Category : Writing

in Baseball, Writing

Haunted

Mary Murray walked the halls of the house at night, and her eyes were accustomed to its many shadows. Six hundred and six pools of darkness on the ground, six hundred and six shifting with the moon. Mary walked, and she counted softly as she went.

Three hundred and thirty as her footsteps made no noise across the library floor. Four hundred and ninety at the end of the great gallery.

Mary turned and walked up the great stairs, and there were five hundred and fifty eight. She slowed as she approached the hall where they slept, and walking, counted five hundred and eighty seven.

At the end of the hall, she made her last turn and slowly took in the shadows of the last bedroom. Six hundred was the moonlight on the lamp, and one more was the toy horse by the little bed.

Six hundred and five, and she was nearly done. Six hundred and six, and Mary shut her eyes, breathed a soft sigh of relief, and turned to rest for the night.

Behind her, the little boy’s breath suddenly caught in his throat.

Mary whipped around, and saw another shadow emerge from behind the toy horse. She watched in horror as the shadow grew, and enveloped the little boy in its darkness. Her hands clawed the air searching for a hold in vain as she screamed. And screamed and screamed.

*********

The constable stepped outside the room, visibly shaken. He stepped aside as they took the small, sheet-wrapped body out of the room. Even so covered, he could see the red blood blossoming through, and felt his stomach turn again. He turned to look at his superior officer, and asked, “I don’t believe in ghosts, but what are the odds, chief? Happening again in the same house, and everything just like that Murray girl’s murder eighteen years ago?”

The inspector turned a stern eye on the constable. “Don’t you mention a word of that, or I’ll have you demoted. They’ve already had to call in a doctor for the mother.”

“Yes, chief.”

The two men walked down the hall, solemnly following the body movers. The door to the master bedroom was ajar, and as they passed it, the constable saw the mother sitting in the bed, rocking back and forth with wild eyes, thrashing at her husband, at the doctor, and shrieking at the top of her lungs, “Six hundred and seven! She counted six hundred and SEVEN!”

in Writing

Finn rides a bike

Finn bent over and clutched her knees, fighting to catch her breath. On her shoulder, Sergeant Pepper clucked and whirred. The noise that came out of him sounded suspiciously like laughter. She shot him a look.

“If I wasn’t…out of breath…I’d wring…your…neck!” she panted.

He shuffled back and forth on her shoulder and cooed, “Pretty bird!”

Finn scowled at him. He hopped from her shoulder and alighted onto the rail. The sun, which had been so reticent since the day Finn woke to find she was entirely alone in the city (world?), came out now, bathing the snide little bird in light and showcasing the brilliant red and blue sheen of his feathers. The long river of empty gray concrete that had once been a freeway overpass stretched off into the distance, disappearing into the horizon. The beauty of it wasn’t lost on her, but Finn sighed for the lonely look of it.

Still, crying hadn’t done any good. She shrugged, knowing well the loneliness would surge if she let it. Instead, gripping the handles of the bicycle she’d just pulled up the overpass with her, she climbed on the b
bicycle.

She pushed off with her foot.

She didn’t have to pedal at all. The bicycle rolled, slowly at first then swiftly picked up speed until she was nearly flying. Panic, exhilaration, vitality all poured into her, churning, and finally spilled out of her in a tremendous shout of glee.

in Writing

Gripe story

I’m very tired. I’m going to bed. This is poor, but demonstrative. Whee!

Cara stood in front of the car’s open window, and considered her options. If someone saw her do it, she might be arrested. She imagined herself behind bars, having to explain to her husband (or worse, her mother) why it was she’d been arrested. Did you have to post bail for jail? She didn’t know.

Of course, if she didn’t do it, they’d never learn their lesson.

Anger bubbled up inside her, remembering the obnoxious group in front of her. Crowding the trail, letting their dog bark and lunge at passers-by, obnoxiously hooting, leaving their mess scattered haphazardly around them.

She’d been behind them, witnessed it all. She’d also witnessed them all leaving their huge SUV earlier in the day, saw how they’d carelessly left their windows down, just enough.

It was meant to be, she told herself.

And so telling, she wound up her fist, and threw the entire bag with all her might. It sailed through the air, catching in the opened crevice. The trash spilled out into the car, soda splashing and fizzing, dirt mushrooming, wrappers fluttering.

Satisfied, Cara smiled , got into her own car, and drove away.

in Writing

Closest thing to a love story you’ll get

Ah well. I tried! ;)

“Well,” Dinah sighed, sliding into the booth, “So much for the phone. Storm’s knocked it out, as well.”

Across the room, Clara stamped her feet and cursed. Dinah’s lips curled irritably, and poured herself another glass of wine.

“No wonder there’s no one else up here. Leave it to Dinah to plan a snow weekend during a blizzard,” Clara groused, shooting an accusing look at her sister.

Clara’s husband, John, wrapped his arms around his wife, patted her head, and spoke calmly. “Take it easy, sweetheart. The radio said it would be just a small snowstorm – few days at the most. We’ve got plenty of food, plenty of firewood.”

Clara shut her eyes, seemingly soothed by her husband’s ministrations.

Dinah brought the wine glass to her lips and slowly tipped it backwards, her eyes moving from her sister’s head to John’s rugged, angular face. Their eyes locked.
Dinah’s mouth opened, and she ran her wine-ripened tongue slowly over her lips.

Over Clara’s head, John’s eyes were burning into her, following her every movement. She could see his grip on Clara tighten unconsciously. Clara snuggled into him, mistaking his rapture for affection.

Smiling to herself, Dinah raised a finger to her mouth, a signal to be silent, patient. After all, the blizzard was going to last at least a week and there was plenty of time for silly, stupid Clara to have her unfortunate accident…

in Writing

Death scene

Hrm. I need to start writing lighter things. Maybe a love story next time…

The guard opened the door and Tony stepped through it. Behind him, he heard a sharp cough and the sound of the door closing hurriedly.

A sickly-sweet rotting stench crept into his nostrils. It was a thick, greasy, dirty smell; he felt as if it were wrapping around him in the darkness. He fought the instinct to wipe it off himself.

Instead, he moved forward through the gloom until the cough stopped him. His eyes caught the glint of a heavy-banded gold watch. He knew the watch well: it had been the first thing Paul had bought after his first assignment. He’d come home bragging and exhilarated by the killing s like the brainless, vicious kid he was. That was eight years ago.

Now, Tony saw that the skin underneath his brother’s watch was bluish and paper-thin. Sickly brown spots, some of them crusted over with blood and pus, peppered his forearm.

From the darkness, a reedy, rasping voice came begging. “Help me, Tony. You have to help me. It’s killing…eating…me…”

His last words disappeared into a terrible coughing.

Tony had seen the reports on the news. They were calling it a virus, but he knew better. He’d dreamt the truth behind it, seen the girl and the smoking man together.

“You’re marked,” Tony said softly. “There’s nothing I can do.”

A wet, ripping noise in the darkness, a fresh assault of the rotting smell, and Tony knew Paul was trying to move towards him. Paul’s voice rose, becoming agitated. “You think I don’t know? You think I don’t know what you are? You fucking help me!”

The hand with the watch shot out towards Tony in the dark, gripping his forearm. Tony did not recoil, but rather bent down and was swallowed by the dark. He leaned close to where his brother’s head must be and said, “I can see what you are, too, Paulie. All those people you killed are dragging you down, and this is how you’re going to die.”

A wail of rage and despair roiled up next to him, and he quickly disengaged his hand from his brother’s. If Tony retained any memory of how much he had loved his brother once, he didn’t betray it. He stood now, enveloped by the scene of his brother’s death, unmoving, unspeaking.

It wouldn’t be long.

in Writing

Late, late!

This one is slightly late, but I think we have until morning to turn them in. If not, I’ve got my dollar ready! Also, friend Casey has started doing the short writing challenge thing, too!

This one is missing the funny part at the end, but since my tummy hurts and it’s already late-ish, we will simply forego the funny, and keep it morbid.

Julie wondered if it was truly possible that all the moments of her life added up to her current situation. Or, rather, it was not addition, but a series of branched functions. If this, then this. Else if this, then this. Like, if she had gotten to the garage on time this morning, her car would not have been stolen. If her car had not been stolen, she would not have ended up on the bus. If she had not ended up on the bus, she wouldn’t have been sitting there when the bus swerved to avoid hitting a cat. If the cat had not been running across the road, the bus wouldn’t have swerved. If the bus hadn’t swerved, the man next to her would not have suddenly drooped across her lap, revealing the tiny, tiny bullet hole under his ear.

in Baseball, Writing

Bob and Nell

Far below, the waves were frothing against the rocks. From where she stood, Nell observed the sea churning, and smelled rain in the air. It’s going to be a bad storm, she thought. Sighing softly, she clenched her eyes shut and stepped over the side of the cliff.

Bob watched it all happen from below, and exhaled roughly, covering his face.

“Stupid, stupid girl!”

Cursing angrily, Bob wound his way through the detritus on the beach until finally he emerged from around the corner of a small sea cave. He glanced around him peremptorily and, not seeing her body anywhere, walked deeper into the cave to take advantage of the shelter.

He lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and waited.

He was dozing off slightly when he heard the wet sucking noises of someone approaching through the quickly saturating sand. The annoyance came rushing back to him, and he turned towards her, shaking his head slowly.

“What are you doing here?” she asked darkly, glaring at him. He noted – not without satisfaction – that she was shivering.

“Serves you right,” he retorted. “Jumping off cliffs in the rain – isn’t that a bit overdramatic, Nellie girl?”

“I told you not to call me that,” she snapped. Wrapping her arms about her, she sat down on the sand and rested her head against the wall of the cave. She looked exhausted, and Bob felt a pang of pity for her in spite of himself.

“It’s no good, you know. Nothing works. You just create problems for yourself, and have a hell of a time explaining yourself to the mortals when they see you.”

She turned sharply towards him, “Don’t say that! I hate it when you say that word!”

Bob flicked open his lighter, and lit another cigarette. “Pretty, thick-skulled little Nell. You’re still in such terrible denial, aren’t you?”

in Writing

Basement Serenade

I started out wanting to make it a funny scene, and then it went a little maudlin because funny would have taken me more words and it’s already 10:59 PM. ;)

He could hear it as soon as he stepped through the door, and was halfway out of his coat when his wife Anna came around the corner, hands on her hips and clearly on the warpath. He averted his eyes and pretended he hadn’t seen her.

“If you don’t talk to him, I’m going to kill you both.”

He sighed, and turned to face her. Her face was angry. Again.

He bolstered himself and said, “His girlfriend just left him. What am I supposed to say? Suck it up? ”

She was not deterred. A long, cold finger poked at him, “Fix it, Doug.”

Her heels made stark clacking noises on the wood floor as she stalked away. Doug sighed and slowly trudged towards the basement. He put his hand on the knob, girded himself, and opened it.

The room smelled of beer, and despair. His brother Steve was sitting on the old flannel couch, staring at the stereo. It didn’t look like he’d moved at all since the night before. In one hand, Steve held a beer. In the other, he held the stereo remote. He didn’t look up as Doug settled next to him. He wordlessly held up a beer in Doug’s general direction.

Doug accepted it, and sighed. “Hey, man, I know you’re upset.”

Steve sniffed.

“Anna wants you to stop with the Foreigner. It’s driving her nuts.”

Steve hung his head back and gave a low moan. He started belting out the song at the top of his lungs. “I want to know what love is! I want you to shoooow me, you cold-hearted bitch-faced asshole bitch!”

He sobbed again, and lay still on the couch, the remote falling from his hand. He brought up the beer to his mouth and took a long swig, then lowered it. Doug could hear him crooning the song softly under his breath. He saw his brother’s wet cheeks, and thought of Anna upstairs. Anna and her clacking heels, her anger, her patent indifference.

Doug sat back in the couch, opened the beer and took a long swill. With his free hand, he grabbed the remote, and slowly cranked up the volume dial.

in Writing

Brothers

The thermometer inside the car read 99 degrees. Ben frowned, and hung his head out the window.

“Are you sure you don’t need help out there?”

His brother’s voice came floating back to him from underneath the hood of the broken-down car. “Water’d be good.”

Ben grabbed the juice pack from his lunch pail and scurried to his brother’s side. He held it up, and shook it in front of his brother.

“Thanks, Bennie.”

“Yeah.”

Ben leaned on the car, staring into the dirty engine next to his brother. “Do you think they have science fiction in Star Trek?”

Luke gave him a sideways glance, grinning faintly. “Wouldn’t all of it be science fiction?”

“I mean,” Ben explained patiently, “if Captain Picard reads science fiction?”

Luke straightened, wiping sweat off his forehead. “Picard’s the one with the beard?”

Ben frowned, “That’s Riker. Captain Picard is bald.”

Luke shook his head. “No, that guy doesn’t look like he reads science fiction.”

“But if he did, what do you think would be in it? ‘Cause they have aliens already. And space ships.”

Luke considered this information. Then, turning to his brother, he said, “Women.”

Ben looked skeptical. “But they have women in Star Trek already! Why would they need to read about women if they’ve already got ‘em?”

“Because, Bennie, once man has conquered space and aliens, it’s the only unknown left to them.”

Ben stared up at his brother, and shook his head slowly. “I don’t get it. I’m going back to the car.”

“Okay, kiddo. Save me some of that juice.”

in Writing

Of course it’s about zombies

So Ai and I are writing at least 100 words a week. Penalty for failing? $1.00 to the other! So here’s my weekly contribution. 295 words. Only took me like three hours. ;) The zombie muse – she is fickle!

“Hey Lilly, d’you ever hear of a gin blossom?”

Adam took a long drag from his cigarette, swirled it around in his mouth, and exhaled it into the glass of gin in his hand. The delicate arcs of smoke seethed languorously past the rim and disappeared into the air. Past the faint haze of smoke and tears, she could see his eyes were still wild, his hands still shaking.

Lilly gave him a weak smile she didn’t feel. “I thought they were a band.”

“I bet you liked them, too,” Adam chuckled. “They seem your type. It’s, you know – pussy rock.”

“You’re an ass.”

He laughed, maybe a little too loudly. He was careful, Lilly noticed, to keep his eyes turned to the left.

Because to Adam’s right was where Jack was. Jack, who’d had a wife and baby daughters, who’d been so tired and asked them to stop running for a moment. Who’d sat down on the floor to the right of Adam two hours ago, and hadn’t moved since. Not for a word. Not for a single breath.

Adam nudged her with the bottle.

She waved him away, instead reaching for the gun on the counter, sliding it through her belt and raising herself from the seat.

“We have to go, Adam.”

Adam blew out another slow smoke ring into his drink, and threw back the rest of the drink.

Then, he turned and, staring straight at Jack, gently reached into the man’s pocket and removed his wallet. Lilly, aghast, opened her mouth. Adam looked up towards her, and then held up the picture of Jack and his family.

“If we run into them,” he said quietly. “Just in case.”

He stood, touched Lilly’s arm and said, “Let’s get out of here.”