10 posts tagged “fiction”
This 5 word challenge: sliver, smear, chalk, asphyxiation, transcendent
And then they called her mother to the stand. She plead for her daughter's freedom with a tremble of grief in her throat.
She tried to explain the circumstances away. How her daughter wasn't a bad seed, just curious for her age. After all, when little June had killed the family guinea pig, it hadn't been malicious - she had merely wanted to see the effects of asphyxiation on a live animal. She pointed out that her daughter had tried it with plants first, but didn't have the patience to wait days for the results. And June had set up a stopwatch and video camera to record the slow demise of the animal, trapped within the thick plastic bag, all in the interests of science.
Her mother waxed enthusiastically about the transcendent curiosity of her eight-year old child. How she had sliced her finger one day on a sliver of glass, and watched raptly as her life's essence oozed to the surface of the cut and slowly scabbed over. How June had cut herself again, this time on purpose, before her mother could stop her. She remembered how the smear of blood on the glass shard glowed in the sunlight like the finest stained-glass window at their church. She recounted her daughter's resulting hypothesis that larger cuts would yield larger scabs. June had thought they were pretty. She had thought her father would like to have a pretty scab, too.
Her mother's eyes stared off into the distant corner of the courtroom as she thought of the chalk outline on the hardwood floor outside of the bedroom she shared, no, had shared, with her husband. With him gone, all she had left was her daughter.
Couldn't they all see that?
Why couldn't they see that?
[NaBloPoMo 2008 - #19/30]
For EF's most inappropriate holiday newsletter contest, I present a letter I "received" from Mrs. Judith Ozark, a 3rd cousin, twice-removed. Any resemblance to anyone, living or dead just means I didn't disguise things well enough - pretend they're just coincidental resemblances instead, please.
Dear Loved Ones, Friends, Family, and anyone else who happens to read this letter,
Wow! It's been another whole year already since my last Christmas letter to you all! I was so happy last year to receive letters from 4 of you (Mom & Dad, Aunt Esme, Aunt Matilda, and Grandma Ruth). Hopefully the rest of you are doing well! Send me a note to let me know you're not dead! Ha ha.
Things have been wonderful here in the Ozark household. Mitch, Cassandra, Buddy, and little Rufus all send their love to you all. (Rufus actually said "arf arf" and "grrrrufff ruff", but I translated doggy-talk into human for you all!)
Mitch is still the man of my dreams (even if I didn't dream about him having an affair with his secretary. Ha ha). But now that I found out about that, he's been well behaved and we've been going to regular counseling sessions. The roleplaying has done wonders for us (especially in the bedroom, ROWR!). The doctors say that ED is not very common in 35-year-old men, but since Mitch doesn't have any heart conditions (yet!) he's a suitable candidate for Viagra or Cialis. He complains they give him headaches, but he's willing to "take one for the team", if you know what I mean. Between his golf, tennis, and bridge games, I don't see a whole lot of Mitch on the weekends, but since his work forced him to cut back to part-time, I see enough of him during the week to make up for it! Ha ha.
Cassie is your typical twelve year old, complete with mood swings and embarrassment to be seen with her mother. I've tried to have "the talk" with her, since she's turning into a very pretty young woman, but she just keeps telling me she "knows all that stuff already." It's a good thing I can trust her, because it seems all of her best friends are boys. And she's assured me that their parents watch them like hawks whenever she's over at their houses studying, so I feel fine letting her hang out with them as long as her grades haven't dropped below the C+ average she needs to keep in order to keep her iPod and computer.
Buddy and Rufus are inseparable. You'd think a three year old would lose interest in a puppy after a couple of months, but he just can't seem to get enough of him. I did have to keep them apart for a while when Rufus got pinworms, but it didn't seem to help as Buddy got them just the same (did you know it takes up to a MONTH to get rid of pinworms, and you can be contagious for that whole time?) I'm considering getting Rufus neutered, but Mitch is resisting. (I think he is afraid that it will psychosomatically affect HIM, but I don't see how he can get any worse than he is now, ha ha).
As for me, I'm staying busy. I just signed up to be considered as a candidate for becoming a surrogate mother. Did you know you can earn up to $35,000 for a single pregnancy? Plus, I just miss the feel of being pregnant (something you never have to worry about Allison, right? Ha ha). Oh, and it helps a nice couple that can't have their own baby, so I feel like it would be the nice thing to do. The only thing is the doctor I talked to said I would have to stop smoking first. That's going to be awful tough, especially when I go out for drinks with the gals and everyone there is smoking. But I think I can manage it if I just keep thinking about what I get out of the deal.
I hope everyone out there is happy and healthy and may you all have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year! (Except for you, Shannon - I hope you and your husband and kids have a good Hanukkah - eat some pancakes for me! Ha Ha.) Until next year, everybody!
Love,
Judy (and Mitch, Cassie, Buddy, and Rufus) Ozark
P.S. We didn't have time to get a family portrait taken this year, so here's some pictures from our beach trip this summer. I didn't get any good pictures of Mitch after his rash cleared up, so you'll just to imagine him without the blotchy face!
Dolores Umbridge was not having a good day. In fact, she hadn't had a thing to smile about ever since that hack J.K. Rowling had first named a character after her. It wasn't HER fault that little Jo Murray had nearly failed her writing examination while in the sixth form at Wyedean School - why did she have to go and brutally besmirch her good name in those "Harry Potter" novels?
Nowadays, she couldn't introduce herself without evoking a snigger from the people around her. She could almost see their brains making the connection between her and the prissy, toad-like woman in those trashy stories. Children in her neighborhood made fun of her behind her back, imitating her walk and precise diction.
Just as a flare of disgust at this thought ran through her head once again, an errant gust tugged at the umbrella in Dolores Umbridge's hand, snapping the cheap metal struts and flipping the whole mess of an umbrella inside out. Amidst jeers and catcalls from the children on a nearby football pitch, she increased her stride and continued the walk to her flat, where she could wrestle indignantly with the umbrella in the presence only of the kittens painted on her fine china plates.
(Note: Mine is on the long side of the word count - most will be shorter than this).
Wolfgang Amadeus Hollabeck was the best trumpet player the world had ever known. The world just didn't realize it yet. The best gigs he could get were in seedy bars in downtown Zurich, with a bumbling trio that could barely carry a tune, let alone carry one of his Gillespie-like solos. He had tried to save up enough money to cut a demo, but between his bar tab and bus fares, he was left with barely enough money to cover the rent.
Wolfgang took a day job to make ends meet. Now, decked out in lederhosen, he puffed and blew his way through a bevy of traditional songs on the alpenhorn outside a little cafe every day. He put up with the jeering catcalls of spoiled American tourists asking if he had a cough drop for them, but the ones that really hurt his pride were the locals who visited to eat on a regular basis. As the days passed, their polite smiles faded to indifference as they studiously avoided eye contact every time they walked past.
Wolfgang Amadeus Hollabeck shifted from the slow melodic notes of his current song into the the upbeat tempo of "A Night in Tunisia". A couple people glanced his way and smiled before he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. The cafe manager was coming out to speak with him about his musical choices, once again. He sighed and switched back to the traditional folk song he had been playing, counting the minutes until he could get home and cut loose with a jazz solo that would bring down the house, if only he could find people to listen to it.
They say she can tell your fortune from the stars above, the status of your love life from the palm of your hand.
They say the spirits whisper in her ear about who you will meet and who you will marry.
They say that her tarot readings are touched by the divine, and that not since the time of Cassandra has someone been this accurate.
I, for one, am a little bit more skeptical. After all, if she is really that good, why does she first run a credit check on you with that computer she hides behind the curtain?
"It's the way he paws at me," she confessed to me. "Like he's some kind of animal. I think I could deal with it if he was at least making an EFFORT to include me, but it's like he just doesn't care what I feel. Like he's just..."
"Using you?" I prompted.
"Exactly!" The sunlight filtered through the leaves of the oak tree overhanging the patio. The pattern of light and shadow danced across her face, playing tricks with her expression. I saw frustration, suffering, and confusion there, but couldn't be sure which were real and which were products of my imagination. "I.....I think....I think I'm going to give him back his ring...."
I stayed quiet, expressionless. I knew she she wanted a response. She had asked me here for this purpose - best-friend-turned-sounding-board for the biggest decision of her life. And she expected my....approval? I couldn't tell yet.
"I mean" she continued, "if he's so inconsiderate right now, how are things going to be in a year, or five years? It's not like I expect him to come home every night with a dozen roses and a bag of my favorite candy. But are we going to be still talking to each other? Still having inside jokes? Is he going to still put up with my bad habits? Or is it all going to go downhill, like the sex?"
An errant gust blew her hair into her eyes. As she brushed back the airy strands, she pleaded with me with her eyes. "I just don't think I can be with him anymore. It's not that he's changed, or I've changed....it's just....not right....anymore."
All she wanted was confirmation. For me to tell her she was right, that she was making the right decision, and she'd be better off without him. All I had to do was act the friend, support what she had already thought through, and she'd be happy again. Alive again. Single again.
But still not available. I couldn't chicken out any longer.
"Um." I cleared my throat, suddenly blushing self-consciously as I tried to put the words in some magic order. "Look. I know this is probably the WORST possible time for me to say this, but if I stayed quiet here, I know you'd hate me later. I can't tell you to leave him...I can't be objective....because I like you....a lot.......a whole lot" I could see a cloud of bewilderment in her eyes as she tried to switch gears and understand what I was saying. "I.....DO think he's an asshole, and I DO think you need to break up with him. But...if I just told you that today, and let things be...." I'd lose you all over again, I thought to myself. Out loud, I finished up, "...I'd hate myself, and if you ever found out later why I supported you in this, you'd hate me too."
As I was talking, I could SEE the change come over her. Confusion and anguish gave way to complete anger, her eyes afire with it. She was beautiful, even when she was angry. "Look," I said again, before she could interrupt. "I'm sorry I brought this up just now. I'm sorry I even waited until now to tell you. But I'm NOT sorry that I told you. I can't JUST be your friend anymore. I know that this probably means we won't be friends anymore. But I don't want to...no...I CAN'T keep this a secret from you. Not and still be the friend I have been. I hope you do give the ring back. I think you'll be happier. But do it because you want to, and not just because I wanted you to."
I stood up, almost in tears as I turned away and walked away from her, out from under the oak tree and into the blazing afternoon sun. "Goodbye," I murmured. "I hope it isn't goodbye forever." And with that, I left her, my stomach churning, my shoulders tight and tense, and my mind dizzy with what I had just done.
(Notes: 1. Camera phone pictures ahead, again I apologize for the quality of the pictures. 2. It may be worth it to click through the pictures for additional commentary...then again, it may not be worth it. Guess you'll have to make a judgment call ;-P )
READ ALL ABOUT IT IN
THE GOLDBERG GAZETTE!!!
Secret Behind Yod's Slow Shipping Revealed!
September 8th, Somewhere in California
In a shocking investigation by California's best CHimPs
CHiPs, it has been uncovered that Yod's Weekend Photo Scavenger Hunt
prize winners are not only NOT getting their prizes, but the prizes are
not even actually being mailed! When confronted with this news, Yod
acknowledged this issue, but thrust the blame squarely on his delivery
service.
"Those damn reptiles in the Reptile Parcel Service [RPS] are moving slower than molasses!" Yod was quoted as saying to one reporter. "I have a mind to go down to their main office and fix me up some snake stew, if this keeps up."
One other source, who wished to only be identified as "J" had this to say: "I told him not to go with RPS. But nooo, would he listen to me? When I saw those pictures, I yelled at him - You idiot, you didn't even check to see if they employed REAL reptiles!"
The local representative for RPS could not be reached for comment on the issue.
Old Barn Responsible for Slow Decrease in Home Property Values
September 8th, Somewhere in North Carolina
As you drive down the street of one residential neighborhood, you find yourself smiling at the family-sized red brick houses that line the road. Each house has its own special touches - a beautiful flower bed here, a elegantly designed walkway and entrance there. With the rising prices for housing in the area, you would never know that this neighborhood was currently being subjected to a plague worse than any known to its residents in the history of the area.
The
issue is a barn. Old and dilapidated, this once-quaint structure now
screams out in anguish as the tin roof tiles slowly rust and fall from
the rotting wooden structure. One side has settled and appears to be
caving in, while a constant parade of squirrels and cats stream in and
out of the structure - proof that although this old goat barn may be
old, it still provides enough shelter for vermin and wild animals.
The owner of the property has done little to clean up the pile of junk on the second level, even though when interviewed, he promised he would be boarding this over sometime in the near future. When pressed, he had this to say: "Well, that couple that built that fence there put it so close to my old barn that I'm not sure I can do it now without putting a ladder into their yard."
When the owners of the property in front of this barn were informed of this response, they replied: "We've been here for a year now, and he's never once asked us if he could put a ladder on our property to board up the barn. We'd be more than happy for him to do so. We heard this house was on the market for 9 months without a single bid because of that barn. Frankly, we bought the place knowing the barn was there, but figured it'd probably collapse sometime in the next 3-4 years, and we wouldn't have to look at it anymore after that."
It is unknown how badly this barn is affecting property values in the area. One local real estate mogul claims the barn has no influence on neighborhood prices. "We've got plenty of properties in that neighborhood that people have been putting up for sale, and they've been getting quality bids coming in. I don't see what the big deal is. If you don't like rustic barns, I've got some great city properties I can show you instead."
Vox Vandalism On the Rise
September 8th, In Your Backyard
Once again, police have determined the recent slew of "picture vandalism" reported by concerned citizens is the work of none other than webloggers using the blogging service provided by Vox.com. Although the specific individual responsible is still unknown, the rash of crazy photos witnessed by tens of households around the nation has specific clues leading the police back to this internet journal website.
Detective
Cannutfine Myown-Tuchus had this to say on the matter: "Someone
obviously took the time to print out these pictures and do something
with them. There seem to be specific user names on each photo,
possibly the login credentials to individual blogs, or gang names. We
are doing everything in our power to track down the criminal behind
this flagrant act of vandalism, and I personally have no doubts we will
get our man within the week. Unless he's in another city...then it
might take a little longer, since we have to pay for our own
long-distance calls."
Cat Burglar Caught After Police Pursuit
September 8th, Somewhere in the United States
After a 24 hour manhunt, police pursued and apprehended the infamous cat burglar Jeff "The Boarder" Bigg, responsible for at least a dozen break-ins and at least one actual robbery. Mr. Bigg, whose trademark involves wearing winter sports gear while committing his crimes, was picked out of a downtown crowd. "It's pretty easy to identify 'The Boarder' when it's 97 degrees out and he's wearing a parka and ski-cap," one astute citizen mentioned.
Reporters arrived late on the scene of the capture of Mr. Bigg, and were unable to gather any specifics as to how "The Boarder" was finally apprehended by police. Captain Ima Winner would not divulge any information regarding the techniques the responding officers used to pacify the individual in question. "We may need to use these techniques again," says Winner. "The last thing we want is some criminal figuring out how to outsmart us because he knows all our tricks."
Retractions
The Goldberg Gazette must apologize for the article published in last week's paper. From the number of complaints we received, we now understand that our photo caption of "Fig. 3-11: Human consuming treat" was ambiguous. Many wrote in asking if it was supposed to be "Human, consuming treat", or "Human-consuming treat".
We were able to get some better photos for the original story and are publishing them here in this edition of the Gazette. Hopefully this clears up any confusion.
Well, it appears that BOTH interpretations are correct.
Sincerely,
The Editor
"Uh..." I was still trying to figure out exactly what I had just heard. "Did you just say you were starched?"
"Yeah, why? Don't tell me you aren't thirsty after playing one-on-one for so long!"
"No, I'm thirsty...but I'm not starched. I might be PARCHED though....you doofus." I couldn't help but grin at his choice of words. Brian might be able to beat me on the court, but a vocabulary whiz he was not. "I think my Mom has a can of that spray starch though, if you really wanna get starched..."
"Shut up, Andrew! Quit making fun of me!" He punched me in the arm, and hard. I noticed he made certain to keep the prominent knuckles of his first two fingers angled directly into the meat of my bicep, the better to inflict pain into my skinny arm. Not that he needed to make any special effort to hurt me if he had really wanted to. At 5'8" and 175 pounds, Brian was the biggest twelve-year-old on our block, and could be quick to give you a beating if he thought you were making a joke at his expense. "Just because I'm not in that nerd school of yours doesn't mean you can make fun of me!"
"OK OK," I said quickly, backing away to get out of the range of any further punches. I tried to get his mind off the exchange with a change of subject. "Let's go hit the Philips station and get a soda. Billy Mooresby told me that the new Playboy magazine came in, and there's a copy there without a cover that you can flip through if the guy behind the counter isn't looking!"
Suitably placated, Brian scooped up the worn basketball and trailed after me off the court. He was more than happy to hang out with me, as I always seemed to be the one coming up with cool things to do. I just had to remember not to insult his intelligence, and we got along pretty well. My neighbor, Mr. Delacour, calls us Lenny and George, but I'm not sure why. My Mom said I'll find out when I get into high school, if I really want to know. Bugging her about it just brought that look to her face though, so I let it go. Maybe sometime I'll go ask the lady at the information desk at the library - she'd probably be able to tell me why, if I asked nicely.
As Brian pushed open the door to the service station's little snack shop, a tiny little bell attached to the inside handle tinkled a couple times before it smacked against the glass of the door with a dull *tink* sound. The cool, air-conditioned breeze that blew against my face as I stepped inside felt like heaven...no...it felt like that first jump into the swimming pool on a hot day - a little bit TOO cold, and TOO fast, but carrying the promise of continued delicious coolness to come with it.
The counter with the register on it was old, lined with polished chrome along the top edge all the way from end to end. It gleamed so brightly in the afternoon sun that I couldn't look straight at it - instead I glanced up from the glare and directly into the suspicious eyes of the guy behind the register. His gaze flicked over me dismissively and settled back on Brian, assuming that any problems he might face from a couple of kids would stem from THIS source.
I could use this to my advantage. While the shopkeeper was busy eagle-eying Brian, I slipped back between two aisles, around a corner, and back towards the far end of the store. This was what we had come for...the small rack of adult magazines in the corner, all wrapped snugly in their opaque covers to prevent peeking before purchasing. All, I hoped, except for a single issue of Playboy...
My heart racing, I twisted the rotating rack around, cringing a little at the squeak it gave as it started to move. Glancing quickly around and not seeing any change to the locations of Brian or the guy behind the counter, I focused again on what I thought I had seen....THERE....yes!
Trembling with excitement, I slipped the flimsy magazine out of the rack and held it in my hands. Here I was, about to flip through another Playboy magazine....prime lunchtime gossip material to talk about for at least a week with the guys at school. I flipped open the cover and had just focused on a beautiful, rosy nipple when
*AHEM*
Did you ever get that feeling where your skin crawls and your blood curdles and your feet scrunch up in your shoes until you don't know how you even stayed standing? Hearing the shopkeeper clear his throat right behind me did all that and more. I don't remember exactly what happened after that, but the next thing I know, I was out in the heat and the sun and the muggy, moist air, gasping for breath with nothing in my hands. Brian was sitting on the nearby curb, drinking a coke. I now realized that I have never actually TOLD Brian what I needed him to do, much to my dismay. I started trying to figure out whether I'd even be able to show my face in the store ever again, or whether I'd be stuck walking clear across the neighborhood every time I wanted a coke.
"Hey Andrew, aren't you gonna get a coke?" Brian dusted himself off as he scrambled up off the concrete. He towered over me, providing partial shade as he got close enough to blot the sun's glare out of my eyes.
"Nah, I'll just get a drink when I get home. Let's go check out the creek behind Mark's house. I hear he built a dam there yesterday. Oh, and did I mention that I saw a nipple on the Playboy in the store before I left?"
"A real nipple? MAN, you are so lucky. One time I thought I saw a nipple, but it turned out to be just a birthmark on this girl. She was wearing one of those bathing suits where you can't be sure what you're seeing and..."
As I tuned out Brian's rambling, suddenly content in the heat and haze and companionship of a good friend, I realized that everything was a close to perfect as I had ever known. I hope I stay 12 forever, I thought to myself.
Patricia has passed on the 5 word challenge duties to me this week, so I've carefully picked five words out of a hat for this weeks' challenge. They are:
- skyscraper
- convulsion
- systematic
- feign
- venerable
It wasn't until his third visit to New York City that he got up the courage to visit the Empire State Building.
Jackson wasn't exactly sure why he was frightened of this one building. "For christ's sakes," he mumbled to himself. "I work in a freaking skyscraper. Why does this one freak me out?"
The taxi he had flagged down inched slowly through the throng of pedestrians and cars, giving him plenty of time to stew in his thoughts. The traffic lights, normally so systematic in their timed ballet of stop-and-go, seemed to be taunting the motorists today. Eight cars made it through the intersection last time - a mere three the time before that. He forced himself to feign calmness when he noticed the cab driver looking at his white-knuckled grip on the door's handrail.
As he fumbled in his pocket for enough money to pay the fare, he felt the shuddering start. Almost a convulsion in its severity, it was worse than the last time. He gritted his teeth and waited out the trembling until he felt he could safely reach in through the passenger-side window to hand his driver the money without dropping bills everywhere.
He could feel the presence of the venerable building behind, looming over him. It took all of his willpower to turn, his body dragging against the unseen weights holding him in place.
Here I am.
And there's the door.
I can do this.
Just a few steps and I'll be there.
Just follow the crowd going in.
In through the door.
If I had started to move I'd be inside by now.
Oh my god, will I ever be able to move?
What if I'm standing here all day?
Is it growing bigger? Am I getting smaller?
I'm seriously going to have a panic attack and stop breathing in a second.
I wonder if someone will give me CPR if I collapse.
A burly tourist, too busy staring at a map to notice where he was going, walked right into Jackson, almost bowling him over. As the blow from behind forced him to step forward to catch his balance, the frightened man found himself running for the door, feet slapping against the concrete as he cut through the crowds and on into the cool, air-conditioned interior of the building.
As he collapsed against a wall in a mixture of relief and exhaustion, he looked down at the tiled stone under his feet. I'm in, he thought to himself. I made it.
This is my first try at a 5Word challenge...hopefully it's ok :-)
It wasn't often that he could lose himself so completely in the search. The sea below whispered its sweet nothings against the cliff he stood upon, gently lapping in time with the unheard rhythms of the tide. Above him, the dingy-white seagulls locked in some kind of seaside disport cried a raw counterpoint to the ocean's cadence.
Seeking only with his eyes, almost militant in his stance, he sought the cache of clothing she had hidden here so long ago. He knew it was this shore, this town, this cliffside where he would find the evidence - the evidence that could put her away or set her free, once and for all.
The lilac bushes, he mused. In the summer, she would have seen few hiding spots but the bushes. And with that thought, he began to pick his way between the rocks, searching for a hint of color amidst the dead and dying scrub. The green lederhosen would be hard to spot, yes, and the bright yellow shirt would have faded with the years, but there was still a chance he could find it.
He stooped, reached with one trembling hand towards a brambled hedge, and then pulled back. Tramping down the outer branches with one booted foot, he bent again and pulled out the wadded mass of clothing. It took only a moment to know what he had suspected in his heart.
He strode back to the edge of the cliff, where the soil had blown away to bare rock, and laid the bundle of clothing in a crevice close to the precipice. The gasoline arced onto the faded uniform, staining the torn yellow fabric and spreading the large bloodstain further along the cloth. In seconds, the single match turned the pile of clothing into a flickering, crackling blaze. He stood and watched the conflagration for a moment, and then slowly, carefully, made his way back towards the road. It was better, he thought, that they would never know the truth.
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