Prompt: Vivian never treated me differently because of my leg
Ideas pulled from the jar Monday, Wednesday and Friday as a writing warm-up. Share 1000 words or less in the comments--a finished piece or something to build upon. I'll share contributions on each prompt's corresponding "Results" page. Contribute any time to any prompt. Please See rules :)
Friday, September 28, 2012
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Monday, September 24, 2012
Friday, September 21, 2012
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Monday, September 17, 2012
Friday, September 14, 2012
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Monday, September 10, 2012
Friday, August 31, 2012
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Monday, August 27, 2012
Friday, August 24, 2012
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Monday, August 20, 2012
Friday, August 17, 2012
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Monday, August 13, 2012
Friday, August 10, 2012
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
Monday, August 6, 2012
Friday, August 3, 2012
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Monday, July 30, 2012
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Idea Number Twelve: Results
This entry courtesy of Lux Lush--open to feedback
I followed him into the dimly lit kitchen, barely sitting down across from him before he was waving a bottle at me.
"Drink?"
Not really in the mood until I knew what this was about, I nodded anyway. Saying no would clearly have been lost on him as he was already filling up two glasses. Double hits and no rocks equalled smooth sailing, but Scotch had a bite I never liked to swallow this late in the night.
"What's going on, buddy boy?" I questioned as he shoved a glass in my direction.
With a shaky hand, he lifted the other glass to his lips and motioned for me to do the same.
I raised my glass as he rambled out a gruff “In a minute.“ But, if a minute was needed, it was for his nerves. The liqour seemed to disappear down his gullet in a flash.
Maybe I would need the drink after all.
I took a sip, waiting for the revelation.
Why offer me the top-shelf stuff if not to soften the blow that accompanied a hard confession of the tongue? Or was I misreading this whole moment, and the frenzied but stone-cold sober look he‘d given me the second after I knocked on his door?
No. Sherlock to my Watson, we read each other like books, and tonight I was thumbing the pages of an all too familiar chapter. After twenty-odd years, this wasn't the first time he had been on edge in my presence.
"I...I..." he stammered, staring at the empty glass in his hand as if it held the words he'd now lost.
I took another sip, feeling as though I should have thrown it all down the hatch and silently slid the glass over for another go. If he was speechless - this wasn‘t good. No wonder the bottle was close to empty. Ever the optimist, my old friend was obviously drowning in some sorrow or trying to drown out the buzzing of an old demon of regret.
"Christ," he uttered, throwing his glass at the wall behind me. "I shoulda known what's dead and buried never stays buried. Only sure thing is the dead stay dead, but even the secrets that go with them don't always stick to the grave."
I felt my stomach knot and twist at the mention of the dead, and without hesitation, reached for the bottle of Scotch.
Filling my glass to the brim, there was no fooling around now. I didn't think, didn't breathe, just chugged and let the booze burn.
I knew what had him anxious and would soon have me right there with him.
"Morgan?" My voice but a whisper, saying the name I thought we'd never speak of again.
"Morgan..." he confirmed in a tone so low I just made it out over the pulsing in my head.
Silence enveloped us as our eyes locked across the table.
That name was long dead and buried between us... or at least we both thought it had been.
I followed him into the dimly lit kitchen, barely sitting down across from him before he was waving a bottle at me.
"Drink?"
Not really in the mood until I knew what this was about, I nodded anyway. Saying no would clearly have been lost on him as he was already filling up two glasses. Double hits and no rocks equalled smooth sailing, but Scotch had a bite I never liked to swallow this late in the night.
"What's going on, buddy boy?" I questioned as he shoved a glass in my direction.
With a shaky hand, he lifted the other glass to his lips and motioned for me to do the same.
I raised my glass as he rambled out a gruff “In a minute.“ But, if a minute was needed, it was for his nerves. The liqour seemed to disappear down his gullet in a flash.
Maybe I would need the drink after all.
I took a sip, waiting for the revelation.
Why offer me the top-shelf stuff if not to soften the blow that accompanied a hard confession of the tongue? Or was I misreading this whole moment, and the frenzied but stone-cold sober look he‘d given me the second after I knocked on his door?
No. Sherlock to my Watson, we read each other like books, and tonight I was thumbing the pages of an all too familiar chapter. After twenty-odd years, this wasn't the first time he had been on edge in my presence.
"I...I..." he stammered, staring at the empty glass in his hand as if it held the words he'd now lost.
I took another sip, feeling as though I should have thrown it all down the hatch and silently slid the glass over for another go. If he was speechless - this wasn‘t good. No wonder the bottle was close to empty. Ever the optimist, my old friend was obviously drowning in some sorrow or trying to drown out the buzzing of an old demon of regret.
"Christ," he uttered, throwing his glass at the wall behind me. "I shoulda known what's dead and buried never stays buried. Only sure thing is the dead stay dead, but even the secrets that go with them don't always stick to the grave."
I felt my stomach knot and twist at the mention of the dead, and without hesitation, reached for the bottle of Scotch.
Filling my glass to the brim, there was no fooling around now. I didn't think, didn't breathe, just chugged and let the booze burn.
I knew what had him anxious and would soon have me right there with him.
"Morgan?" My voice but a whisper, saying the name I thought we'd never speak of again.
"Morgan..." he confirmed in a tone so low I just made it out over the pulsing in my head.
Silence enveloped us as our eyes locked across the table.
That name was long dead and buried between us... or at least we both thought it had been.
Friday, July 27, 2012
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Monday, July 23, 2012
Friday, July 20, 2012
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
Monday, July 16, 2012
Saturday, July 14, 2012
Idea Number Six: Results
Prompt: No one else seemed to see what was really happening on the movie screen.
This entry courtesy of Timothy Forry
I
pulled my sweat soaked tee shirt away from my chest. It snapped back wetly. It was the second shirt
I’d gone through in the past three hours. If you’ve never lived on the top
floor of a six-floor walk-up in New York City in the summer, without air
conditioning; you don’t know what hot is.
I peeled the shirt off and tossed it to the floor. I looked out my bedroom
window. The pulsing lights of the Cineplex
and thoughts of a cool, dark movie
theater beckoned to me. I had to get out of the apartment.
I
picked my green Whirled Peas tee shirt off the floor. It smelled a little funky, but at
least it was dry. I slipped it over my head and opened the bedroom door
quietly. I peered out. My dad’s recliner was in sight. His right arm hung
lazily off the side, a sure sign that he’d fallen asleep in front of the TV. I
tip-toed to the front door and let myself out. As soon as I entered the
stairway, I was hit with the strong smell of curry wafting up from a neighbor’s
apartment. It made the thick air harder to breathe as it stung the inside of my
nose. I used my fingers to pinch my nostrils closed. I descended the stairs,
two at a time, racing by the offending neighbor’s door.
In no
time at all I made it to the bottom floor. I pushed through the two sets of
doors and exited to the busy city sidewalk. I cut through the parade of
passersby, narrowly avoiding a direct collision with the drunk homeless guy
that had claimed my street as his territory. In the heat, he reeked even worse
than usual. He smelled like rotten onions, dried pee and liquor. He should wear
a sign that says “Extremely Flammable.” I have nothing against the guy, he even
smiles at me sometimes with the few teeth he has left.
I
bolted across the street and into the theater lobby. I didn’t have any money,
as usual. I hung out just inside theater doors and surveyed the crowd. I saw a
group of older girls and guys lining up to hand over their tickets. I casually
walked up behind them, then ducked to the side. I’m really small and tend to
get overlooked. As the group moved forward, I glanced over my shoulder to make
sure no other employees were watching. Fortunately it was a busy night and all
the workers were engaged with paying moviegoers.
I
ducked the rope and stayed with the group as they headed to their designated
theater. I hadn’t looked at the movie times, so I had no idea where we’d end
up. We passed by a sci-fi movie I really wanted to see, then an action flick. I
cringed as I figured out that the crew was going to see Lost in the Park, a
romantic comedy. Not wanting to miss out on a single minute of free cool air, I
swallowed my disappointment and filed into the theater. I sat near the back,
away from the crowd, and propped my feet up on the seat in front of me. I
leaned back with my arms crossed behind my head, waiting for the movie to
start.
About
forty-five minutes into the movie, I admitted to myself that it was actually
funny. It was about a nerdy guy who posted his studly roommate’s profile pic on
his own dating site profile. He starts chatting with a girl, who, the audience
finds out, did the same thing. They keep making plans to meet in the park, but
they’re both looking for the wrong people. They end up talking, not realizing
that they are actually both the right people.
As I
watched their second meeting, this time at the Bethesda fountain, the woman walked
along the rim. Her heel snapped and she toppled into the water. The nerdy guy
reached in to help her but fell in, too. That’s when I saw someone, clearly not
meant to be in the movie, running up a pathway toward the fountain. Her shirt
was torn and face smudged. She looked terrified. Not far behind her, a man
chased her. He gained on her. I saw a flash of light glint off of a knife in
his hands.
I sat
up straight in my seat and gazed around the theater. Everyone was laughing at
the couple in the fountain. No one else seemed to see what was really happening
on the movie screen.
The
terrified woman had fallen down, right next to the happy couple splashing in
the fountain. I gripped the arm of my seat. How could no one else see this? A
scream caught in my throat as I watched the man with the knife raise his hand
in the air. I couldn’t look. I turned my face away.
It can’t be real. It was the heat. Maybe I was
dehydrated, and hallucinating?
I
turned my gaze back to the screen. My empty stomach heaved as I saw the river
of blood flowing from the woman’s chest. The man was still hunched over her.
I was the only one who saw it.
Then, the
murderer looked directly at me and smiled menacingly.
I
yelped, slapping a hand over my mouth. I bolted out of the theater, through the
lobby and onto the street without stopping. The heat and humidity hit me like a
wall. Taking a deep breath took great effort. I managed it, then looked down
the street before running to the safety of my apartment building. I fished the
key out of my pocket, unlocked the door then flew up the stairs, into my
apartment. I didn’t care if I woke my dad. I raced to my room and slammed the
door shut behind me. I fell against the back of the door, breathing heavily. I
needed to tell somebody about this.
Someone who wouldn’t think I had lost my mind.
I
stumbled to my desk and woke up my laptop. I scanned my friends list to see if
anyone was online. I scrolled down and sighed, slightly relieved, as I noticed
the green light beside ChuckWhiz, aka, my friend Charlie. He knew all sorts of
things about weird, paranormal events. I typed:
Dude,
you’ll never believe what just happened to me.
My own
message stared back at me, the cursor blinked irritatingly.
After a
few minutes, Charlie responded.
Hit me
later. I’m freaking out. I just saw a woman get stabbed in
Central Park.
Friday, July 13, 2012
Thursday, July 12, 2012
Idea Number Five: Results
Prompt: The sauce didn't taste quite right.
This entry courtesy of Timothy Forry
The sauce didn’t taste quite right.
I knew it. Mom was finally trying to poison us.
I glanced around the table, trying to gauge if anyone else realized we were about to die.
Dad slurped a pile of spaghetti through his lips and swallowed without chewing, then went right for a second forkful. He ate so fast I don’t think he tasted anything at all. Eating that much poison at one time, he was sure to be the first to go.
Shauna just twirled the spaghetti around on her fork, not eating. She slouched in her chair with her long black hair covering half her face. She was having what Mom called, “a teen moment.” Well, she timed her mood swing perfectly, at least she’d survive dinner.
I looked over at mom. I tried to keep a straight face so she wouldn’t suspect that I knew her plan to do us in. She hadn’t touched her spaghetti. She was still eating the salad. Maybe she thought we would all be dead by the time she finished it. She caught me looking at her.
“Don’t you like the spaghetti sauce, honey?” She asked me. “It’s a new recipe.”
I’ll bet it was.
I tried to be cheerful, “It’s great!”
Okay, maybe I overdid it.
She smiled at me anyway, then went back to picking the onions out of the salad. She says she doesn’t like them, but I know it’s really because they make her farty.
I pushed the pasta around on my plate, examining the sauce. It was chunkier than what she used to make.
I had read once that dogs could smell if food had been poisoned. I reached out my foot to see if Doofus, our dog (I named him), was close by. He let out a quiet whine as the tip of my sneaker tapped his back. I heard him shift under the table. I looked down out of the corner of my eye. I could see his black nose just peeking out, next to the leg of my chair.
I glanced up quickly to make sure no one was watching and pushed a clump of sauce onto the floor. It landed with a quiet splat, just in front of Doofus’ nose. I saw him inch closer to it, his nostrils moved in and out, then his tongue shot out of his mouth. The glob of sauce disappeared. He snorted, then inched forward. He looked up at me expectantly.
Traitor, I thought.
This entry courtesy of Timothy Forry
The sauce didn’t taste quite right.
I knew it. Mom was finally trying to poison us.
I glanced around the table, trying to gauge if anyone else realized we were about to die.
Dad slurped a pile of spaghetti through his lips and swallowed without chewing, then went right for a second forkful. He ate so fast I don’t think he tasted anything at all. Eating that much poison at one time, he was sure to be the first to go.
Shauna just twirled the spaghetti around on her fork, not eating. She slouched in her chair with her long black hair covering half her face. She was having what Mom called, “a teen moment.” Well, she timed her mood swing perfectly, at least she’d survive dinner.
I looked over at mom. I tried to keep a straight face so she wouldn’t suspect that I knew her plan to do us in. She hadn’t touched her spaghetti. She was still eating the salad. Maybe she thought we would all be dead by the time she finished it. She caught me looking at her.
“Don’t you like the spaghetti sauce, honey?” She asked me. “It’s a new recipe.”
I’ll bet it was.
I tried to be cheerful, “It’s great!”
Okay, maybe I overdid it.
She smiled at me anyway, then went back to picking the onions out of the salad. She says she doesn’t like them, but I know it’s really because they make her farty.
I pushed the pasta around on my plate, examining the sauce. It was chunkier than what she used to make.
I had read once that dogs could smell if food had been poisoned. I reached out my foot to see if Doofus, our dog (I named him), was close by. He let out a quiet whine as the tip of my sneaker tapped his back. I heard him shift under the table. I looked down out of the corner of my eye. I could see his black nose just peeking out, next to the leg of my chair.
I glanced up quickly to make sure no one was watching and pushed a clump of sauce onto the floor. It landed with a quiet splat, just in front of Doofus’ nose. I saw him inch closer to it, his nostrils moved in and out, then his tongue shot out of his mouth. The glob of sauce disappeared. He snorted, then inched forward. He looked up at me expectantly.
Traitor, I thought.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Idea Number Four: Results
Prompt: I stared at the pile of hair on the floor
Courtesty of Timothy Forry
“You don’t have to go through with this.”
We locked eyes in the mirror.
“I want to do this, Sam. “ Alice said to me.
As if to reinforce this, she tightened the towel around her
neck with one hand.
The scissors felt cold against my palm. I lifted a lock of her silky, chestnut hair. I opened the scissor blades and placed them
on either side of the lock, close to her scalp.
The muscles in my hand twitched.
I couldn’t get them to work.
She reached behind the chair with her free hand and found my
knee. She gave it a reassuring squeeze.
I took a deep breath.
I wasn’t sure if she understood just how much this meant to me.
Snip!
She screamed.
I jumped back, startled.
My heart beat so hard I could hear the blood rushing through my veins. I looked at her in the mirror to make sure I
hadn’t accidentally sliced off her ear.
She was laughing at
me.
“Don’t do that! I
could have cut you.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
Alice wiggled in the chair, cleared her throat and composed her face. “You just look way too serious.”
“Would it help if I made the ‘Blue Steel’ face?” I squinted my eyes slightly and sucked in my
cheeks like Ben Stiller in Zoolander, our favorite pick-me-up movie.
Alice guffawed, followed by a snort.
“Oh, that’s much better.”
She reached up and touched the patch of shortened hair. “Now keep going, before you chicken out.”
The next snip was difficult, too, but then it got easier
after each lock of hair fluttered to the bare wood floor. I worked slowly,
admiring the sheen and silken texture.
Alice had always taken pride in her hair. I wanted to treat it with respect. Treat her with respect.
I had never doubted that she would be here for me, the same
as I would do for her, but I was shocked when she told me:
If you have to lose
all of your hair, so do I. And I’ll keep
it that way until you’re better.
I had worked my way around her entire head. Uneven clumps stuck up everywhere. There was one last, long bit of wavy hair
hanging down her back. I held onto the end
and snipped it off, close to the skin.
Before I let it fall, Alice stopped me.
“Wait. Give that to
me.”
I surrendered the tress.
She stood up, shook the towel onto the floor after wiping her neck, then
left the room.
I stared at the pile of hair on the floor. It was the result of 15 years of growing; almost
as long as Alice and I have been friends.
That hair had seen Alice go through a divorce, a string of lackluster relationships,
a failed business venture, a miscarriage, and the death of her father. I felt my eyes welling up.
“Oh, no. Don’t start
that again.” Alice came back into the
room. The lock of hair dangled from her
fingers, a pink bow tied around the end.
I smiled at her. I
explained what I'd been thinking.
“Oh, yeah, it’s seen some bad times. But, it also saw the birth of Lacey, that
amazing trip we took to Italy, your wedding day with Robbie. That’s what this lock of hair is.” She held
it up. “The good memories.”
Alice always had a way of seeing the bright side. No matter what.
She plucked the towel from floor and wrapped it around her
neck and sat back down. She picked the
electric razor off of the table and held it up in the air, waving it at me.
“Okay, finish this.” She said. “I want to rock this look out on the town
tonight. We are soooo going for
margaritas.”
"All right. You got it."
I took the clippers from her and took another look at
her. The short hair really let her blue
eyes shine. Her face always glowed, not matter how long or short her hair was.
She winked at me as I flicked the “on” button.
Better. I already
felt better.
Monday, July 9, 2012
Saturday, July 7, 2012
Idea Number Three: Results
Prompt: The snake curled itself around my arm and hissed softly in my ear.
This entry courtesy of Timothy Forry
I pushed the curtain aside and looked out into the
audience. The crowd was small for a
Saturday afternoon. It used to be that
every chair would be filled, standing room only. Today, only ten chairs were occupied. I noticed a man with a bored look on his face
sitting next to a young boy who seemed more interested in the electronic device
in his hand than watching a sideshow attraction at a circus. An elderly couple sat in the front row. They were holding hands. Occasionally they would look at one another
and smile, as if they were reliving a shared memory. None of the other patrons were
remarkable. Most likely they just paid
the two dollars to come inside the tent to escape the hot August sun.
I looked at my watch.
Only ten more minutes. When I
took the stage I would become Veleno, the Snake Charmer. I’d played the role for forty years. When I first started, the crowds would look
on in awe. Little girls would scream as
Rini, my python, curled her smooth body around my leg, then my torso until her
oblong head peeked up over my shoulder. Now
that anyone could walk into a pet store and buy a boa constrictor or python; my
act seemed tame.
I let the curtain close and turned around. Rini stared at me. She knew what I was capable of.
I really am a snake charmer.
Not just a snake wrangler, like most other circus side-shows.
I first discovered the ability when I was very young. I might have been four, maybe five years
old. I grew in Nebraska on a large farm
in the middle of nowhere. There were no
other houses near mine. From the front
porch of my family’s farmhouse, wheat fields and cornfields stretched out to
the horizon.
One day, my oldest brother was chasing me through the dirt
in front of our house. He liked to beat
me. I didn’t like to be beaten.
I bolted for the cornfield.
It was July, the corn was already up past my head. The sharp-edge leaves cut at my cheeks as I
ran. My face was stinging. I kept running, even though my brother no
longer chased me. I had never run into
the cornfield and didn’t know about the old well. My vision was blurry, I was crying from the
pain of the cuts. I didn’t see the
broken boards covering the old well. I
remember falling, then sliding. The sun
disappeared.
When I came to a stop it was dark. I looked up.
There was only a pinpoint of light.
I heard a drip, drip sound of water from somewhere below. I was terrified to move.
But then, a song formed in my head. I
didn’t know where it came from. It was
not a song I ever heard. I began to hum
it.
Before long, I began to hear sounds coming from all around
me, like someone running their hand over rough wood. My eyes, adjusting to the dim surroundings
began to see movement. I looked above
me, the walls seemed to be moving. I
felt something wrap around my wrist and squeeze. I was jerked upward. I was being lifted out of the well, inch by
inch. As I got closer to the opening of
the well I could see snakes linked head to tail, slithering their way up the
steep side of the well, pulling me to safety.
I had never told anyone.
Never showed anyone the full extent of what I could do. Just enough to get a job with a traveling
circus.
It was time. I
pressed the “play” button on the stereo backstage, then burst through the
curtains. The elderly couple jumped,
startled. The little boy looked up from
his electronic device for a second, then went back to pushing buttons with his
thumbs. His father looked straight ahead
without reaction.
I raised my hands above my head. I heard Rini slithering on the stage behind
me. The elderly woman gasped. Rini slid past the inside of my left foot,
then encircled my leg, climbing up. She had
gotten so big. Her body was almost as
thick as my thighs. Her body wound
around my torso, she gave me a quick squeeze, like a hug, or a reminder that
she could kill me if she wanted.
The snake curled itself around my arm and hissed softly in
my ear.
I knew what she wanted me to do.
No, I thought.
Rini paused, leveling her face directly in front of me. Someone in the audience gasped. I felt a smile forming at the edge of my
mouth. Without thought of the
consequences, I began to hum.
After nearly twenty notes of the song, I heard someone
scream from the outside of the tent.
Then another. The sides of the
tent fluttered as I heard people running by.
The audience members looked around at one another. Someone in the back stood up and rushed to
the exit. He pushed the tent flap aside
and I could the movement of legs, people fleeing.
Then the snakes came.
They slithered under the sides of the tent, winding their way between
the chairs. The little boy screamed,
lifting his feet off the floor, dropping his device. He grabbed onto his father’s arm.
Soon, the whole floor of the tent was a writhing mass of
serpents. I stopped humming. The snakes raised their heads, they had
formed a semicircle at the foot of the stage.
I turned my head and gazed at them.
I smiled.
When I started humming again, the snakes moved as one, like
a giant sheet of scales and tails. Their
collective mass enveloped me. I felt my
feet leave the floor. I was riding a
wave of snakes. They plowed through the
tent wall, breaking into the sun.
I just kept humming.
I didn’t care who saw or heard. I
was free and I wouldn’t hide my gift any
longer.
Friday, July 6, 2012
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Idea Number Two: Results
Prompt:: I will never show anyone what I keep in the box beneath my bed.
Responses:
Courtesy of Nathan Burgoine
“We’re going to be late for the bus,” Derek called, ducking back into the bedroom. “You know how I feel about being...”
Kenny sat on the bed, slender shoulders curled forward, staring down at the open box.
“...late.” The word died on Derek’s lips.
Kenny held up the book. “What is this?”
Derek swallowed.
“This book,” Kenny said. “These papers... The... is this an iPad?” He held up the tablet. “Is it for one of your stories or something?“
Derek closed his eyes.
“Don’t do that,” Kenny said. “You only do that when you’re going to lie.”
“Kenny...”
“Open your eyes.”
Derek did.
“I’m on this,” Kenny said. He’d turned on the tablet. “And I’m in this book.” He was turning the pages of the textbook now, frowning at it. He scowled as he flipped forward, then backward again.
“It’s page fifty-six.”
Kenny looked up. His eyes were wet. Worried. Afraid.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
Derek stepped toward the bed. Kenny shrank back.
“Why would you write that?”
Derek shook his head. His throat was aching, and he had to blink quickly. This shouldn’t have happened. How stupid was he? “I didn’t write it. It was written...” He shook his head. “I didn’t write it.”
“That was the night we met,” Derek said. He looked down again, and found page fifty-six. “There’s a picture of me. Right here. And it says... It says that the night we met, the two men who assaulted me left me quadriplegic. And then, apparently, before I could continue my ‘pioneering work on the B.C. Offshore Wind Turbine Project’ I died of complications from a spinal infection.”
Kenny’s eyes rose. Not worried now. Not afraid. Angry. “In your story, not only do I apparently get the job offer tomorrow, I’m a big hit right up until the point where I die. But that isn’t sad enough, right? I apparently need to be paralyzed before you do it?”
“Kenny...”
“What is the point of this?” he snapped. The cover of the book mocked Derek. Pioneers of Energy. “The iPad, the newspapers... Why did you have them made? Is this a joke? Because it’s a sick joke and it’s not at all funny.” Tears were spilling down his cheeks now. “I... I think I should go...” He rose, and slid off the bed. He was so slim, so graceful, even in this.
“No!” Derek’s heart was thundering in his chest. He reached out for Kenny, but the slender man dodged his hand. But he paused. “I can explain. I can. I just... How did you even..?”
“You talk in your sleep,” Kenny said. “It was adorable.” He shivered. “Then you kept saying... ‘I will never show anyone what I keep in the box beneath my bed.’ Every night since I first stayed over.” He sighed. “I looked. I’m human. There was nothing there, but you had that rug under the bed and this morning, while you were in the shower, I just... looked under it. Loose boards, the box...” He held up the newspapers. “These are all stories about people dying. Cancer, murders, accidents... They’re all fake. What is wrong with you?”
The last words were the hardest yet. Not angry now. Disgusted. Kenny threw the pages onto the bed.
There was no protocol for this. Derek had had the rules drilled into him so hard he heard them like a constant mantra in his head – and apparently spoke them in his sleep. It wasn’t like he could ask for help. His next opportunity for recursion was months away...
Kenny was staring at him. Derek breathed. In. Out.
He was going to get in so much trouble for this.
“They’ll call and offer you the job on Monday. You accept – and this time there won’t be any delay for your rehabilitation. You’re whipcrack smart, Kenny. You’re going to do amazing things for the energy industry. Better than you would have been able to do the way it would have been.”
Kenny crossed his arms over his bare chest. Derek could see the gooseflesh as Kenny considered the words. Tried to digest them. Considered them – just for a second – at face value.
“All these other people,” Kenny said, jerking his chin toward the newspapers on the bed. “Who are they?”
“Candidates,” Derek said. “For a change for the better.”
“How..?” Kenny shook his head. “This is insane. Impossible.”
“They would have broken you. I showed up to make it different.” Derek watched as Kenny remembered that evening. Remembered how Derek had – in Kenny’s own words – ‘come out of nowhere just at the right time.’
“And then you seduced me, because..?” Kenny’s eyebrows rose high on his face.
Derek blushed.
“I take it that wasn’t part of the plan,” Kenny said.
Derek shook his head. “No. I’m supposed to be a complete recluse and stay away from people, other than... Other than the candidates.”
“So that’s why you said you were a writer?”
“It’s a credible cover.”
“Why me?” Kenny said.
“Because you had so much more to offer than you’d given.” Derek paused, considering. “This project... My group... We’re building something better.” He looked at Kenny. “And all the quanta show the world is better with you.”
“If that’s a line, it’s pretty much the best line.” Kenny bit his lip. “Like, ever.”
“It’s not a line.” Derek smiled. “It’s the truth.”
“Okay, see, that’s even sexier. God! I thought you were too built to be a writer. Are you like some sort of soldier?” His eyes brightened. “Oh! Is your name really Derek? Are you sure it’s not Kyle?”
Derek frowned. “What?”
“Not big on movies where you’re from, eh?” Kenny frowned. “Or, I guess, when you’re from is more correct.”
“Are you okay?” Derek asked.
“I just found out I was supposed to die. You may have to give me a few more minutes.” He flinched when he realized what he’d just said.
“That’s my job,” Derek smiled.
“Okay, seriously... That’s an even better line.”
________________________________________________________
Courtesy of Timothy Forry
Responses:
Courtesy of Nathan Burgoine
“We’re going to be late for the bus,” Derek called, ducking back into the bedroom. “You know how I feel about being...”
Kenny sat on the bed, slender shoulders curled forward, staring down at the open box.
“...late.” The word died on Derek’s lips.
Kenny held up the book. “What is this?”
Derek swallowed.
“This book,” Kenny said. “These papers... The... is this an iPad?” He held up the tablet. “Is it for one of your stories or something?“
Derek closed his eyes.
“Don’t do that,” Kenny said. “You only do that when you’re going to lie.”
“Kenny...”
“Open your eyes.”
Derek did.
“I’m on this,” Kenny said. He’d turned on the tablet. “And I’m in this book.” He was turning the pages of the textbook now, frowning at it. He scowled as he flipped forward, then backward again.
“It’s page fifty-six.”
Kenny looked up. His eyes were wet. Worried. Afraid.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
Derek stepped toward the bed. Kenny shrank back.
“Why would you write that?”
Derek shook his head. His throat was aching, and he had to blink quickly. This shouldn’t have happened. How stupid was he? “I didn’t write it. It was written...” He shook his head. “I didn’t write it.”
“That was the night we met,” Derek said. He looked down again, and found page fifty-six. “There’s a picture of me. Right here. And it says... It says that the night we met, the two men who assaulted me left me quadriplegic. And then, apparently, before I could continue my ‘pioneering work on the B.C. Offshore Wind Turbine Project’ I died of complications from a spinal infection.”
Kenny’s eyes rose. Not worried now. Not afraid. Angry. “In your story, not only do I apparently get the job offer tomorrow, I’m a big hit right up until the point where I die. But that isn’t sad enough, right? I apparently need to be paralyzed before you do it?”
“Kenny...”
“What is the point of this?” he snapped. The cover of the book mocked Derek. Pioneers of Energy. “The iPad, the newspapers... Why did you have them made? Is this a joke? Because it’s a sick joke and it’s not at all funny.” Tears were spilling down his cheeks now. “I... I think I should go...” He rose, and slid off the bed. He was so slim, so graceful, even in this.
“No!” Derek’s heart was thundering in his chest. He reached out for Kenny, but the slender man dodged his hand. But he paused. “I can explain. I can. I just... How did you even..?”
“You talk in your sleep,” Kenny said. “It was adorable.” He shivered. “Then you kept saying... ‘I will never show anyone what I keep in the box beneath my bed.’ Every night since I first stayed over.” He sighed. “I looked. I’m human. There was nothing there, but you had that rug under the bed and this morning, while you were in the shower, I just... looked under it. Loose boards, the box...” He held up the newspapers. “These are all stories about people dying. Cancer, murders, accidents... They’re all fake. What is wrong with you?”
The last words were the hardest yet. Not angry now. Disgusted. Kenny threw the pages onto the bed.
There was no protocol for this. Derek had had the rules drilled into him so hard he heard them like a constant mantra in his head – and apparently spoke them in his sleep. It wasn’t like he could ask for help. His next opportunity for recursion was months away...
Kenny was staring at him. Derek breathed. In. Out.
He was going to get in so much trouble for this.
“They’ll call and offer you the job on Monday. You accept – and this time there won’t be any delay for your rehabilitation. You’re whipcrack smart, Kenny. You’re going to do amazing things for the energy industry. Better than you would have been able to do the way it would have been.”
Kenny crossed his arms over his bare chest. Derek could see the gooseflesh as Kenny considered the words. Tried to digest them. Considered them – just for a second – at face value.
“All these other people,” Kenny said, jerking his chin toward the newspapers on the bed. “Who are they?”
“Candidates,” Derek said. “For a change for the better.”
“How..?” Kenny shook his head. “This is insane. Impossible.”
“They would have broken you. I showed up to make it different.” Derek watched as Kenny remembered that evening. Remembered how Derek had – in Kenny’s own words – ‘come out of nowhere just at the right time.’
“And then you seduced me, because..?” Kenny’s eyebrows rose high on his face.
Derek blushed.
“I take it that wasn’t part of the plan,” Kenny said.
Derek shook his head. “No. I’m supposed to be a complete recluse and stay away from people, other than... Other than the candidates.”
“So that’s why you said you were a writer?”
“It’s a credible cover.”
“Why me?” Kenny said.
“Because you had so much more to offer than you’d given.” Derek paused, considering. “This project... My group... We’re building something better.” He looked at Kenny. “And all the quanta show the world is better with you.”
“If that’s a line, it’s pretty much the best line.” Kenny bit his lip. “Like, ever.”
“It’s not a line.” Derek smiled. “It’s the truth.”
“Okay, see, that’s even sexier. God! I thought you were too built to be a writer. Are you like some sort of soldier?” His eyes brightened. “Oh! Is your name really Derek? Are you sure it’s not Kyle?”
Derek frowned. “What?”
“Not big on movies where you’re from, eh?” Kenny frowned. “Or, I guess, when you’re from is more correct.”
“Are you okay?” Derek asked.
“I just found out I was supposed to die. You may have to give me a few more minutes.” He flinched when he realized what he’d just said.
“That’s my job,” Derek smiled.
“Okay, seriously... That’s an even better line.”
________________________________________________________
Courtesy of Timothy Forry
I
lifted her skinny, atrophied legs with one hand and felt beneath her bottom
with the other.
“You’re
wet. Why didn’t you call someone?”
She
turned her head and looked at me with rheumy eyes. Stringy grey hair surrounded her sagging,
wrinkled face. She hissed at me.
“I
urinated on myself. It’s what we
do. Old people and babies.”
“Well,
now I have to wash you, change your clothes, and bedding. There’s a button by your bed, Ms.
Kirchner. All you have to do is press it
and someone will come.”
I
reached beneath her back and legs. I
lifted her off the bed. She couldn’t
have weighed more than 100 pounds.
“Don’t
‘Ms. Kirchner,’ me. You can call me
Roberta. We’re not in school anymore.”
I
recoiled as I set her down in the wheelchair.
She never let on that she remembered me.
Her moments of clarity were further and further apart, but were usually
reserved for a distant past; from long before she became a teacher, even.
She
let out a dry, wheezing laugh. She
scrunched up her eyes, staring at me.
“I
don’t remember your name, but I do remember that you thought the Battle of
Hastings took place in 1225.”
She
cackled at me, pounding the arm of the wheelchair. Apparently, this was hilarious to her. I felt my face flush, embarrassed. I ripped the pink comforter and white sheets
from the bed and tossed them to the floor in one angry motion.
“1066.”
I said. “1225 was the year the Magna Carta
went into effect.”
That
shut her up. For a few seconds.
“Someone
got through to you, James.”
“That’s
not my name,” I sighed. “It’s Greg.”
I
walked around her and gripped the handles of the wheelchair to take her to the
bathroom to get her cleaned up and grab a fresh gown from her closet. She turned around in the chair and looked up
at me. She smiled. It was the smile that she reserved for
someone in her past, not for me. She had
slipped back in time.
“James,
I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Me,
too,” I responded, playing along.
She
reached up behind her head and caressed my hand. Part of me felt guilty for leading her on,
but I knew she would forget this moment in a few minutes.
“Your
secret is safe, James. I’ll never show
anyone what I keep in the box beneath my bed.”
I
turned the wheelchair around and backed into the bathroom. Now, I was really curious about who James was
and what secret she was keeping for him.
In all likelihood I would never find out. All of her worldly possessions were in this
tiny room at Cedar Hills Nursing Home.
There was a clock with different types of birds pictured for every
hour. In a few minutes it would be nine
o’clock and we would hear the call of the goldfinch. There were five ceramic bells on the window
sill that she had collected during her travels.
The small book case beside her nightstand held history books and photo
albums. Other than that, she had a scant
amount of clothing in her closet. I had
never seen any sort of box in her room.
“So,
everything is safe?’ I asked as I
reached over to the silver knobs to turn on the water in the bathtub. I held my hand under the water to test the
temperature, and then faced her. She
wore a quizzical expression.
“Everything?”
She asked.
Then,
as if a giant eraser had appeared from the air and wiped the chalkboard clean,
Roberta’s eyes glazed over and became vacant.
Her chin fell to her chest. She
muttered.
“I’m
wet. Get me the nurse.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)