Category : Writing

in Writing

Return

I am an adult. That is strange to say. I’m 32 (well, practically), and I have memories of a past me, also an adult. It is odd to think this. People say things like, “If I could tell my teenage self to do …insert RESPONSIBLE ACT HERE…, I would!” But what of my adult self? She bristles at the thought of revisionist history, and I bristle on her behalf. Still, 32. Changed.

Thinking aloud. Read through my writing posted here. I haven’t written for pleasure in such awhile, and I remember it being fun. So, I shall resume, in whatever small way I can, under the radar, so that Future Giang does not see fit to interfere with me and tell me there are more productive ways I can spend my time.

I sat as still as possible while she paced, wringing her hands, a doppleganger of Lady MacBeth contemplating her damned soul roiling in The Pit.

The phone sat on the desk, ponderous with its lack of motion. It was red, the same color as her fingernails as they flashed in and out of sight, buried, then exhumed from her fists.

“Why hasn’t he called?” she demanded suddenly. Her hands flew up to frame her face, a sudden rictus of gruesome frenzy. “WHY?!”

She receded swiftly back to her side of the room, and began her pacing anew. Loudly, now, her heels scraped along the wooden floor, keeping a broken time with her irregular, jerky steps. Without seeing, without understanding, they trampled into the pool collecting by the door, and as she walked, she left large, dark streaks in her wake, and the streaks were red also, but darker than her fingernails, darker than the phone.

Mary began to tremble violently on the couch. I wanted to turn to her, to tell her not to move, not to dare move, but too late. Her nerve buckled, and she began sobbing wildly. “Please, please…”

The jerky steps stopped. Then, heavy and monstrous, they pounded against the shrieking floorboards towards the couch where Mary sat.

“PLEASE!?” she rasped mockingly in Mary’s face, “PLEASE!?”

The red phone, silent until now, belted out a wild trill as it was yanked from the wall and into those red, red hands. Mary recoiled, raising her arms to protect herself, a gesture of dread and hopeless supplication. Then she screamed.

And screamed and screamed until she didn’t scream any longer. The phone receiver dangled in the air madly, then crashed to the floor as she slipped away from Mary’s body and returned to where she had stood before, breathing hard, tears streaking down her cheeks, mottled in red. She sucked breath through her teeth, her eyes rolling backwards in her head as she clutched the hair at her temples and yanked, tearing one way and the other.

“Why…hasn’t…he…CALLED!?”

Stumbling slightly, she turned, shambled towards the door and flung it open.

She began to giggle. It welled up in her slowly at first, then consumed her body until she was doubled over with it, bright eyes flashing with uncontrollable laughter.

“See?” she gasped finally, eyes grown dark again. Grotesquely, she slid aside with a flourish. “See what I did! See what I did BECAUSE HE DIDN’T CALL!?”

The body hung outside, rope wound tightly around the head, a white, purplish rotted stump barely still connected at the severed neck. Experimentally, coyly, she reached out to touch it, and giggled delightedly as it swung at her touch, rocking back and forward by the rope.

Then, she turned, eyes half-lidded, a smile teasing at her lips as her eyes locked with mine.

“You’ve been so good,” she cooed. “So good. So much better than he was. I know you’ll call. Won’t you?”

Eh…oops. That wrote itself. Too much Cthulhu Mythos lately? ;)

in Writing

“Afterwards”

It’s been awhile since I’ve written 100 words. Stick-to-it-iveness has never been a strong suit; nevertheless, I’m going to write tonight because I feel like it. And it’s almost November! :)

I’m going to use the words carousel, jambalaya, and nonsense in a story, the opening line of which is…


Sometimes I feel like a gerbil, running around and around on her wheel. Which is funny to think of, since I don’t really remember what a gerbil looks like. The internet is gone and there aren’t any books here so it’s not like I can look it up. I just sit and think a lot. Sometimes I walk. There’s not much else to do anymore, most days.

Oh, sometimes I wake up to find that it’s snowed. Or rained. One time, I even opened the front door and found the air full of locusts. (And when I say full, I mean thick as a shag rug – if shag rugs could fly and decimate crops.) It was real plague-type stuff. Almost laughable, really, after everything that’s happened, that the cogs would still be thick with that nonsense. I mean, after the theater’s empty and the show closed, who are the actors playing for?

Because one day, I woke up, and it was all gone. All the cars, all the people, all the cats, all the birds, all the books – all of it, all gone. I’m sitting in my living room, writing this, and I can still see the spot between the ugly carousel lamp and the ficus tree where the TV used to be. Just an empty spot, not even dust bunnies like someone had just grabbed it and stolen it. It was just…gone.

I was pretty freaked out for awhile. I went pounding on people’s doors, but of course no one was there. (None of their TVs were there, either.) I cried. I got angry and broke someone’s wind chimes. I was a little nuts for awhile. It seemed like a long while.

But then I started to notice things. Like downtown, how the lights at the Jambalaya Kitchen suddenly lit up again at night, spelled out just right even though the “y” had been broken years and years ago, and Tom Gladwell had always been too cheap to fix it. Like how suddenly the roof on the house next door was suddenly straighter, as if it hadn’t been left to fall to pieces when Mr. Jensen had left Mrs. Jensen for his auto mechanic lover. Like how I woke one morning to the sound of the wind chimes I’d shattered when it had all first happened.

And then sometimes, they go the other way. Sometimes, I pass by the Jensen’s, and the roof…well, it flickers. Like I can see what it used to look like, before it was fixed. I got a little crazy, then, too. Because if it went backwards, why couldn’t it go backwards to before everything was gone? I thought it would go further. It just about killed me, the waiting for it. Waiting for it to undo, waiting for it to fix itself, and for me to just step right back into it, as if nothing had ever happened. I’d made that promise – if it went back to how it was, I wouldn’t say a word. I wouldn’t tell a single soul. That was all my chips on the table. That was me going all in.

Of course, here I still am, right here next door to the Jensen’s perfect roof. Not good enough, my best offer. House wins.

I think a lot about the movie Castaway, how he makes that volleyball (or was it a soccer ball?) into a head and talks to it. I tried to try that, but apparently sports were eliminated as well. I have furniture, but it’s harder than you think to be friends with a sofa. For awhile I tried talking to myself, but it got hard to tell my voice from my thoughts, and that freaked me out almost as bad as the morning I woke up to this.

I spend a lot of time looking at my hands and my feet, and the other parts of my body that I can still see, because there aren’t any mirrors and nothing here reflects. I check myself for the flickering. I wonder if I will be undone, somehow. Or suddenly not here, like before I was born.

I never get the feeling that someone is here with me; I know there is no one. That’s just the thing, see. It’s cogs, still running – nothing else. Backwards, and the flickering is it dying down. The lifeless cogs are dying down; the big show is over.

I’m still running around and around on this wheel. There isn’t much else to do.


Er…that turned out a lot less cheery than I imagined it. Still: 100 words, done! ;)

in Writing

The second one, first

Chapter One: A non-tropical heatwave

“Ed, I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, BUT THE AIR CONDITIONING IN THIS RUN-DOWN RAT-TRAP IS BROKEN AND I’M MELTING!”

Edward Denby remained unmoving in his chair, his hands laced and resting on his waist. A wet cloth was draped over his face. “If I say I have noticed, will it stop you from complaining?”

“You bet your ass it won’t!”

“So then my motivation for discussing it with you would be…?”

Unceremoniously, the cloth was ripped from his face. His assistant Delphi stood before him, her green eyes flashing a thin sheen of sweat covering her face. She was angry, which was a good look for her. He wisely kept the thought to himself.

in Writing

Because I’m still awake

Here’s this next week’s 100-word entry. I had the blues tonight, a bit.

She never told him what it was, the grief that stole over her during these moments. He wasn’t sure she knew what it was herself, the thieving sorrow that took her away from him to some place where he couldn’t follow. Between them were all the vastness of her sorrow, and all the aching in him to fix it, the desperate tugging at his inside when he saw her go so still and joyless.

So he drove, ripping through the stillness of the desert night. Sometimes she would just sit motionless, her eyes staring out at the dark while the gravel under the tires roared like a hurricane and the wind whipped her face raw. He would push the pedal down, spiting death at every turn to try to coax her back to him, but somehow each time they made it around a curve she remained untouched.

Sometimes she would cry, tears sliding down her cheeks in silence. Her wet cheeks would glow, luminescent in the light of instrument panel. He would reach over and take her hand, turn up the stereo and sing to her simply because he didn’t know what else to do.

And sometimes it was like this – stars and inky night and his fair girl sitting beside him with her eyes closed, the two of them in his car, the hours whirling past them in the darkness until at last, she would softly steal her little hand into his and press it into his.

Later, he reached across the bed for her and felt the warmth of her body. She moved next to him in the darkness and pulled him across the space between them. Afterwards, she lay in his arms breathing softly in sleep, he thought how the night, when it was over, would be one less night he would be alive. He thought of them in his car. He shut his eyes and remembered the smell of heat in the damp earth. He shut his eyes and he could see her sitting beside him, smiling and happy. His girl.

He held tight to her, dreaming as the hours went by, unslept.

in Writing

While I’ve got a moment…

Frank flat-palmed the door to the kitchen, put his hands on his hips, then snorted to announce himself. Jenna turned quickly, her face registering surprise at his entrance. She raised a wooden spoon towards him and narrowed her eyes. “What are you doing in here? I asked you to mingle!”

“I cannot mingle when our baby sister is out there on the edge of disaster!”

Jenna rolled her eyes. “Calm down, Frank, your queen is showing. Now what the hell are you talking about?”

“It’s him,” Frank hissed, jabbing violently towards the dining room, “That – that ass!”

“Darling,” Jenna replied, “you’re going to have to be much more specific about to whom you are referring. There are a whole herd of asses out there.”

in Writing

Snap

I don’t know what this is about, but it’s over 100 words, so I’m clear. Whoo!

“Kerry, there you are!”

The hairs at the back of Kerry’s neck bristled and she shut her eyes, willing herself to control her breathing. Slowly, she turned, switching on her best smile.

“Alison! There you are. How are you?”

Next to her, Shawn stiffened slightly. Kerry knew that if she turned to look at him, she’d see him looking like a deer on a railroad track. Her smile sharpened at his discomfort. I know, you bastard, she thought. I know all about you two.

She reached out to receive Alison’s arms-length air kisses, and then took a step back to allow Alison to see her standing next to Shawn.

Alison gave a brilliant smile. Kerry turned to Shawn, and patted his chest possessively. “This is my fiance, Shawn Petrie. Shawn, this is Alison Howard from our legal department.”

Alison lowered her head slightly, gazing up at him through her eyelashes, and reached out to shake his hand. Shawn jostled Kerry aside slightly in the rush to take her hand. Kerry smiled up at him, purposefully averting her eyes from their touch.

Her heart pounded wildly in her chest, and it took all her will not to turn her head and watch them. Instead, she focused on a wilting ficus tree in the corner of the room.

in Writing

Continued

“And a good bargain he made of it, too! No donkey quite so reliable as old Stinky Sally.” The devil gave a dazzling smile.

Nick exhaled noiselessly, running his hands through his hair. It was growing uncomfortably hot in the bathroom.

“So – so what are you going to do to me? Are you going to crash the plane? Am I going to burn to death?”

“Burn you? Burn you, dear boy? Of course not. What good would that do me? No, no – I need your help, Nicholas.”

“Help? From me? But aren’t you the devil? Don’t you have magical devil powers?”

“To tell you the truth,” the devil said, lowering his voice to a confidential tone, “My powers are grossly exaggerated.”

in Travel, Writing

Luck of the Irish

Nick was minding his own business in the bathroom when the Devil first appeared. He’d just finished washing his hands, and was reaching for a paper towel, when…

“I expected you to be taller.”

Startled, Nick whirled around quickly, banging his head on the wall. Of course, there was nobody there. The bathroom lock was secure, and it wasn’t as if anyone could be in there without him knowing. Maybe it was someone talking loudly outside. He rubbed his head, and reached for the door latch.

The voice returned, slow and sly. “In the mirror, Nicholas.”

Nick froze. There was no mistaking the proximity of the voice. Still, if nothing else Nick was great at denial. He closed his hand upon the door latch and twisted it to open. He heard it give with a soft snick.

And then he heard it re-lock itself with a not-quite-so-soft return snick. Nick stared down at the LOCKED sign, and blinked hard several times.

“Not going so soon? You’ll stay and talk awhile, won’t you? Yes, of course you will.” A chuckle. “Well, turn around and let me get a good look at you.”

Nick shut his eyes obstinately, and whispered, “Goddamn it, I hate flying.”

The voice went soothing. “Yes, yes, I know. Airplanes are so crude, it’s no wonder.” Then, “But Nicholas, you still haven’t said a proper hello. You wouldn’t want to make me think you’re rude, surely.”

Nick turned to face the mirror. His eyes bulged. Or at least, he felt them bulge, rather than seeing them do so, because instead of his own face, he saw someone else’s face in the mirror. The someone was impeccably dapper (if, Nick thought, a bit fay) with a regal nose and the slightest bit of a cleft in his chin. As Nick stared, an arch smile brightened the stranger’s face.

“Ah, there we go.” The sharp green eyes appraised Nick. Then, he snuffed with satisfaction. “I see we’ve finally bred that nasty old Flaherty nose out of you. No doubt it was your lovely mother’s influence.”

“You know my mother?” Nick asked dumbly.

The sly voice came back. “Well, not in the biblical sense.” The man chortled, and raised one delicate hand up to his chin wistfully. “Quite a beauty!” He waved his hand to bat away his reverie. “Ah well! It’s you I’m here to see, Nicholas!”

Nick rubbed hard at his face, a mounting hysteria threatening to overwhelm him. Was he crazy? Was he having some kind of hallucinogenic episode? Feeling a bit woozy, he fell back against the door.

“Relax, my boy! You’re not crazy!”

“That’s not really comforting coming from a – from a – ” Nick stabbed at the air towards the mirror.

“I am the Devil, Nicholas.”

Nick’s mouth slackened. He opened and shut it several times, then covered his face again. “Oh my god, this isn’t happening!”

The voice continued on, oblivious to Nick’s consternation. “I’ve come to collect on an old bet.”

Nick yanked his hands away from his face. “Wait a minute, here! I never made any bet with you!”

The Devil simpered. “Well, of course you didn’t, Nicholas. You’re the prize.”

“Prize?!” Nick squeaked. “That’s not how it works! I didn’t sign anything, I didn’t get any pot of gold! You don’t have any right to my soul!”

The Devil beamed. “How quaint your ideas are, my boy. All the same…”

“No!” Nick said, asserting himself. “Prove it! Prove that you own me!”

The Devil gave him a mock bow. A tattered, dirt-stained piece of paper fluttered down from the mirror. Nick snatched it and began reading it aloud. “‘I, Dougal Flaherty, agree to give the Devil my first born great, great grandson (if I ever have one) in return for a sturdy donkey and a case of whiskey’.”

Nick gaped, and shook the document in disbelief at the Devil. “You’re telling me my great great grandfather whored me out to the Devil for a donkey and some whiskey?!“

in Writing

First death

Nell bent over and vomited violently onto the pavement. When her stomach finished lurching, she sagged against the wall for support, panting.

“Spectacular,” Bob said dryly. He dug into his pocket for another cigarette, lit it, and brought it up to his lips. “It’s the dying, is it? You’ll get used to it.”

Nell gaped. “What? Why would I get used to this? How often do you think people are going to be dying in front of me?!”

Bob turned away from her to observe the EMTs making cursory checks on the dead man, and did not respond.

“BOB? What do you know?”

He smiled. “Loads. Are you done wallowing in your own mess, or can we get going?”

She gave him a scornful look as she rose. “Why do you bother smoking? It’s not like it can do anything for you.”

He knocked some ash off his cigarette and gestured at her vomit. “Why do you vomit? It merely lends us an air of authenticity.”

“I threw up because I felt sick!” she cried.

He shrugged dismissively. “I can’t be bothered with your trifling bouts of mortality. You’ll get over it soon enough.”

in Writing

Nick Flaherty meets the…

I’m tired, and I don’t really like this bit of writing, but here it is:

Nick asked, “Do you believe in God, Donna?”

More than a whiff of vodka came blasting out of his mouth. Donna stared at him, frowning fiercely.

The stewardess shimmied up to their aisle. Before she could speak, Donna placed her hand on the stewardess’s and said, “No more for him, please.”

When she’d gone, Donna turned towards her boyfriend and hissed, “What the hell are you doing?”

His eyes bore into hers beseechingly. Then, he said, in a low voice, “If I tell you, do you promise not to get pissed at me? Because I swear to God, it’s the truth.”

Donna gave an exasperated sigh. “What is it?”

He turned his red, moist eyes to her, grabbed her hands, and whispered, “I just met the devil in the bathroom.”

The creases around her mouth deepened and her words became very slow and very measured. “I’m going to get up to stretch my legs, and when I come back you’d better be trying to sleep off whatever the hell you smoked while you were in there, or I’m going to kill you.”

She got up with a huff and sauntered down the aisle.

Next to him, the voice cackled in Nick’s ear. “Told you she wouldn’t listen to you.”

Nick placed his face in his hands and whimpered.