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message 1: by Wes, Moderator (last edited Aug 25, 2016 01:41PM) (new)

Wes (pricerightbooks) | 473 comments Mod
The game works like this...
I will start a sentence and everyone start adding a random sentence until we have created a story.
Kind of like a choose your own adventure.
Copy the sentence or phrase ahead of your own and add your own.

Example:

My name is Wesley.

My name is Wesley. I hate shredded coconut.

So forth and so on.
Happy writing and be creative.
UPDATE:
When I say creative I don't mean clockwork orange I mean be creative but follow the story line.


message 2: by Wes, Moderator (last edited Aug 25, 2016 01:41PM) (new)

Wes (pricerightbooks) | 473 comments Mod
The sun was bearing down on Richard as he tried to hitch a ride.


message 3: by Beth (last edited Aug 25, 2016 01:41PM) (new)

Beth (Lillybeth) The sun was bearing down on Richard as he tried to hitch a ride. He knew his hopes were slim when Johnson's Dairy left him on this stretch of road at 4:00 am, and his back felt the strain from standing all morning.


message 4: by [deleted user] (new)

The sun was bearing down on Richard as he tried to hitch a ride. He knew his hopes were slim when Johnson's Dairy left him on this stretch of road at 4:00 am, and his back felt the strain from standing all morning.
To pass time he practiced holding his breath. Was he taking being "carbon neutral" too far?


message 5: by Shari (last edited Aug 25, 2016 01:42PM) (new)

Shari | 9 comments The sun was bearing down on Richard as he tried to hitch a ride. He knew his hopes were slim when Johnson's Dairy left him on this stretch of road at 4:00 am, and his back felt the strain from standing all morning.
To pass time he practiced holding his breath. Was he taking being "carbon neutral" too far? After much practicing he decided to have a party and use this technique for a contest. But one thing he couldnt find was the people to party with. What could he do to attract a crowd he wondered.


message 6: by Lisa (last edited Aug 25, 2016 01:42PM) (new)

Lisa | 42 comments The sun was bearing down on Richard as he tried to hitch a ride. He knew his hopes were slim when Johnson's Dairy left him on this stretch of road at 4:00a.m, and his back felt the strain from standing all morning.
To pass time he practiced holding his breath. Was he taking being "carbon neutral" too far? After much practicing he decided to have a party and use this technique for a contest. But one thing he couldn't find was the people to party with. What could he do to attract a crowd he wondered.
Richard finally managed to hitch a ride with a passing trucker who brought him to a nearby diner which; according to the sign; stayed open all night, and had service with a smile.


message 7: by Robert (last edited Aug 25, 2016 01:42PM) (new)

Robert (rgbatduke) [Suggesting we not all block copy the previous text as it will lead to problems with the 8000 character limit soon enough...]

In the diner a tired-eyed waitress brought him bad coffee and a plate of rubbery eggs and greasy bacon. As he choked down this miserable excuse for a meal, he saw a pair of burly guys wearing stained coveralls enter the diner and nervously make their way over to the carryout counter and cash register. One had a strange looking tatoo on his cheek, the other was carrying a wadded up jacket under his arm.


message 8: by Meghan (last edited Aug 25, 2016 01:42PM) (new)

Meghan One had a strange looking tatoo on his cheek, the other was carrying a wadded up jacket under his arm.

As Richard sipped the last remains of the muck they called called coffee, he stared absent-mindedly at the tatoo. It had a vaguely familiar feel to it.


message 9: by Wes, Moderator (last edited Aug 25, 2016 01:42PM) (new)

Wes (pricerightbooks) | 473 comments Mod
As Richard sipped the last remains of the muck they called called coffee, he stared absent-mindedly at the tattoo. It had a vaguely familiar feel to it.

He began to imagine and daydream of his past. The tattoo reminded him of his brother Joey who went off to the military, never to return.


message 10: by Sarah (last edited Aug 25, 2016 01:42PM) (new)

Sarah (songgirl7) He began to imagine and daydream of his past. The tattoo reminded him of his brother Joey who went off to the military, never to return.
Suddenly, a shot rang out [sorry, couldn't resist], rousing Richard from his reverie. The man with the wadded-up jacket had produced a gun.


message 11: by Lori (last edited Aug 25, 2016 01:42PM) (new)

Lori (TNBBC) The man with the wadded-up jacket had produced a gun.

The woman behind the register screamed and threw her hands into the air. Plaster from the shot to the ceiling fell to the floor.


message 12: by Robert (last edited Aug 25, 2016 01:42PM) (new)

Robert (rgbatduke) Spewing coffee all over the remains of sodden eggs, Richard's hand instinctively stabbed to his side, seeking the 357 Magnum that he had lived with ever since he left -- his previous employer.


message 13: by Sarah (last edited Aug 25, 2016 01:42PM) (new)

Sarah (songgirl7) Spewing coffee all over the remains of sodden eggs, Richard's hand instinctively stabbed to his side, seeking the 357 Magnum that he had lived with ever since he left -- his previous employer.

To Richard's horror, the holster was empty.


message 14: by Shari (last edited Aug 25, 2016 01:42PM) (new)

Shari | 9 comments He began to wonder how did the fellow get his gun. Why didnt he notice him taking it from the holster? Or did he really shoot the gun and the guy took it from him?


message 15: by Lori (last edited Aug 25, 2016 01:42PM) (new)

Lori (TNBBC) He shook his head to clear it. What is going on with me, he thought. He felt the panic growing inside him.


message 16: by Robert (last edited Aug 25, 2016 01:42PM) (new)

Robert (rgbatduke) The world around him spun. The eggs on his plate reached up and smacked him on the face. The fork dropped from his leaden fingers to the floor.


message 17: by Sarah (last edited Aug 25, 2016 01:43PM) (new)

Sarah (songgirl7) A small voice in his head tugged at his thoughts, back to the gun, the shot... and the man with the wadded-up jacket.

It was the voice of his brother Joey. Richard realized the voice wasn't coming from his inside his head, it was coming from the man with the tattoo on his cheek.


message 18: by Beth (last edited Aug 25, 2016 01:43PM) (new)

Beth (Lillybeth) The only thing left to do was reach for the Tabasco.


message 19: by Sarah (last edited Aug 25, 2016 01:43PM) (new)

Sarah (songgirl7) The only thing left to do was reach for the Tabasco.

Richard shook up the bottle and gave the Jacket Man a good shot in the eye with the fiery sauce.

"Richard! No!" shouted the man with the tattoo.


message 20: by Robert (last edited Aug 25, 2016 01:43PM) (new)

Robert (rgbatduke) [With apologies over the choice of threads to follow from the split above. Getting a bit hard to make it across the page transitions, don't forget the "edit" button at the bottom and check your work...]

It was too late. As the man screamed and let go of his ear, Richard turned to bolt for the door, only to find his way blocked -- by a sawed off shotgun barrel pressed gently into his belly by the competent hands of the other guy. "Not so fast, Richard," the man said in a husky whisper. "What about the money?"


message 21: by Shari (last edited Aug 25, 2016 01:43PM) (new)

Shari | 9 comments Money? What money could these clowns be talking about? Then it dawned on him. He began to shiver until he was shaking with such fear. Did he dare tell them?


message 22: by Robert (last edited Aug 25, 2016 01:43PM) (new)

Robert (rgbatduke) Stars exploded inside Richard's brain as the man with the tattoo, eyes streaming from their recent overdose of Tabasco, enthusiastically applied a blunt instrument to the back of his skull. The world went dark.

Hours later, the world was still dark and he had a splitting headache. He was lying on his side trussed like a pig, with his hands and feet wired all together and to something that felt suspiciously like a concrete block, where his numbed fingers were able to brush against it. The carpeted floor beneath him vibrated and bounced. Oh, shit, he thought. I shouldn't have taken the money.


message 23: by Meghan (last edited Aug 25, 2016 01:43PM) (new)

Meghan "I shouldn't have taken the money."

Frantically, Richard tried to think back to where it all went wrong.


message 24: by Wes, Moderator (last edited Aug 25, 2016 01:44PM) (new)

Wes (pricerightbooks) | 473 comments Mod
"I shouldn't have taken the money."

Franticly, Richard tried to think back to where it all went wrong.

His thoughts were scrambled from the excitement from before he was knocked unconscious. He noticed that his pockets were empty but they did not remove his hiking style boots. With his hands bound to his ankles, Richard slid his middle finger down the side of his boot. Having trouble from bouncing around in the box truck realizing that they had left the paved road. He franticly fiddled with the heel of his boot to reveal a secret compartment holding a small pocket knife.


message 25: by Robert (last edited Aug 25, 2016 01:44PM) (new)

Robert (rgbatduke) His fingers were numb, but a slender ray of hope seemed to pierce the gloom that surrounded him. Delicately, without risking a sudden movement that might cause him to drop the tiny knife, he managed to work open the nail file. Holding the knife with one hand, his other sought out the twist in the baling wire that cut cruelly into his wrists. Inserting the file he gently, carefully, began to pry backwards against the twist, getting a tiny bit of slack that brought a rush of blood (and pins and needles) into his sustenance-starved hands and then making a slow, careful twist that actually gave him a tiny bit of slack.

The jolting seemed to grow more violent, then it smoothed out and the tires began to hiss across sand. Damn, he thought. I need time.


message 26: by Wes, Moderator (last edited Aug 25, 2016 01:48PM) (new)

Wes (pricerightbooks) | 473 comments Mod
The sun was bearing down on Richard as he tried to hitch a ride. He knew his hopes were slim when Johnson's Dairy left him on this stretch of road at 4:00 a.m., and his back felt the strain from standing all morning.
To pass time he practiced holding his breath. Was he taking being "carbon neutral" too far? After much practicing he decided to have a party and use this technique for a contest. But one thing he couldn't find was the people to party with. What could he do to attract a crowd he wondered.
Richard finally managed to hitch a ride with a passing trucker who brought him to a nearby diner which; according to the sign; stayed open all night, and had service with a smile. In the diner a tired-eyed waitress brought him bad coffee and a plate of rubbery eggs and greasy bacon. As he choked down this miserable excuse for a meal, he saw a pair of burly guys wearing stained coveralls enter the diner and nervously make their way over to the carryout counter and cash register. One had a strange looking tattoo on his cheek, the other was carrying a wadded up jacket under his arm. As Richard sipped the last remains of the muck they called coffee, he stared absent-mindedly at the tattoo. It had a vaguely familiar feel to it.

He began to imagine and daydream of his past. The tattoo reminded him of his brother Joey who went off to the military, never to return. Suddenly, a shot rang out, rousing Richard from his reverie. The man with the wadded-up jacket had produced a gun. The man with the wadded-up jacket had produced a gun.

The woman behind the register screamed and threw her hands into the air. Plaster from the shot to the ceiling fell to the floor. Spewing coffee all over the remains of sodden eggs, Richard's hand instinctively stabbed to his side, seeking the 357 Magnum that he had lived with ever since he left his previous employer. To Richard's horror, the holster was empty. He began to wonder how did the fellow get his gun. Why didn’t he notice him taking it from the holster? Or did he really shoot the gun and the guy took it from him? He shook his head to clear it. What is going on with me, he thought. He felt the panic growing inside him. The world around him spun. The eggs on his plate reached up and smacked him on the face. The fork dropped from his leaden fingers to the floor. Richard's eyes followed the fork, all the way down, as it hit the floor, and then bounced off - its clatter echoing in his ears. A small voice in his head tugged at his thoughts, back to the gun, the shot... and the man with the wadded-up jacket. A small voice in his head tugged at his thoughts, back to the gun, the shot... and the man with the wadded-up jacket.

It was the voice of his brother Joey. Richard realized the voice wasn't coming from his inside his head, it was coming from the man with the tattoo on his cheek. The only thing left to do was reach for the Tabasco.

Richard shook up the bottle and gave the Jacket Man a good shot in the eye with the fiery sauce.

"Richard! No!" shouted the man with the tattoo. It was too late. As the man screamed and let go of his ear, Richard turned to bolt for the door, only to find his way blocked -- by a sawed off shotgun barrel pressed gently into his belly by the competent hands of the other guy. "Not so fast, Richard," the man said in a husky whisper. "What about the money?" Money? What money could these clowns be talking about? Then it dawned on him. He began to shiver until he was shaking with such fear. Did he dare tell them?
Stars exploded inside Richard's brain as the man with the tattoo, eyes streaming from their recent overdose of Tabasco, enthusiastically applied a blunt instrument to the back of his skull. The world went dark.

Hours later, the world was still dark and he had a splitting headache. He was lying on his side trussed like a pig, with his hands and feet wired all together and to something that felt suspiciously like a concrete block, where his numbed fingers were able to brush against it. The carpeted floor beneath him vibrated and bounced. Oh, shit, he thought. I shouldn't have taken the money.
"I shouldn't have taken the money."

Franticly, Richard tried to think back to where it all went wrong.

His thoughts were scrambled from the excitement from before he was knocked unconscious. He noticed that his pockets were empty but they did not remove his hiking style boots. With his hands bound to his ankles, Richard slid his middle finger down the side of his boot. He was having trouble, from bouncing around in the box truck, realizing that they had left the paved road. He franticly fiddled with the heel of his boot to reveal a secret compartment holding a small pocket knife.
His fingers were numb, but a slender ray of hope seemed to pierce the gloom that surrounded him. Delicately, without risking a sudden movement that might cause him to drop the tiny knife, he managed to work open the nail file. Holding the knife with one hand, his other sought out the twist in the baling wire that cut cruelly into his wrists. Inserting the file he gently, carefully, began to pry backwards against the twist, getting a tiny bit of slack that brought a rush of blood (and pins and needles) into his sustenance-starved hands and then making a slow, careful twist that actually gave him a tiny bit of slack.

The jolting seemed to grow more violent, then it smoothed out and the tires began to hiss across sand. Damn, he thought. I need time.


message 27: by James (last edited Aug 25, 2016 01:48PM) (new)

James (rebelmswar) The jolting seemed to grow more violent, then it smoothed out and the tires began to hiss across sand. Damn, he thought. I need time.

Time...

That had always been his enemy. Time. It seemed to him that time and money intersected in a horrible variable that always resulted in disappointment and despair. Never enough time, time enough for wasteful things but never enough for meaningful things.

He relaxed from his grapple with the wire, why bother? Why continue to struggle against karma? Hadn't he deserved this all along?


message 28: by Rachel (last edited Aug 25, 2016 01:49PM) (new)

Rachel | 4 comments He relaxed from his grapple with the wire, why bother? Why continue to struggle against karma? Hadn't he deserved this all along?

Karma, he realized, rubbing his numb fingers slowly along the uneven, stone floor, had a way of never working out, unless its the bad sort that kills you in the end. As Richard attempted to grin from his vague recollections of his childhood days, it became a grimmace as he felt a stream of dried blood, beginning at his temple, matting his shaggy, brown hair, cracking beneath his efforts. Would he be in this situation, he pondered, if he had been a better friend? A better son? A better brother?


message 29: by James (last edited Aug 25, 2016 01:50PM) (new)

James (rebelmswar) Karma, he realized, rubbing his numb fingers slowly along the uneven, stone floor, had a way of never working out, unless its the bad sort that kills you in the end. As Richard attempted to grin from his vague recollections of his childhood days, it became a grimmace as he felt a stream of dried blood, beginning at his temple, matting his shaggy, brown hair, cracking beneath his efforts. Would he be in this situation, he pondered, if he had been a better friend? A better son? A better brother?

A better brother? A better son? A better friend? What did any of that mean to him anyway? Wasn't life one solid stream of betterment's always leading up to resentment. Why should he be better! What had trying to be better ever gotten him? Why didn't people let their preconceived notions of his inadequacy go and instead look at what he did just fine.

Then he realized. Why the hell is there a stone floor in the back of a truck?


message 30: by Rachel (last edited Aug 25, 2016 01:50PM) (new)

Rachel | 4 comments Then he realized. Why the hell is there a stone floor in the back of a truck?

Confused, he inspected it more closely. As though blind, he rubbed his hand across the floor behing him until bits came loose. Grabbing a few grannuals, with startteling familiarty, he found that it was not stone, but cold, compressed sand.


message 31: by James (last edited Aug 25, 2016 01:52PM) (new)

James (rebelmswar) Confused, he inspected it more closely. As though blind, he rubbed his hand across the floor behind him until bits came loose. Grabbing a few granules, with startling familiarity, he found that it was not stone, but cold, compressed sand.

Compressed sand? Well they must have done this thing before and why the abundance of sand in the truck? His mind reeled as the truck jostled from side to side.

Why was this even a good idea in the first place? Why couldn't he stay at the hovel he lived in and collect cats or something? He again mustered the will to live and began to jostle the wire. The thought of owning a cat gave him a hope and a purpose he had never had before, something to nurture and love, that was what he was missing. Maybe he would get two cats so they could fight each other for his affection.


message 32: by Laura (last edited Aug 25, 2016 01:55PM) (new)

Laura (LauraStamps) Why was this even a good idea in the first place? Why couldn't he stay at the hovel he lived in and collect cats or something? He again mustered the will to live and began to jostle the wire. The thought of owning a cat gave him a hope and a purpose he had never had before, something to nurture and love, that was what he was missing. Maybe he would get two cats so they could fight each other for his affection.

His thoughts were interrupted when the driver slammed the brakes in the truck, and Richard slid across loose sand, bumping against the concrete block. The door opened, and flashlights held by the two men blinded him for a moment. "We've got trouble," his brother Joey shouted over his shoulder to someone standing behind him in the dark. "Get the Pack Master."

The other man tucked the flashlight beneath his arm, and Richard saw the same tattoo as his brother's running across the top of the man's hand. Wolf paws. Looks like his shapeshifter brother finally found a pack. "Okay," Richard muttered to himself, as the man grabbed his leg and began pulling him out of the truck. "Maybe a cat for a pet isn't such a great idea."


message 33: by Wes, Moderator (last edited Aug 25, 2016 02:00PM) (new)

Wes (pricerightbooks) | 473 comments Mod
"Okay," Richard muttered to himself, as the man grabbed his leg and began pulling him out of the truck. "Maybe a cat for a pet isn't such a great idea."

Richard closed his eyes and clenched his teeth and then releasing himself from his bondage jumped at the... beep beep beep.... what the... He slams the button on top of the alarm as he always did. The light coming through the window of his bedroom was blinding and Richard, now heart racing and covered in sweat realized that he was dreaming and now had to get ready for work... Crap he thought what a crazy dream. His dreams were always vivid like preminitions or deja vu but none ever really happened.


message 34: by James (last edited Aug 25, 2016 02:03PM) (new)

James (rebelmswar) Richard closed his eyes and clenched his teeth and then releasing himself from his bondage jumped at the... beep beep beep.... what the... He slams the button on top of the alarm as he always did. The light coming through the window of his bedroom was blinding and Richard, now heart racing and covered in sweat realized that he was dreaming and now had to get ready for work... Crap he thought what a crazy dream. His dreams were always vivid like preminitions or deja vu but none ever really happened.

"Well at least my dreams are interesting" he said looking around his trash strewn room. He picked up a phone book, hoping that the pet section had not been ripped out to use as joint rolling paper.
"Why the hell do I want a cat so bad?" he asked himself stroking his two day old stubble.
"Because you are a boring idiot" replied the TV.
"Why don't you leave me alone?"
"Because you are a boring idiot" replied the TV.
"So you talk to me because I am bored?"
"I talk to you because you are a board psychotic idiot." replied the TV
He threw his shoe and phone book at the TV.
"Temper, temper lovey" sighed the TV


message 35: by Kristi (last edited Aug 25, 2016 02:14PM) (new)

Kristi (Target) | 14 comments Richard rubbed his eyes. 'Great, now I'm getting a headache.'
"Huh. Nice."
"What?" the TV asked, sounding almost concerned.
Richard stood up, still gently rubbing his eyes and temples. "Well, I'm now having crazy nightmares, my TV is talking to me, I'm getting a headache, and I'm going to be late for work if I don't get it together NOW. And why the heck are you still talking to me?"
"Because you're still talking to ME."
Richard snorted and reached for the ibuprofen.


message 36: by James (last edited Aug 25, 2016 02:16PM) (new)

James (rebelmswar) Richard rubbed his eyes. 'Great, now I'm getting a headache.'
"Huh. Nice."
"What?" the TV asked, sounding almost concerned.
Richard stood up, still gently rubbing his eyes and temples. "Well, I'm now having crazy nightmares, my TV is talking to me, I'm getting a headache, and I'm going to be late for work if I don't get it together NOW. And why the heck are you still talking to me?"
"Because you're still talking to ME."
Richard snorted and reached for the ibuprofen.

“What are you going to do?” asked the TV.
Richard glanced at it quickly.
“Why? Do you have plans? Going to ask a nice DVD player over tonight?”
The TV showed static.
“Are you mad now?” he demanded “Hey talk to me damn it!”
Richard popped the top on the ibuprofen and shook some out into his hand.
“Just take two.” The TV said sulkily.
“It’s nice to know someone cares.” He said looking around for a glass.
“Who would turn me on if you weren’t here?” asked the TV.
“Cut that out!” Richard yelled. “I need to find a real lady”
The TV showed static, loudly.


message 37: by Kristi (last edited Aug 25, 2016 02:17PM) (new)

Kristi (Target) | 14 comments After getting dressed the TV was still hissing static at him.
"Look, I'm leaving now! You can stop that infernal noise!"
Richard grabbed his keys on his way out still suffering from his headache.
His truck, an old grey ford, sat out in the driveway. Richard rurned over the engine and prayed that his headache would disipate faster. He reached over and turned the radio on.
"*sigh*, Morning 'Chard" ,the truck said to him over the speakers, it's dry, tired voice, was a familiar monotone that eased Richards headache a smudge. 'Wait a sec., FAMILIAR?'
*graon* Richard massaged his head.
"What? Bad night?"
"No, I actually had a really cool dream, but I've a headache that refuses to go away, and all my stuff is talking to me. I'm starting to feel like I never woke up."


message 38: by Wes, Moderator (last edited Aug 25, 2016 02:18PM) (new)

Wes (pricerightbooks) | 473 comments Mod
"No, I actually had a really cool dream, but I've a headache that refuses to go away, and all my stuff is talking to me. I'm starting to feel like I never woke up."

Knowing none of this was making since he tried to clear his thoughts, the nagging pain in his head but the voice were still there. He saw his cell phone on the other side of his bench seat and looked at the time. He glanced and saw the date and thought to himself.
Holy Crap what happened yesterday I must have slept through a whole day. Knowing that he went to sleep on a Tuesday night and waking up on a Thursday morning was not like him being a constant insomniac. He began to try to regain his thoughts and checked for missed calls or anything that would jog his memory. Richard noticed a bruise on the inside of his arm about the size of a quarter and upon inspection noticed a miniscule scab in the middle. A Shot he thought? What the hell is going on here...
His head throbbed with pain and the voice continued and he realized that is was not coming from the electronics around him but within his own head. Like something foreign was inside...


message 39: by Christopher (last edited Dec 18, 2007 10:05AM) (new)

Christopher Roman | 6 comments There really wasn't much he could do to collect bearings on everything that seemed to refill his head in the past thirty or so minutes. Looking back over at the cellular phone nesting comfortably in the passenger side of the long seat, Richard snickered. "What you have somethng to say too?" The phone was silent. Perhaps he hurt its feelings? Maybe the phone didn't understand english, or even quite possibly all of this talking WAS somethng manifesting in his mind. But what? As if shaking a clan of gnats that found his scent paralyzing, he shook his head to clear his mind. In doing so, he could guage his pulse by the throbbing in his temples. Richard looked out the slightly dewed windshield and saw the front of his dwelling. But something caught his eye. Even after a double take he saw on the right side of his house, the spare bedroom,........


message 40: by Kristi (new)

Kristi (Target) | 14 comments "What's this Richard? Questioning things now are we? And after all we've done..." The truck sounded hurt, and Richard suddenly felt guilty.
He was about to appologize when the sense of wrongness that had been building up overwhelmed him. He could feel the answer, practically taste it now, the answer--to--what? His headache reached a creciendo, threatening to split his scull in two, Richard clutched his head in agony, curling up as much as he could in the seat of the pickup. Nausia hit him like a hammer to his senses and he groped blindly for the door handle. His hand met the cool metal of the latch and he jurked his arm, opening the door and spilling Richard out onto the concrete of the driveway. Tossed around in a sea of pain, Richard could barely make out the sound of sirens in the distance... were they coming closer?


message 41: by Mouse (new)

Mouse | 16 comments They were coming closer--Richard could feel the reverberations of the sirens inside his skull and felt like throwing up. Gods, couldn't they come up with sirens that didn't hurt so much? He tried to shout, "Hey!" But the words got trapped in his throat. Right now, he would sell his own mother for a glass of water.



message 42: by Aumee (last edited Jan 19, 2008 12:50PM) (new)

Aumee | 72 comments (I'm posting the whole story in three part's cuz its easier to read together, and because the box only allow 8000 charectors.the last paragraph is mine)


The sun was bearing down on Richard as he tried to hitch a ride. He knew his hopes were slim when Johnson's Dairy left him on this stretch of road at 4:00 a.m., and his back felt the strain from standing all morning.
To pass time he practiced holding his breath. Was he taking being "carbon neutral" too far? After much practicing he decided to have a party and use this technique for a contest. But one thing he couldn't find was the people to party with. What could he do to attract a crowd he wondered.
Richard finally managed to hitch a ride with a passing trucker who brought him to a nearby diner which; according to the sign; stayed open all night, and had service with a smile. In the diner a tired-eyed waitress brought him bad coffee and a plate of rubbery eggs and greasy bacon. As he choked down this miserable excuse for a meal, he saw a pair of burly guys wearing stained coveralls enter the diner and nervously make their way over to the carryout counter and cash register. One had a strange looking tattoo on his cheek, the other was carrying a wadded up jacket under his arm. As Richard sipped the last remains of the muck they called coffee, he stared absent-mindedly at the tattoo. It had a vaguely familiar feel to it.

He began to imagine and daydream of his past. The tattoo reminded him of his brother Joey who went off to the military, never to return. Suddenly, a shot rang out, rousing Richard from his reverie. The man with the wadded-up jacket had produced a gun. The man with the wadded-up jacket had produced a gun.

The woman behind the register screamed and threw her hands into the air. Plaster from the shot to the ceiling fell to the floor. Spewing coffee all over the remains of sodden eggs, Richard's hand instinctively stabbed to his side, seeking the 357 Magnum that he had lived with ever since he left his previous employer. To Richard's horror, the holster was empty. He began to wonder how did the fellow get his gun. Why didn’t he notice him taking it from the holster? Or did he really shoot the gun and the guy took it from him? He shook his head to clear it. What is going on with me, he thought. He felt the panic growing inside him. The world around him spun. The eggs on his plate reached up and smacked him on the face. The fork dropped from his leaden fingers to the floor. Richard's eyes followed the fork, all the way down, as it hit the floor, and then bounced off - its clatter echoing in his ears. A small voice in his head tugged at his thoughts, back to the gun, the shot... and the man with the wadded-up jacket.
It was the voice of his brother Joey. Richard realized the voice wasn't coming from his inside his head, it was coming from the man with the tattoo on his cheek. The only thing left to do was reach for the Tabasco.

Richard shook up the bottle and gave the Jacket Man a good shot in the eye with the fiery sauce.

"Richard! No!" shouted the man with the tattoo. It was too late. As the man screamed and let go of his ear, Richard turned to bolt for the door, only to find his way blocked -- by a sawed off shotgun barrel pressed gently into his belly by the competent hands of the other guy. "Not so fast, Richard," the man said in a husky whisper. "What about the money?" Money? What money could these clowns be talking about? Then it dawned on him. He began to shiver until he was shaking with such fear. Did he dare tell them?
Stars exploded inside Richard's brain as the man with the tattoo, eyes streaming from their recent overdose of Tabasco, enthusiastically applied a blunt instrument to the back of his skull. The world went dark.

Hours later, the world was still dark and he had a splitting headache. He was lying on his side trussed like a pig, with his hands and feet wired all together and to something that felt suspiciously like a concrete block, where his numbed fingers were able to brush against it. The carpeted floor beneath him vibrated and bounced. Oh, shit, he thought. I shouldn't have taken the money.
"I shouldn't have taken the money."

Franticly, Richard tried to think back to where it all went wrong.

His thoughts were scrambled from the excitement from before he was knocked unconscious. He noticed that his pockets were empty but they did not remove his hiking style boots. With his hands bound to his ankles, Richard slid his middle finger down the side of his boot. He was having trouble, from bouncing around in the box truck, realizing that they had left the paved road. He franticly fiddled with the heel of his boot to reveal a secret compartment holding a small pocket knife.
His fingers were numb, but a slender ray of hope seemed to pierce the gloom that surrounded him. Delicately, without risking a sudden movement that might cause him to drop the tiny knife, he managed to work open the nail file. Holding the knife with one hand, his other sought out the twist in the baling wire that cut cruelly into his wrists. Inserting the file he gently, carefully, began to pry backwards against the twist, getting a tiny bit of slack that brought a rush of blood (and pins and needles) into his sustenance-starved hands and then making a slow, careful twist that actually gave him a tiny bit of slack.

The jolting seemed to grow more violent, then it smoothed out and the tires began to hiss across sand. Damn, he thought. I need time.
Time...

That had always been his enemy. Time. It seemed to him that time and money intersected in a horrible variable that always resulted in disappointment and despair. Never enough time, time enough for wasteful things but never enough for meaningful things.




message 43: by Aumee (new)

Aumee | 72 comments He relaxed from his grapple with the wire, why bother? Why continue to struggle against karma? Hadn't he deserved this all along?
Karma, he realized, rubbing his numb fingers slowly along the uneven, stone floor, had a way of never working out, unless its the bad sort that kills you in the end. As Richard attempted to grin from his vague recollections of his childhood days, it became a grimmace as he felt a stream of dried blood, beginning at his temple, matting his shaggy, brown hair, cracking beneath his efforts. Would he be in this situation, he pondered, if he had been a better friend? A better son? A better brother?

A better brother? A better son? A better friend? What did any of that mean to him anyway? Wasn't life one solid stream of betterment's always leading up to resentment. Why should he be better! What had trying to be better ever gotten him? Why didn't people let their preconceived notions of his inadequacy go and instead look at what he did just fine.

Then he realized. Why the hell is there a stone floor in the back of a truck?
Confused, he inspected it more closely. As though blind, he rubbed his hand across the floor behind him until bits came loose. Grabbing a few granules, with startling familiarity, he found that it was not stone, but cold, compressed sand.

Compressed sand? Well they must have done this thing before and why the abundance of sand in the truck? His mind reeled as the truck jostled from side to side.

Why was this even a good idea in the first place? Why couldn't he stay at the hovel he lived in and collect cats or something? He again mustered the will to live and began to jostle the wire. The thought of owning a cat gave him a hope and a purpose he had never had before, something to nurture and love, that was what he was missing. Maybe he would get two cats so they could fight each other for his affection.
His thoughts were interrupted when the driver slammed the brakes in the truck, and Richard slid across loose sand, bumping against the concrete block. The door opened, and flashlights held by the two men blinded him for a moment. "We've got trouble," his brother Joey shouted over his shoulder to someone standing behind him in the dark. "Get the Pack Master."

The other man tucked the flashlight beneath his arm, and Richard saw the same tattoo as his brother's running across the top of the man's hand. Wolf paws. Looks like his shapeshifter brother finally found a pack. "Okay," Richard muttered to himself, as the man grabbed his leg and began pulling him out of the truck. "Maybe a cat for a pet isn't such a great idea."
Richard closed his eyes and clenched his teeth and then releasing himself from his bondage jumped at the... beep beep beep.... what the... He slams the button on top of the alarm as he always did. The light coming through the window of his bedroom was blinding and Richard, now heart racing and covered in sweat realized that he was dreaming and now had to get ready for work... Crap he thought what a crazy dream. His dreams were always vivid like preminitions or deja vu but none ever really happened.

"Well at least my dreams are interesting" he said looking around his trash strewn room. He picked up a phone book, hoping that the pet section had not been ripped out to use as joint rolling paper.
"Why the hell do I want a cat so bad?" he asked himself stroking his two day old stubble.
"Because you are a boring idiot" replied the TV.
"Why don't you leave me alone?"
"Because you are a boring idiot" replied the TV.
"So you talk to me because I am bored?"
"I talk to you because you are a board psychotic idiot." replied the TV
He threw his shoe and phone book at the TV.
"Temper, temper lovey" sighed the TV
Richard rubbed his eyes. 'Great, now I'm getting a headache.'
"Huh. Nice."
"What?" the TV asked, sounding almost concerned.
Richard stood up, still gently rubbing his eyes and temples. "Well, I'm now having crazy nightmares, my TV is talking to me, I'm getting a headache, and I'm going to be late for work if I don't get it together NOW. And why the heck are you still talking to me?"
"Because you're still talking to ME."
Richard snorted and reached for the ibuprofen.

“What are you going to do?” asked the TV.
Richard glanced at it quickly.
“Why? Do you have plans? Going to ask a nice DVD player over tonight?”
The TV showed static.
“Are you mad now?” he demanded “Hey talk to me damn it!”
Richard popped the top on the ibuprofen and shook some out into his hand.
“Just take two.” The TV said sulkily.
“It’s nice to know someone cares.” He said looking around for a glass.
“Who would turn me on if you weren’t here?” asked the TV.
“Cut that out!” Richard yelled. “I need to find a real lady”
The TV showed static, loudly.
After getting dressed the TV was still hissing static at him.
"Look, I'm leaving now! You can stop that infernal noise!"
Richard grabbed his keys on his way out still suffering from his headache.
His truck, an old grey ford, sat out in the driveway. Richard rurned over the engine and prayed that his headache would disipate faster. He reached over and turned the radio on.
"*sigh*, Morning 'Chard" ,the truck said to him over the speakers, it's dry, tired voice, was a familiar monotone that eased Richards headache a smudge. 'Wait a sec., FAMILIAR?'
*groan* Richard massaged his head.
"What? Bad night?"
"No, I actually had a really cool dream, but I've a headache that refuses to go away, and all my stuff is talking to me. I'm starting to feel like I never woke up."
Knowing none of this was making since he tried to clear his thoughts, the nagging pain in his head but the voice were still there. He saw his cell phone on the other side of his bench seat and looked at the time. He glanced and saw the date and thought to himself.
Holy Crap what happened yesterday I must have slept through a whole day. Knowing that he went to sleep on a Tuesday night and waking up on a Thursday morning was not like him being a constant insomniac. He began to try to regain his thoughts and checked for missed calls or anything that would jog his memory. Richard noticed a bruise on the inside of his arm about the size of a quarter and upon inspection noticed a miniscule scab in the middle. A Shot he thought? What the hell is going on here...
His head throbbed with pain and the voice continued and he realized that is was not coming from the electronics around him but within his own head. Like something foreign was inside...
There really wasn't much he could do to collect bearings on everything that seemed to refill his head in the past thirty or so minutes. Looking back over at the cellular phone nesting comfortably in the passenger side of the long seat, Richard snickered. "What you have somethng to say too?" The phone was silent. Perhaps he hurt its feelings? Maybe the phone didn't understand english, or even quite possibly all of this talking WAS somethng manifesting in his mind. But what? As if shaking a clan of gnats that found his scent paralyzing, he shook his head to clear his mind. In doing so, he could guage his pulse by the throbbing in his temples. Richard looked out the slightly dewed windshield and saw the front of his dwelling. But something caught his eye. Even after a double take he saw on the right side of his house, the spare bedroom,........



message 44: by Aumee (new)

Aumee | 72 comments "What's this Richard? Questioning things now are we? And after all we've done..." The truck sounded hurt, and Richard suddenly felt guilty.
He was about to appologize when the sense of wrongness that had been building up overwhelmed him. He could feel the answer, practically taste it now, the answer--to--what? His headache reached a creciendo, threatening to split his scull in two, Richard clutched his head in agony, curling up as much as he could in the seat of the pickup. Nausia hit him like a hammer to his senses and he groped blindly for the door handle. His hand met the cool metal of the latch and he jurked his arm, opening the door and spilling Richard out onto the concrete of the driveway. Tossed around in a sea of pain, Richard could barely make out the sound of sirens in the distance... were they coming closer?
They were coming closer--Richard could feel the reverberations of the sirens inside his skull and felt like throwing up. Gods, couldn't they come up with sirens that didn't hurt so much? He tried to shout, "Hey!" But the words got trapped in his throat. Right now, he would sell his own mother for a glass of water.
Throat parched and head screaming in agony, Richard twitched and quivered helplessly on the ground. He felt a wetness on his side, but it barely registered through the fog of pain. Instictively curious, he turned his head sideways.



message 45: by Roni (new)

Roni (V_A_B) He saw his five-year-old neighbor, Joshua, spraying him with a hose.
This was too much for Richard to take-the headache, the voices of his TV and truck replaying in his head, the dumb kid with the hose, humiliating him,the si-hang on, he thought. Suddenly he realized that it was an ice cream truck he was hearing, not a siren.
What's an ice cream truck doing driving around in Montana in the middle of November, he thought to himself. Its way too late for that. It's going to be cold enough to snow in a couple weeks!


message 46: by Kenzie (last edited Mar 27, 2008 08:11AM) (new)

Kenzie He got up and glared at Joshua. The little kid stopped spraying and stared at him. Joshua turned and ran, screaming for his mom into the house. Richard chuckled quietly to himself. A searing pain shot through his skull. Richard knelt down on the cold concrete pressing his forehead to the cool stone. His stomache jerked unpleasantly, and, even though it hurt, he threw up all over the concrete. Richard was dragged under in a sea of pain. The sound of a woman screaming peirced his ears. And Richard passed out on the ground...


message 47: by Wes, Moderator (new)

Wes (pricerightbooks) | 473 comments Mod
Richard woke up in a different place.


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