessica told me that I “did an excellent job,” that I was “very brave,” and that “most hearings go that way.”
“He denied it,” I said. I felt small and weak and stupid. “He denied both nights.”
“He already admitted to damaging your things, and that's a start. You did really well, Rose. I am proud of you. You have been so brave…”
Jessica’s lips continued to move, but my brain could not fathom how she thought I was brave or why she was proud of me.
Jessica asked me if she could walk me anywhere, and I told Jessica I was fine. My friend, Edie, was meeting me at Plaza Park and walking me to my bus. I told Jessica I was fine and would talk to her after the break. I told Jessica that Edie and I were going to get coffee or something and talk about it—“yes, I have told her; yes, she is supportive; yes, I can talk to her.” I thanked Jessica for her help. Jessica wished me a “Merry Christmas,” and we parted ways. Jessica went down the stairs and out of the building to do more important things. I went to the bathroom and threw up.
The sun is setting, and the trees are asleep. The ground is cold, and the leaves are dead. The world is dying, and my pack of cigarettes is running low. I gulp my wine and close my eyes. I wish for water. I wish for light. I wish to start again. I wish that I had never felt the burn of alcohol or inhaled this death by nicotine. I wish that I were dead. I wish that I had never been born. I wish that Lily was here. She always knew what to do. I wish that I had never told Edie or Jessica or anyone else. I wish that it had never happened.
After it happened, I almost could not open my eyes. I wanted to keep them shut forever. With my eyes closed, everything was quiet. In the blackness, I felt no pain. I felt nothing. I tried to stay in the nothing, to fight the feelings and thoughts creeping back into my mind, but then, I felt or heard him above me. He was so apologetic at first. He felt terrible. I heard him crying, sniveling in fear and stupidity. He repeated that he was “sorry, so sorry” so many times that I hated the word. I never wanted to hear it again. I felt wetness on my cheeks—were they his tears or my own? I opened my eyes and looked into his miserable face one last time.
Broken glasses and dishes covered the floor. The bookshelf where they had previously resided was on its side. The other bookshelf was broken in three; the back had been torn off completely. DVDs were scattered, cracked, and broken. I didn’t want to think about what had happened to my books. My favorite picture, the only one I had framed so the only one that could be broken, was lying in a pool of wine. One bottle had been thrown against the wall, and a second had been smashed on the floor. The dark red substance soaked into the dresses and skirts and pants that had been hanging in my closet less than an hour before. My fridge lay helplessly overturned, and its slightly ajar door reached out for help. The pumpkin I had so painstakingly painted for Halloween had been thrown into a wall, and it was lying dead and oozing rotten guts in a corner. The bed, which had been lifted up and slammed back down, was now in the center of the room.
I gently picked up the picture frame, and glass tinkled to the floor. Wine streamed onto my hands and down my wrists and arms like blood. I sank to the floor and my knees reddened from the wine, but that wasn’t what bothered me. I removed a piece of glass from the frame and looked at the younger version of myself. 8 year old Rose held her big sister’s hand as they stood behind their perfect puppy and smiled big for the camera. My finger lightly touched the chocolate Labrador, and I missed my darling Lily.
The only things in my room that were not damaged or broken beyond repair were on my desk and dresser. On the desk, some papers and books lay untouched next to my Mac Book, and my dusty TV stood unnoticed on my dresser. He did not get a chance to destroy them, because I was in the way.
Touching the bruises on the back of my head made me feel dizzy, so I left them alone. They made me think of that night when he finally enacted his fantasies and then would not leave my bed, so I tried to forget that they were there.
But I couldn’t. My fingers were red from something other than wine. I needed to do something. What was it? I couldn’t remember how to think. My eyelids were heavy armor covering my eyes. I could not see, but, in the darkness, it was easier to hear.
I heard them in the hall. I heard them talking about me.
“Dude, that’s bad; that’s really bad,” still echoes in my mind at night.
It is dark. My left hand touches two spots on the back of my head as my right hand jabs the last cigarette into the rock’s face. I immediately regret hurting the rock and feel bad for the dead leaves when the cigarette stub lands with its fellows among them. I picture Edie, with her sad blue dress and confused countenance, quietly waiting for me to return. I think of my sister, far, far away from this madness with a new boyfriend and travel and adventure. I think of Lily, the only one who knows how to listen but no longer can, and suddenly I feel the magnitude of the forest. I sit on my tiny rock in the endless sea of leaves and look at the stars far above. The air is cold and smells like winter. I smell like cigarettes and wine. It is dark, and no one knows where I am.
Belly, your story was most enjoyable,and very enlightening about the persistence of lawn mowers and corduroy.
I thought the final paragraph was especially fine.
Oops! I'm late again! Sorry about that, but I thought I had a couple more days. Will try to get my story in by tomorrow night! Time flies.
Grey Lynn is a swanky neighborhood these days so the supermarket is a good place to perform. It has lots of expensive organic foods and even a café inside. They have a few seats and tables set up in front of the car park for customers to drink coffee. It attracts the kind of people who will appreciate a busker like myself. I have a good relationship with the supermarket manger. He lets me setup with my guitar on the weekends. I have a fold out chair rather than a stool that I need for back support. I slipped a disk a few years back you see, so its hard work sitting straight and playing for hours on end. I usually face out towards the chairs and tables and lay out the guitar case in front for tips.
I have quite a little following these days; people come down and listen after their weekend sleep-in. I guess it's a nice way to start your day. Occasionally I get requests, but I prefer to stick to my own selection, otherwise, I just end up playing the Beatles or Bob Marley songs all day. I can do classical and a little flamenco but nothing flashy, I am no Paco Du Lucia, but I know my way around the instrument. I have a Jose Ramirez guitar, the anniversary edition – yeah I know what you are thinking, if somebody found out they could mug me and live off the profits for a year, but I am a great believer that a good instrument should be played, rather than kept on a mantelpiece. Besides it's the last expensive thing I still have.
Most of the people who listen to my music appreciate what I do, but occasionally I get someone who wants to rain on my parade. Like this lady last weekend who walked past with her shopping and told me to stop begging for charity and get a real job. She told me it was bad enough that her tax money went on my welfare payments. I didn’t have so say anything; one of my audience members stood up and gave her an earful. Comments like hers don’t surprise me anymore. I know she looks at me and sees this brown skinned guy with a ponytail and assumes he’s getting a handout from the government. It would probably surprise her to know that my investments earn more interest in a week than her and her husband make in a year, but I am not bragging about that kind of stuff, that’s not what I am about anymore.
Today I begin my performance slow, just moving up and down the major scales for 3 or 4 minutes, like I am still a beginner or something, it always gets people enticed and gives me time to get a feel for the mood and decide what I want to play. This morning I am in the mood for something from Havana, so I rummage around the fret board for the chords, it would sound better with vocals, but I don’t sing.
A couple sits down in front of me, and when they catch my eye they smile and nod. Armed with lattes they chat quietly and bob their heads as I play. They come most weekends now. They are in their late thirties and don’t have a family yet, I recognize the absence etched on their faces, it’s a feeling I am familiar with. Next to the couple sits an older man, with white hair that flows in waves around his head. He is also a regular. I like him, he always gets totally absorbed in the music; he gives his full attention. I think he knows about my guitar, but he never says anything, just grins and sways his folded arms to the rhythm.
When I am playing I like to smile and survey my audience and take in the smells of the coffee, pastries and fresh bread that waft by with the people coming in and out of the supermarket. I need to keep my eyes on the guitar’s fret board for the more tricky melodies and it’s just as I am finishing one of these trick parts that from the corner of my eye I catch sight of someone in the seat behind the old guy. She is dressed in a pink dress and light blue cardigan. When I look up the seat is empty. But, that feeling of being watched remains. Her eyes scour my thoughts as I play.
I remember the dress and cardigan well enough because that was what she was wondering on her last day, she was only 6 at the time. She was my daughter and I would like to tell you that she is sitting there with a smile on her face watching her daddy play music, but I am not so sure.
So what kind of dad was I? Not the worst, but you could say there was plenty of room for improvement. It’s kind of a long story and I don’t really want to bore you with the details so the short of it is this; I was the first and only kid from my family to leave our small town for the city to attend college. I am from New Zealand, and if you haven’t heard of it well you can be sure it south of wherever you are.
I had a head for numbers and a way with words and after I finished school I found myself in New York making my fortune as an investment banker. I fell for this pretty American girl; you know one of those high society types like on the TV soaps. We started a family and for a while it was going well. Then I tried to bring them home. Well, Auckland is not New York and it didn’t take long for my wife to figure out that it wasn’t for her. It takes a certain type of women to leave their own child, but that's a whole other story, anyhow it ended up being just my girl, Lucile and me.
I keep my eyes on the chair as I play hoping for a glimpse of Lucile’s face, its not enough for me to know she is here with me, I need to see her expression and her eyes and get a gauge for the feelings that hang on them. What does she thinks of her old man now? That’s what guilt does to you. It stirs up all your mistakes and slowly pours those memories like a waterfall in front of your eyes. A few tears well on my eyelids so I scrunch them up tight and pretend I am really feeling the music.
I admit that I was a little on the selfish side. I hoarded companies and broke them like piggy banks for the money inside. For Lucile I tried to do all the things I figured you are supposed to do. I got a nanny on the weekdays, sent her to a nice school and all that. I never used to get near my guitar in those days, except for the odd occasion when I would play for Lucile. Once she was old enough she used to accompany me singing, she had a good voice. I remember once she drew a picture at school of her daddy playing guitar. I would like to think that she remembers me that way, but then I remember all those other weekends when I would sit her down with Chinese takeaways in front of the TV and finish work in the office. She didn’t complain too much, she was a good kid. So now maybe you get why I am always trying to peek at that face that's watching, to see if she is smiling or frowning.
I turn to the rest of my audience and realize that my playing has got a little emotional, a bit too much blues and they look kinda sad and a little shocked, so I do a flamenco strum on my guitar, and launch into The Girl From Ipanema, feigning smiles at the older women as they walk by. This seems to pick the audience up again.
I was driving her up North, for a weekend trip when we were hit. She was gone in an instant. I walked away with barely a scratch. After the accident I gave up my job and sold most of my stuff. Now I spend a few hours a week managing a few investments, and the rest of my time doing charity work, mostly helping young street kids. I have got back into my guitar playing and when I perform I always get that feeling of being watched. The first time I caught a glimpse of that figure sitting in the chair I thought I saw a frown. That look always reminds me of the kind of dad I was and so I try harder each day to give a little more. As the weeks go by and I collect more glimpses of her face I’ve come to think that her expression reminds me of that painting The Mona Lisa.
I finish my set for the day, pack up my guitar take the money I have earned and put it in the tip jar for the frontline stuff at the supermarket. I know those kids don’t get paid much, i doesn’t matter how swanky the neighborhood those kind of businesses always pay the same. I walk out of the supermarket with my guitar case and pass the chairs, and from the corner of my eye I catch her face, and I think to myself she could almost be smiling.
I have quite a little following these days; people come down and listen after their weekend sleep-in. I guess it's a nice way to start your day. Occasionally I get requests, but I prefer to stick to my own selection, otherwise, I just end up playing the Beatles or Bob Marley songs all day. I can do classical and a little flamenco but nothing flashy, I am no Paco Du Lucia, but I know my way around the instrument. I have a Jose Ramirez guitar, the anniversary edition – yeah I know what you are thinking, if somebody found out they could mug me and live off the profits for a year, but I am a great believer that a good instrument should be played, rather than kept on a mantelpiece. Besides it's the last expensive thing I still have.
Most of the people who listen to my music appreciate what I do, but occasionally I get someone who wants to rain on my parade. Like this lady last weekend who walked past with her shopping and told me to stop begging for charity and get a real job. She told me it was bad enough that her tax money went on my welfare payments. I didn’t have so say anything; one of my audience members stood up and gave her an earful. Comments like hers don’t surprise me anymore. I know she looks at me and sees this brown skinned guy with a ponytail and assumes he’s getting a handout from the government. It would probably surprise her to know that my investments earn more interest in a week than her and her husband make in a year, but I am not bragging about that kind of stuff, that’s not what I am about anymore.
Today I begin my performance slow, just moving up and down the major scales for 3 or 4 minutes, like I am still a beginner or something, it always gets people enticed and gives me time to get a feel for the mood and decide what I want to play. This morning I am in the mood for something from Havana, so I rummage around the fret board for the chords, it would sound better with vocals, but I don’t sing.
A couple sits down in front of me, and when they catch my eye they smile and nod. Armed with lattes they chat quietly and bob their heads as I play. They come most weekends now. They are in their late thirties and don’t have a family yet, I recognize the absence etched on their faces, it’s a feeling I am familiar with. Next to the couple sits an older man, with white hair that flows in waves around his head. He is also a regular. I like him, he always gets totally absorbed in the music; he gives his full attention. I think he knows about my guitar, but he never says anything, just grins and sways his folded arms to the rhythm.
When I am playing I like to smile and survey my audience and take in the smells of the coffee, pastries and fresh bread that waft by with the people coming in and out of the supermarket. I need to keep my eyes on the guitar’s fret board for the more tricky melodies and it’s just as I am finishing one of these trick parts that from the corner of my eye I catch sight of someone in the seat behind the old guy. She is dressed in a pink dress and light blue cardigan. When I look up the seat is empty. But, that feeling of being watched remains. Her eyes scour my thoughts as I play.
I remember the dress and cardigan well enough because that was what she was wondering on her last day, she was only 6 at the time. She was my daughter and I would like to tell you that she is sitting there with a smile on her face watching her daddy play music, but I am not so sure.
So what kind of dad was I? Not the worst, but you could say there was plenty of room for improvement. It’s kind of a long story and I don’t really want to bore you with the details so the short of it is this; I was the first and only kid from my family to leave our small town for the city to attend college. I am from New Zealand, and if you haven’t heard of it well you can be sure it south of wherever you are.
I had a head for numbers and a way with words and after I finished school I found myself in New York making my fortune as an investment banker. I fell for this pretty American girl; you know one of those high society types like on the TV soaps. We started a family and for a while it was going well. Then I tried to bring them home. Well, Auckland is not New York and it didn’t take long for my wife to figure out that it wasn’t for her. It takes a certain type of women to leave their own child, but that's a whole other story, anyhow it ended up being just my girl, Lucile and me.
I keep my eyes on the chair as I play hoping for a glimpse of Lucile’s face, its not enough for me to know she is here with me, I need to see her expression and her eyes and get a gauge for the feelings that hang on them. What does she thinks of her old man now? That’s what guilt does to you. It stirs up all your mistakes and slowly pours those memories like a waterfall in front of your eyes. A few tears well on my eyelids so I scrunch them up tight and pretend I am really feeling the music.
I admit that I was a little on the selfish side. I hoarded companies and broke them like piggy banks for the money inside. For Lucile I tried to do all the things I figured you are supposed to do. I got a nanny on the weekdays, sent her to a nice school and all that. I never used to get near my guitar in those days, except for the odd occasion when I would play for Lucile. Once she was old enough she used to accompany me singing, she had a good voice. I remember once she drew a picture at school of her daddy playing guitar. I would like to think that she remembers me that way, but then I remember all those other weekends when I would sit her down with Chinese takeaways in front of the TV and finish work in the office. She didn’t complain too much, she was a good kid. So now maybe you get why I am always trying to peek at that face that's watching, to see if she is smiling or frowning.
I turn to the rest of my audience and realize that my playing has got a little emotional, a bit too much blues and they look kinda sad and a little shocked, so I do a flamenco strum on my guitar, and launch into The Girl From Ipanema, feigning smiles at the older women as they walk by. This seems to pick the audience up again.
I was driving her up North, for a weekend trip when we were hit. She was gone in an instant. I walked away with barely a scratch. After the accident I gave up my job and sold most of my stuff. Now I spend a few hours a week managing a few investments, and the rest of my time doing charity work, mostly helping young street kids. I have got back into my guitar playing and when I perform I always get that feeling of being watched. The first time I caught a glimpse of that figure sitting in the chair I thought I saw a frown. That look always reminds me of the kind of dad I was and so I try harder each day to give a little more. As the weeks go by and I collect more glimpses of her face I’ve come to think that her expression reminds me of that painting The Mona Lisa.
I finish my set for the day, pack up my guitar take the money I have earned and put it in the tip jar for the frontline stuff at the supermarket. I know those kids don’t get paid much, i doesn’t matter how swanky the neighborhood those kind of businesses always pay the same. I walk out of the supermarket with my guitar case and pass the chairs, and from the corner of my eye I catch her face, and I think to myself she could almost be smiling.
Title: Swaying At The Cactus BallroomWords: 974
The moon was halfway to full on that biting autumn night when Eddie Turner entered the Cactus Ballroom. He had not expected to fall in love that evening, the tickets were free after all, but despite himself, the cooing of the wet-haired girl on stage had him dead panned and stricken with arrows from Cupid.
Inside the ballroom, which was more a club than anything, teens and rebellious youths danced and bandied about as the songstress crooned her way through songs and melodies. She swayed, she danced, and she clapped her hands and thumped her tiny feet to the rhythm. Her voice echoed within the ballroom and Eddie felt it wrap around him like a coat. He joyed in the swooning of her tunes and felt her lyrics ingrain within his soul. Her mascara ran, trickling away with her emotions and she had wild red hair that she whipped around sending bits of sweat streaming into the crowd.
Eddie eyed the performance with awe. He inched forward as she continued her set and found himself in a trance that compelled him to keep his eyes locked upon her. He knew she was working the crowd, lifting their spirits, grooming them for a big finish before the headliner hit the stage, and yet, Eddie hoped that she would catch a glimpse of him mesmerized. He hoped he would lock eyes with her and never let go.
Red lights sprawled against the ancient walls of the old club, flashing symbols and odd logos of the band. The girl on stage continued to emit the soothing sounds of her raspy, beyond her years voice. She asked the crowd to join in a song, she encouraged them to clap their hands, and she demanded that they fall in love and share the love with those around them.
“Pull out your soul! Plant it, and watch it grow,” she chanted.
The crowd swirled around Eddie as he watched on, entranced.
He felt the vibrations of the bass, the thrill of the high notes, and the thump of the footsteps on the wooden floors. He hoped she would find him there, solitary like a lighthouse in the middle of a thrashing ocean. She would look in his direction, he hoped, she would find him there and they would belong to each other for the forever time to come.
With a bellow and a powerful fist, the siren at the top of the stage addressed the crowd one last time.
“Thank you for coming tonight. We were very happy to be here in USA for our tour. This is our last show here, and tomorrow we go back to France to record a new record,” her voice, sultry and distinct, hid her accent well throughout her songs.
Eddie stood crushed, he watched as she timed off the band for the final number. He watched, eyes stretching for her, arms hanging slack and useless, as she wet her lips and took the microphone. Her eyes remained closed as she let loose a wave of words and, as if it was destined, she eyed Eddie, pointed at him, and grinned.
The young man’s hair stood up and he became weak in the legs. He wanted to rush up and kiss her right there on stage, but if he took one step he knew he would sink into the wooden floor like it was snow. His heart raced and his mind flustered.
He panicked hoping to make one last dash for the girl as she finished the song and blew kisses in his direction.
With his body and mind refusing to react, Eddie pulled from deep within himself to wake his extremities and run to meet the girl, if only to grasp her hand or thank her for the music.
A full bottle of water dumped upon Eddie’s head and he felt his body awaken. He gathered himself and watched as the beautiful, wet-haired, French girl walked off stage with her band. Eddie had missed so many chances in his life, that he would make the best of this and began to rush to the stage until he felt the mammoth, gorilla-like grip of a monster upon the back of his neck.
“Been watching you all night, buddy,” came a voice. It was a large, gruff man in a yellow shirt that read, SECURITY.
“I didn’t do anything,” Eddie insisted, his eyes still seeking out the wet-haired girl.
“I knew you were planning some scheme, standing there all in a daze. I was watching you the whole time, couldn’t you tell? You high or just drunk? Either way, you’re out!”
Eddie struggled, but the strength as well as the size of Mr. Security was comparable to that of a Titan. Eddie struggled a bit more until another “savior in yellow” picked up his legs and aided his mindless comrade in escorting the young man outside.
Eddie felt the cool chill of the autumn night against his skin and it bit even harder as he realized his body had become soaked with sweat.
“Don’t come back here tonight, pal,” said one of the gatekeepers.
Eddie watched as the EXIT door slammed shut and he was left between stonewalls and the shining of the street lamps. He walked down the alley in a daze.
The young man felt his emotions drain and collapsed in the alley just a few steps from the EXIT door.
He put his head into his hands and rested it between his knees. He heard the door slam shut again, but didn’t bother to look up. A few footsteps later came a nudge to his right boot.
“Hey, do you have a cigarette,” asked a soothing, sultry voice. It echoed in the intimacy of the alley. Eddie recognized it immediately and rose to his feet.
Wow, some great stories here! I did have an idea a few days ago, but, well, that's no good to me now :P
LoL!Type fast. It's still only 10pm pacific. You have at least a couple of hours. At least that's what I'm doing.
Who will be my Zellweger?by Guy Duperreault ~900 words.
The coffee was dark and bitter. And hot. It had been on the hot plate for far too long to really be drinkable, but I forced it into me anyway. I hoped it would be able to carry me forward, past this writer's block I would seem to be experiencing.
Well, that or perhaps a real, albeit slightly premature, midlife crisis. Odd, that that phrase has fallen from out of the popularity it had once had. I smiled. Most likely, I thought, that's because the majority of the baby boomers have now gone on to needing viagra jokes instead. More money to be made there,now, than in encouraging an overly stressed and diminishing work force to go on medical leave or, God forbid it, take early retirement!
I grabbed one of the stale sugared donuts to lighten the coffee before heading back to my 'office'. It was dry and sweet and helped the coffee help me.
I walked around the corner of the desk, as I have almost everyday for the last seven years. But today the framed mock newspaper front page in the picture frame caught my eye. I laughed. I had been given it as a kind of graduation present from my journalism classmates. I re-read the mock headline: "Jackson 'POTTY MOUTH' Bush wins Pulitzer!" It was a mock homage to my college nickname, Jake La Bouche. The irony of this being my nickname despite my notoriety coming from the pen was part of the joke. Well, it seemed funny at the time.
I took another sip of coffee. It really was vile. Another bite of stale. It really was vile, too.
With a sigh I turned away to sit at my desk and face the anything but blank computer screen. Beyond the screen I had a clear view of the rest of the office. I swear I saw more than one of my co-workers turn their faces away from me as I looked out. I hated this open concept shit. I am sure that it is just a scam on the part of the senior managers to reduce the cost of giving people real offices, I thought, as have many times before. And I wondered, not for the first time, which of those smiling backstabbers had their eye on my job. The office was preternaturally quiet, and I expect they all had heard Blue threatening me with my job.
I looked at the screen, and opened the document I have been struggling with. I forced my eyes to read what I've written, but the words were not registering as anything. Not even gibberish, just nothing. So I started a new one, a blank computer page, a fresh start, a new beginning, but then my fingers went still. I thought 'I've got that sinking feeling…' and all I could here was Annie Lennox in my head.
Then I thought of "Would I lie to you?!" and immediately browsed to YouTube and started listening to the song that I considered the mantra to this job. But no sooner was I chilling out, then the office's chatter tool boinked me back to my computer. Reality.
I looked at the clock. I had lost 12 minutes of my 59 minute hour. I saw that the chatter-boinker was Blue. 'Asshole' it said. 'Get writing! I'm watching you. ;-\'
At one time, even yesterday, most likely, that would have been funny. I would have responded with some clever quip. Now I was mute. Dumb and mute. And I didn't find it funny. There were the destroyed families of the kids on that bus.
Before I responded I got boinked again:
: —> u. [Neologizing emoticons? I thought. We've come to that, have we, Janey!?]
:-) [,I typed.]
??
I'm getting there. [I lied.]
Let me see it.
Not yet. Not ready.
:-( You have 30 minutes.
I closed the chat window. I grabbed my coffee and rotated the chair to look outside. The sky was filled with large thick clouds, but there were still patches of blue between the dark rain heavy clouds. The earth has swallowed those kids, I thought, and the sun and cloud continue their dance as if nothing had happened.
I sipped my coffee. What of that?
I turned to the computer. I wrote.
Today the earth capriciously swallowed without apparent thought or remorse thirty six of our community's youth. The sun shines, the clouds glower and tonight the moon will be waxing or waning or whatever it is that it is going to be doing tonight.I sipped the lukewarm bitter joe. Was this a Jerry Maguire? I sipped my coffee. Who would see that? I wondered. Who would see me? Who in this so-called open office will be open enough to be my Zellweger? I wanted to hope that Janey would, but couldn't seem to bring myself to do it.
Today I was to write an eye and ear catching quip to succinctly capture the feeling of this tragedy while respecting the death of these people. That is what I do. Did do. Turn tragedy into a thinly disguised joke.
But there is a distinction between stoic acceptance that life consumes life, in an endless spiral of death, and disrespecting that process. Now I realize that I have not been respecting the death that life is. And so, it is with some relief that as of today La Bouche est fermée.
I felt alone. It was not without my appreciating the irony of it that I clicked [submit] as the fifty-nine minutes had just about finished counting down.
Guy wrote: "LoL!
Type fast. It's still only 10pm pacific. You have at least a couple of hours. At least that's what I'm doing."
That is a relief, I was typing furiously last night to finish, - its already 5pm on the 24th in Hong Kong!
Type fast. It's still only 10pm pacific. You have at least a couple of hours. At least that's what I'm doing."
That is a relief, I was typing furiously last night to finish, - its already 5pm on the 24th in Hong Kong!
Chris wrote: "Guy wrote: "LoL!
Type fast. It's still only 10pm pacific. You have at least a couple of hours. At least that's what I'm doing."
That is a relief, I was typing furiously last night to finish, - it..."
Right, at least that gives us more lead time? or not? Since we would always be ahead of the deadline :))
Type fast. It's still only 10pm pacific. You have at least a couple of hours. At least that's what I'm doing."
That is a relief, I was typing furiously last night to finish, - it..."
Right, at least that gives us more lead time? or not? Since we would always be ahead of the deadline :))
Leslie wrote: "Chris wrote: "Guy wrote: "LoL!
Type fast. It's still only 10pm pacific. You have at least a couple of hours. At least that's what I'm doing."
That is a relief, I was typing furiously last night to..."
I guess its kind of like having your watch set fast, it gives you more time if you go by the time on your watch, but if you start thinking, "my watch is fast, I have more time!'', your lead time can dwindle :)
Type fast. It's still only 10pm pacific. You have at least a couple of hours. At least that's what I'm doing."
That is a relief, I was typing furiously last night to..."
I guess its kind of like having your watch set fast, it gives you more time if you go by the time on your watch, but if you start thinking, "my watch is fast, I have more time!'', your lead time can dwindle :)
Chris wrote: "Leslie wrote: "Chris wrote: "Guy wrote: "LoL!
Type fast. It's still only 10pm pacific. You have at least a couple of hours. At least that's what I'm doing."
That is a relief, I was typing furiousl..."
Lol! Yes, that's true. So, just to be safe and to spare myself of the dwindling lead time and computing time difference, I'd follow the time here :))
Type fast. It's still only 10pm pacific. You have at least a couple of hours. At least that's what I'm doing."
That is a relief, I was typing furiousl..."
Lol! Yes, that's true. So, just to be safe and to spare myself of the dwindling lead time and computing time difference, I'd follow the time here :))
I don't want to appear eager to vote, but are the polls up? :))
Saturday night...very long week...finally finished work...just opened a beer...and now to read all these great submissions :)
On the way home, I read Belly’s “The Invisible Expert.” In its way, it reminds me of “The Prisoner,” a TV show called was on when I was a kid. The episodes were intriguing, but I couldn’t make heads or tails of them.Madeline’s “Cigarettes and Wine” unsettlingly takes the reader into the world of a college girl who has been savagely raped by a man who then wrecks her apartment. When, with the encouragement of a friend, she reports the assault, it becomes apparent just how little recourse she has, and how defenseless she is. In a state of shock and fear, her self-esteem shattered, she flees by bus and seems likely to wind up among the homeless.
This is a difficult story to comment on because it’s complex and is more in the way of what Laurence Perrine calls interpretive literature. It isn’t written so much to offer the reader escape as to give the reader an insight into the human condition. I found the main character’s situation every bit as unnerving, as horrifying, as the writer no doubt intends; I was left with the disquieting feeling that what happens to Rose in the story happens to countless women in a world in which women are still essentially second-class citizens and men can victimize them with impunity.
Leslie’s “The Price of Glamour” explores the fate of a film star who loses her mind after being stalked. The story left me pondering a potential connection between the vacuity of stardom and the worsening of what, for Laura, was likely a mental instability she had previously found ways to compensate for.
In Tim’s “Speech Day,” I can’t tell whether the unnamed narrator has blown up the world or has simply sought refuge from the world’s extroversion only to find himself a victim of his own internal babbling. This is an interesting story, with lively, engaging writing!
Thanks M! You just gave me an idea :)
Leslie wrote: " The Price of Glamour By: Leslie (933 words - open to critique)
Fear.
The feeling would set in once I open my eyes. The feeling would inch under my skin, leaving gooseflesh in its wake until I ..."
Hi Leslie what a surprise ending and I found your story very well written.
Lavana wrote: "Leslie wrote: " The Price of Glamour
By: Leslie (933 words - open to critique)
Fear.
The feeling would set in once I open my eyes. The feeling would inch under my skin, leaving gooseflesh in it..."
Thank you :)
By: Leslie (933 words - open to critique)
Fear.
The feeling would set in once I open my eyes. The feeling would inch under my skin, leaving gooseflesh in it..."
Thank you :)
The Price of Glamour by Leslie.Great idea for the theme: the ambivalence of wanting to be noticed and the dread of being stalked. The first person narration is a great voice for this kind of story, and it had a great twist.
With your use of first person voice you have given yourself the extremely difficult challenge of tense. I will make one suggestion, at your request. Eliminate all the 'woulds' and 'coulds' being used to set the time. Here's what I mean:
No one understood my fear of being watched. Every time it swaddled me, left me immobile. I went through panic, dread and despair.
How could they understand when I was once a famous Hollywood actress? The thought might have been inconceivable for others since I loved being under the spotlight. I loved the glitz and glamour, the parties, the adoring fans and whatnot.
Speech Day by Tim.
I loved the irony in this. The meek getting, ostensibly, what s/he wants, but at the expense of the population of humans. Humorous and well told.
Betrayal by Kim.
[Aside: Kim, are you using the * to mark text to represent her thoughts? A more common approach is to italicize the text, using the html coding to do that.] A strongly told story. It left me wanting to know more of Adora and Jess and the society they are in.
The Invisibility Expert by Belly Peterson
Belly, this is expertly told. A brilliant social comment and satire!
Cigarettes and Wine by Madeline Lund
Powerfully and emotionally told. The first person voice was expertly done, and the manner of the story unfolding re-enforced the emotional turmoil of Rose's experience of being raped and then enduring the investigative process afterwards. Even the over identification with the lives of worms, rocks and dead leaves contributed to the power of the emotional upheaval Rose was experiencing, as it reflected her displacing the trauma.
Grey Lynn by Chris.
I enjoyed this quiet tale that emphasizes the importance of living in the now, and how it humorously comments on the danger of judging books by covers.
Swaying At The Cactus Ballroom by Gary
Fun and an amusing take on the theme.
Well done, everyone! And thank you for sharing your stories. This will be another tough week to vote for just one.
Thank you Guy! I'll take note of that :)
Thank you for the comments Guy and M! I appreciate the feedback. And Guy, you are right. Choosing just one story is difficult...
Please post directly into the topic and not a link. Please don’t use a story previously used in this group.
Your story should be between 300 and 3,500 words long.
REMEMBER! A short story is NOT a scene. It MUST have a BEGINNING, MIDDLE, and END.
This week’s topic is: A Feeling of Being Watched.
The rules are pretty loose. You can write a story about anything that has to do with the topic. I do not care, but the story you post must relate to the topic somehow.
Have fun!