TKO #13

TKO #13

Oh, give me the beat, boys, and free my soul
I want to get lost in your rock and roll
And drift away

Write about a scene that involves music. You choose the song.

You may recognize this prompt from OO3. If you wrote on this before, of course, respond differently this time.

This TKO is due Saturday at 11:59pm (PST).

Voting!

You have TWO days (vote due Monday at 11:59 pm) to rank the responses to TKO #12. 1 is your most favorite and 6 is your least favorite. Rank yourself as 6 (it won't count against you, of course).

Audience members to this blog can also vote! Email me your lists at misshb AT gmail DOT com.

This is the last prompt! The results for these last three prompts will be averaged and the six players will be ranked. The winner will receive a $75!

Peculair Poinsettia #12

I lit my cigarette in the alley, leaning against the stucco wall of the furniture store. As a watched the moths hovered around the streetlight, I waited for my compatriots to appear. I took another draft of that wonderful cigarette, sweating, my body still fighting the effect of the August sun. They were late, and we had a schedule to keep.

It was “Operation: Save the Chickens”. We were a saltwort group of individuals, dedicated to our cause of preserving the noble chicken from the dangers of pesticides, growth hormones, and worst of all-being eaten.

Mac had done time in Juvie, where he had relinquished his violent ways and become, as they say, a Badass Buddist. Joanie-the flower child, well she wasn’t all there. Her idols were the Ecoterrorist group ELF (Earth Liberation Front). It was comical to see this long, blond haired, petite young women of 102lbs, wield a 22 shot gun. However, after I saw her use it at the range she frequented, I held in my guffaw. She’s deadly.

Joanie and Mac finally came as I finished my cigarette.
“Permission to commence, Star Leader?”
“Permission granted, Echo One-we are a go! Operation Save the Chickens had begun.

We were going to save the chickens from Farmer Bills’ supper table.
Step1: We all got into Mac’s Truck.
Step 2: We put in the theme song from Mission Impossible.
Duh, Duh, duh, dunta, Duh duh, duh dah, Duh duh, duh dah dadada…Dada…duh da!
We were pumped. Who knew that saving the planet was so SWEET!

We turned off the lights as we approached Farmer Bills property. Stealthily, we creped, night vision goggles on, trying to avoid the farm house dog we knew was there from our recon mission. Finally, we heard their terrified rustling feathers. They knew what was coming, they were begging us to save them! As we approached, we saw their cute little eyes begging for mercy from their new found saviors.

Joanie, lifted the chicken coup latch, and open the door.

They just stood there staring, just shocked at the prospect of freedom, I’m sure.

“Go, chickens, you’re free!” the Buddhist Badass Whispered.

We waited, as a few quite clucks issued from the blessed beaks

“Go, Chickens, you’re free!” the Buddist Badass Whispered a little louder this time, slightly non- pulsed at the noble birds lack of movement to escape certain death.

They shuffled a little from their stoops, looking at each other, as if to see if others were going to take their bid for freedom. None of them moved.

“GO CHICKENS, YOU’RE FREE!” the Buddist Badass did not whisper, but shouted into the night. Apparently all the training in Mac’s anger management classes had failed.

A large mass of feathers, beak, and claws flew out of the coop. Their eyes were delirious with joy as they fled to taste the wonders of the outside world. In their haste, they forgot to regulate their bowl movements, However, being covered in chicken shit was a small price to pay for freeing these creatures.

But.... we forgot about Rover.

As we ran from the munching jaws that had taken a bite out of Mac’s pants, the enormity of what we had done filled our souls. So much so, we forgot to look in front of us. And ran right into Farmer Bill’s septic pool. Now covered in crap form two different species, and losing the expensive night vision goggles, things looked slightly less rosy.

. . . . .

I had a Wendy’s Spicy Chicken Sandwich (#6) two weeks later.

And it was Delicious!

***********************************************************************************

In the women’s bathroom of the church basement, there were two large mirrors that meet each other in the far corner. When I was a child, I would stare at my reflection in them. Because the two mirrors were at a 90’ angle from each other, there were three images. One from each side, and then the third- which was a reflection, of my reflection. It would seem like the corner would be divided into four worlds, the real me, the two almost real me’s, and the reflection of the reflection-the girl who was in another world. She was limitless, unbound. To my left and my right, the girls had the same flaws that I did, but she, she was the one I wanted to be. She had confidence, she had courage, and her mistakes were never mistakes, just unintended consequences that would turn out alright in the end. I’d talk to her, and she’d respond like the me who was wonderful.

I still look in the mirror and wish I was her.

When I trashed my parents house, it was her party, it’s just the consequences were manifested here.

Like something out of Alice in Wonderland or of Narnia.

And someday maybe I’ll meet her….

“Hello, self.”

Feisty Fern #12

Nathan walked from the bathroom with a burgundy towel wrapped around his thin waist. His lightly sculpted abdominal muscles were still beaded with water, spotting his tan skin. In his bedroom, he stood in front of the mirror.

“You are looking good tonight, Nathan,” he said aloud. He dropped the towel, and examined what he saw with his ocean blue eyes. “Definitely looking good. Ready for a big night? I think you are.” Words of self-encouragement followed these for the remainder of his date preparation routine. The final step was a spritz of expensive cologne into the air, which Nathan walked through briskly on his way out of his bedroom.

Bonnie ducked slightly under Nathan’s door holding arm as she entered the restaurant. White linen cloths and dim candles were on the tables; understated photographs of the city and fresh floral arrangements were on the dark wooden walls. Nathan admired the smooth line of her neck, which lead the eye easily to her pleasantly plunging neckline. Her skin looked softer than his expensive 800 thread count sheets.

Nathan pulled her chair out, and as she leaned into the seat, his hand brushed her bare back. He felt the goosebumps flash across her skin. Bonnie’s smile was whiter than 92 brightness printer paper. The tip of her pink tongue stuck through her teeth when she giggled at his awestruck expression. Neither of them said anything—they just sat, smiling—until the waitress arrived with menus.

“I’m Jessica, and I’ll be your server this evening.” Both Nathan and Bonnie laughed as their silence was awkwardly interrupted and accepted the green leather wrapped menus. They examined the fare, eyes occasionally meeting over the tops of their menus like lover’s lips in the dark of night.

“It all looks delicious, Nathan, thank you for inviting me tonight,” Bonnie said.

“Of course, thank you for agreeing to come, and, also, for showing up.” They both laughed again.

“I’m going to freshen up; if the waitress comes back for our orders, I’ll have the chicken piccata,” Bonnie told Nathan. As she passed, she delicately touched his shoulder. His eyes followed the swishing of her short skirt as she rounded the corner.

“This is going well, it is, it’s really going well,” Nathan said.

Jessica appeared at the table, her voice was soothing to the ears, even if she was interrupting, “Excuse me, are you ready to order? Do you need me to wait for your date to get back?” Her pale face framed by short-cropped, very black hair. She offered Nathan a pleasant smile, which he returned politely.

“No, I’m ready. She’ll have the chicken piccata, and I’ll have the veal parm.” A very short pause to memorize the order, a nod and Jessica was gone. The plain black pants and white shirt didn’t do much for her as he watched her enter the kitchen, but she might be attractive in different clothes.

“Eh, not bad,” Nathan said too faintly for Bonnie to hear as she returned.

Nathan held Bonnie’s hand when their food arrived. Steam rose from the plates, and the smell of garlic, tomatoes and capers was mouthwatering. Jessica set the plates in front of her customers and left them.

“Hmmm, Nathan, that looks good. Is it chicken parmesan?” Bonnie asked.

“No, its veal,” Nathan said, a juicy morsel dangling on his fork inches from his mouth.

“You’re kidding, right? I mean, you know it’s a baby cow, right? How can you eat that?”
Nathan laughed a little. “I don’t think I should feel any worse than you; you are also eating meat,” he said.

“Chickens don’t count,” she started, as if everyone knew that chickens weren’t really living things. “They are creepy, the way their eyes are always on you. And they peck at you. I have never been pecked at by a cow,” Bonnie defended herself.

“So it’s okay to kill and eat something if it’s creepy?!”



“I can’t believe you messed that up over meat. Who cares if she has an irrational hatred for chicken and strange compassion for everything else?” Nathan said to no one specifically at the bar. After Bonnie left, he moved his plate and ordered a bourbon. “No reason not to now,” he said as he finished his drink.

“She was crazy, you’re better off now,” a familiar, soothing voice chimed in from behind him. It was Jessica.

“Still, that was a silly way to ruin a date. I feel ridiculous.”

Jessica pulled up a stool to Nathan’s left. “I’m sorry, I don’t usually interrupt people, but I thought you might like a person to talk to,” Jessica said, mocking him only a little. She waited, thinking he might have something more to say. “I have an idea, if I tell you the most ridiculous thing I ever did, will you feel better? I mean, I never had a date walk out on me over what I ordered, but I think I can make you smile.”

“That depends; did this thing you did keep you from getting laid?”

She smiled demurely, “It certainly didn’t help."

“When I was in high school, I didn’t have many friends. My parents went out of town my senior year, and they told me ‘no parties’ but in a way that I could tell they were expecting the house to be trashed when they got back.” Nathan nodded his understanding.

“Well, I didn’t know anyone to invite, or have any way to get beer, so I tried to fake a party. I unrolled toilet paper all over the house, and crushed up some potato chips on the kitchen floor,” Jessica’s pale skin was streaked with pink.

“What happened?” Nathan asked, his head turned facing her, now interested in the story.

“I’m pretty sure my parents figured it out. I barely got in any trouble. There was nothing broken or spilled, or even really messy. There were no empty cans or bottles anywhere. I had never really been to a party like that, so didn’t know for sure what kind of a mess it would leave. I felt so stupid, so I think my mom went easy on me,” she finished.

“And now I’ve gone and told my most embarrassing moment to a total stranger,” her face was fully flushed. She was nearly the color of a pink Starburst candy.

Nathan laughed a deep, full laugh. He put a hand over Jessica’s, covering hers completely. “Thank you,” he said. “I feel a little better.” Then he added, “You look like you’re done with work, would you care for a drink?”

Cool Cactus #12

“Let’s see, who am I this week?” I ask myself this question as I pull up my browser and direct myself to Post Secret. This may seem an odd question, and for most people it would be. But not for me. Here’s the thing. I do something sort of bad. Ever since I first found Post Secret I’ve been submitting secrets. Now, this alone isn’t bad. Plenty of people do it, and it really seems to help them. And the fact is, it helped me when I first started. It felt good to get some things off my chest. And hey, a stamp is a hell of a lot cheaper than a therapist.

It also helped me release my creative side, in that I took a lot of effort to make my post cards reflect the secret I was revealing. It took me hours as I would scour magazines for the perfect images and words to express myself. It was very cathartic.

The problem was, it became too cathartic. I really enjoyed the feeling of seeing my secrets on the web, and I would become slightly depressed when I didn’t see my secret uploaded every week. That’s when it happened. I started making up secrets. I HAD to see my cards up there every week. So I studied the secrets that got selected, both mine and others and I came up with a system. The secret had to be both revealing and artistic. Well, I knew I had the artistic chops. So I just had to come up with secrets outrageous or revealing enough to guarantee that they would be selected.

At first, I went with the loneliness tack. I sent in postcards about how I talked to myself and faked having parties so mom would think I had friends. I figured anyone who would start a project like Post Secret had to be pretty lonely to begin with, so my secrets would resonate with him. And I was right.

The other secrets that were almost certain to be posted were the outrageous and weird ones. So I sent in a secret about how I only ate chicken because I thought they were mean and evil birds. It had the benefit of being weird, and claiming I was a failed vegetarian, because I’d eat chicken.

From there, the secrets multiplied. I could never be sure which secret would appear from week to week, I sent so many. But I could always recognize mine when they appeared. And so, I go to the web every Sunday with one question on my mind. “Who am I this week?”

Pleasant Plumeria #12

"It just lacks...a personal touch. It doesn't relate to the reader."

Melissa watched her editor shuffle through the pages of her latest manuscript. As his carefully manicured hands wounded her writing with angry red slashes, she tried to muster up some feeling other than detachment.

"Barry, it's about my life. How much more personal does it get?" She heard her voice. It sounded hollow even to her.

Putting the pages aside, his gaze finally met hers. "Melissa, there's a difference between spitting out some words about your past and crafting a story that people want to read. You have to be relateable. Your audience has to care. Frankly, I'm having a hard time believing that you even care."

She knew she was supposed to feel something at this revelation. Shame, perhaps, or at least embarrassment at being found out. "Of course I care," she lied. "I just think that good, clean writing is what catches soemone's attention. And the stories are interesting."

Frustrated, her editor flipped back to the beginning section of her manuscript. "I'm not saying that the stories aren't interesting. They have amazing potential, but they all fall flat. This bit about the chickens--that could go so many places, but it's just a few pages of clucking and feathers. Is that really how you remember it?"

"It's..." Melissa trailed off as she thought back, her mind filled with images of filthy coops and sharp claws scratching at her young skin.

"Missy, get yer ass in there and muck out the cages!"

"But papa, they're pecking at me, OW, they're clawing me good!"

"Guess you better be quick about then, ain't ya?"

"It's how it was, Barry. Chickens, cages, feathers, eggs, shit. There you go. What else am I supposed to say?"

He removed his eyeglasses and squeezed the bridge of his nose. "You're supposed to say how you felt. How it felt as a little girl to be given chores that you hated, that hurt you. You're supposed to move the reader, make your audience feel for you."

"We lived on a farm, don't you think people can figure it out?"

"No! That's what makes a good writer, don't expect people to figure it out, you SHOW not TELL."

"Show me the eggs, Missy. You ain't got 'em do ya?"

"Papa, I'm sorry, but everytime I got close, them chickens done cut me up! I'm bleeding something awful, it's like my legs is crying red tears."

"Shut up with the fancy talk and go wash up. You ain't got nowhere to go tonight, so you can help yer ma with dinner."

"Fine, Barry, that's one example. What else? And how flowery does the language have to be?"

"I'm not asking for flowers, Melissa. What about the party story? You wrote 'My parents always figured I wasn't very social. I even considered wrecking the house when they were out of town to try and fool them.' Don't you think you could say it differently to make it more interesting?"

"When are y'all coming back then?"

"HA! Why, ya planning on throwing some sorta bash while we're out?"

"No, ma, I just wanna know when to expect you. How long you think the fair'll be?"

"Long enough for you to tend the chickens while we're showing the other animals."

"But pa, you said you was taking 'em with! I thought--"

"Ya thought wrong, din't ya?"

"But I hate those durn things! Papa, mama, please!"

"Missy, those durn things pay for the clothes on yer back and that fancy ass school you always ramble on about. Show some respect and listen to your parents!"

SLAM

"Well I hate Y'ALL TOO!!"

Melissa glanced at the clock, growing increasingly tired of the meeting with her editor. "Look Barry, I'm telling you that I put myself into it. It's the story of a farm girl who grew up and moved to the big city. That's me."

"Yeah, but I don't FEEL it. And I don't think you do, either. What happened after your parents left? This just skips ahead, don't you think people will want to know?"

Color flushed into her cheeks. For the first time in a long time, Melissa looked up at Barry with feeling--real emotion in her eyes. "I like the book the way it is, Barry. End of story."

Feeding off of the first burst of humanity he'd seen from his client, Barry dug in. "I don't think it will sell, Melissa. Make the reader care, make ME care!"

"They DIED, okay?! They died on the way back from the God Damn state fair." Tears coursed down her cheeks, dark splotches littering the front of her silk blouse. "The last thing I did was tell them I hated them and then smashed some ugly figurines. And then I was alone. No one left but me and the God Damn chickens that I hated, no one left to talk to but myself. That's what I live with every day, Barry. How do I put that out there?"

Feeling more moved, more connected to her than he ever had, Barry's voice became gentle, coaxing. "You just did, Missy, if you just put that on paper--"

But that was all it took to shut her down. Her eyes, which just seconds before had been filled with tears, her whole heart on display, went cold and vacant once more. Blinking rapidly, she stood up, smoothed her skirt and headed for the door. "Do what you want with the book, Barry, I don't really care."

"But--"

"And don't you ever, EVER call me Missy again."

Pensive Peyote #12

Hmmm…huh…what time is it???

I turned over towards the direction of the alarm clock and saw the ominous red 4:47 shining brightly in the dark.

Oh wonderful, 13 more minutes. How am I ever going to conceal my excitement? I hate these damn summers out on the ranch. These people wake up and go to bed at ungodly times…

“Sarah, this will be good for you…build some real character you know? And colleges these days are all about the real life experiences in those entrance essays nowadays!”

How would you know Mr. GED?

I remember that conversation so clearly. Don’t ask me what Dad was thinking in trying to talk future college planning into a 13 year old, but there he was, convincing me that I should be looking ahead. He insisted that I spend at least one summer out on “the ranch,” which is the universally agreed upon name for the place within the extended family seeing as how Grandpa Coleman didn’t specify whose name it was going under before he died. Dad and all the rest of them squabbled over it like the chickens I have the pleasure of feeding in about 20 minutes. It was like all my aunts and uncles were darting in and out with their own mental beaks once the “feed” was placed in the middle of all of them…

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

And there it goes…even at 13 I know that 5:00 a.m. is not a time of day for normal people to be waking up, but here I am, dragging myself out of bed. I don’t even wake up this early for school!

I don’t even bother with breakfast. Heaven forbid I get breakfast before the chickens do. A few weeks ago I delayed their feeding time in order to have two pieces of toast, and apparently those creatures come equipped with ESP because they literally charged at me when I entered the pen with their breakfast. I had to bolt out of the pen to escape their gyrating beaks. I was half-tempted to just leave the pail right there by the door so they could wallow in their own miserable stupidity at chasing off a food-bearer, but I knew that they would probably figure out a way to get back at me in their sinister little ways.

*sigh*

As much as I hate those little monsters, I do love breathing this nice clean air every morning. In a few weeks I’ll be back at school in the city and there will be no clean air within 100 miles.

Cluck, cluck, cluck…

At least these little monsters won’t be there either…

*********************

“Sorry Sarah, we can’t come over tonight. We’ve got…uh…plans.”

“Oh really? Where you all going? I’ll catch up with you!”

“Well…actually…we’re already on our way down to Atlantic City. We’re SO sorry…we thought you were studying for that Bio exam tonight…”

You mean the Bio exam that was handed back to us this morning you dimwit?

“Well we gotta go! Good luck with that test!”

“Bye.”

Damnit! Those bitches cancelled on me again! And I even managed to find a buyer for all of us tonight! Is it too much to ask that one of my last weekends in town before college is spent with some friends?

*sigh*

Mom and Dad left for what they dub "the Coleman residence" otherwise known as their Rhode Island playhouse a few hours ago, and I managed to find beer for beer pong and tons of vegetarian food for an actual party. Even managed to get the word out over MySpace without Mom and Dad finding out, and now they’re all ditching on me.

“Gahhhh!!!”

SMASH!!!

“Shit.”

I didn’t mean to hit that…oh shit, it’s bleeding…bleeding badly! Where’s the first aid kit?

As I’m bandaging up my right hand, I wonder how exactly I’m going to explain the broken hallway mirror. Not to mention the five 24 packs in the fridge. I don’t want to throw it all out but I certainly can’t drink it all. If I have to answer Mom’s traditional “well didn’t you go out with your girlfriends this weekend?” question, I’m going to scream.

…

Wait a second…

SMASH!!!

I’ll tear the place up! Maybe that will get her to stop asking me that question while staring at me like I’m some pathetic loser who needs to get laid. If I make it look like I nearly tore the place down with friends over, maybe she’ll finally get off my case!

And hey, maybe they’ll let me keep the beer…

*********************

Patient suffers from manic depression and occasional panic attacks. States she cannot clearly pinpoint when episodes began to occur, but does associate a debilitating effect whenever the attacks happen.

Mother claims childhood history includes an incident where patient destroyed the home while parents were out and fabricated a story about having a party.

Will be prescribing Zoloft and Xanax for Ms. Coleman.

“Great…now I’m officially crazy…”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Oh, nothing Dr. Wilkinson! Thanks!”

Dr. Wilkinson turned back to his desk and scribbled “patient also seems to converse with herself without realizing it.”

“Damnit Sarah, what the hell was that? He’s probably making a not to himself to consider putting you in the nut house.”

God, what is wrong with me? I am an Ivy League educated woman so what the hell am I doing at a shrink’s office?

“Because you talk to yourself, that’s why.”

No no! Shut up!

“And now you’re telling yourself to shut up…well played Sarah. Well played.”

Ugh…how did this get so out of control? Doesn’t everyone do this?

“Only crazy people.”

“Huh? Were you talking to me miss?”

“Hmm…oh, no! I’m so sorry!”

“Now where do I find this pharmacy…”

*********************

We all have secrets: fears, regrets, hopes, beliefs, fantasies, betrayals, humiliations. We may not always recognize them but they are a part of us – like the dreams we can’t always recall in the morning light.

- Frank Warren

Vivid Violet #12

Triptych

Playing Chicken

I itch when I see them; their clucking and scratching and flapping and strutting makes my skin break out in hives. I hate the way their movements are so twitchy - all stop and go - no interim of speeding up and slowing down just a sudden walk/not walk, turn/not turn, peck/not peck - mechanical somehow, sinister. But still, fascinated, I have to look - little dinosaurs, do they remember us..?

I've been working in the battery chicken farm for the last seven years. A hundred thousand saw-beaked birds all squashed into one great hanger sized building, the air heated by their own scrawny little quill-bristled bodies; the air filled with the phosphate guano-stink of chicken shit and rusty cages. It gets under your nails and into your skin you know, rubs itself into your bones over the years, that greasey chicken stink.

Sometimes I practice strutting in the mirror: cranking my head back on my neck, jutting my chin out and folding my elbows and wrists back on themselves like a spastic, kicking my knees high and scraping my clenched-up toes on the carpet. Sometimes I can't help it. I sit up nights and I wonder how much chicken DNA I've got messed up with my own. My periods stopped months ago and now sometimes it feels like I've got something like a stone in my womb. I try to push it out, but it just doesn't come. I'm not a good layer, they'd probably toss my carcass in the bin and grind me up for cattle food.

I practice: One hundred Kegels a day - clench the muscles at the base of my pelvis like I'm trying to stop myself weeing real hard, then release and push down - just like it says in the text book I stole from the library. The egg still won't come though, so I massage my belly, in case the egg is in the wrong position - crosswise, stuck, hard shell grating on the submerged bones of my hips. I eat Rennies by the handful for the calcium, so my baby won't break inside. I cried when big sister's kid came round and put on that cartoon of the nursery rhyme. So sad they couldn't fix him. So now I sleep on my back just in case, and take great care not to fall.

My freezer is filled with frosted breasts, jam-packed with rock-hard thighs and rendered fats for sauces. I've taken to stealing a chicken a day from the bird-floor: tucking their heads under the stumps of their wings until they get sleepy and then tucking their malnourished little bone-bag bodies under my coat. No-one misses them. My Mother gets worried about my exclusive poultry-based eating habits. "You'll turn into a chicken one days" she says, and half laughs as she turns away to escape out the door, her words still hanging there in the gloom of the hallway long after the door has clicked shut and she is gone, just a tick-tock hickory-dock noise of heels on the staircase. I rub my belly and pomise to be better when the time comes; sometimes I almost feel the egg rocking in response.


Talking to myself

No offence, but I've never liked people that much. Especially when they talk. I can't bear it. All that air coming out that's been inside them. Filled with germs and half eaten stenches. Filled with words. Words to make you do things. Words to Make you feel things you didn't want to. Dirty things. Terrible things. Often I just have to walk away before my hands find something sharp to hold. These blown-up balloon people so full of air, so prickable - and me a pincushion-man barely able to hold my needles out of sight. Wretched and damned, I shut myself away.

No-one missed me. I shopped without a word online, and silently took packages from bored delivery guys - my credit cards doing all the talking for me. No TV no DVD no CD no cassetes no records no radio no newspapers no books no people no mirrors. I breathed open mouthed, so as not to hear even the faint bellows of my breath. Without my glasses I'm a blur so I smash them in the sink. Nothing to betray the stench of humanity. Quiet. Peace.

Urges. Instincts. My body is lonely. The internet is full of middle-aged perverts masquerading as girls. Lonely-heart columns filled with emotional train-wrecks. Gum-cracking, dirty-nailed prostitutes with vaginas full of disease. And they talk, they all want to talk. Spitting their inanities at me with great banana lips blown up with silicon and coated in grease the same colour as old clotted blood.

And then I found Chloe. I found her cruising the net. We approached eachother carefully from behind multiple blinds of faked e-mail accounts and lies about age and district and profession. A photo was sent. I found it pleasing. Some money changed hands anonymously - a number simply moving from one digital set to another. I got an e-mail telling me she was on her way. I cleaned the house until my fingers bled and my eyes streamed with chlorine tears. Everything had to be perfect for her arrival. Gleaming.

Like a vampire-bride she arrived under cover of darkness, in a box. Like some techno-Venus she emerged naked and perfect from a surf of polystyrene twists. She smelt like a new car. Unridden in. Virgin. Mine.

I read her manual. She was in delicate health my love, she needed treating well. Just like real people, she came with no guarrentee.

I lie her torso down in our narrow bed. It takes a while to work out just how to joggle and twist her arms into place and connect her legs without damaging her. Stressed, exhausted, we almost have our first row. And then finally she lay there. Inert. Speechless. Expectationless. Uninvolved and uninvested. Not selling anything, simply waiting to be used.

Her skin is as cool and slick as a snail's backside but I don't care, the manual says I can warm her in the bath if I wish but I like her this way; all loves have their bumps to ride over. And later, spent, talking to myself, I lean over her sleeping form and brush my lips against her ear and speak the words that I have wanted to hear from someone, anyone, for so long.

And in silence she shouts her love back.

Wreckage.

I didn't know what to do. I couldn't disappoint them again. My Dad with that knowing wink of his and his desperately hopeful "Don't do anything we wouldn't do eh son..?" as they left me alone that weekend. I often wondered if they were blind my Mum and Dad. They looked at me through some strange natural mixture of parental LSD and smashed dreams and saw this successful, personable, popular kid, when the truth could not have been further.

I mean I okay, so I wasn't a total spaz. I didn't wear specs with tape or have spots like volcanoes. I wasn't very short, nor very tall. Not especially bright, not dumb. I picked my nose, but not in plain view. Average. Save in one respect.

No-one really liked me.

The car pulled out of the drive; balding tyres skating over uneven gravel. I sat, the television on but muted, and watched my knees jump and bounce and jitter in front of me. I couldn't sit still. The clock on the mantlepiece ticked away the seconds. My Dad would come in first, bearing the suitcases, holding the door ajar for Mum with his foot or an elbow. He'd look about the place, its pristine state, the light going steadily out of his eyes and ask me what I'd got up to in their absence, what larks, what shenannigans. Always wanting stories.

What did you do today..?
Nothing.
Who' d you meet today..?
No-one.
Where'd you go today..?
Nowhere.

Each negative rubbing me out until they were left with no choice but to make me up again, invent a son to relate to. A tulpa-child, dreamed up and believed into being; sprung fully formed from their foreheads.

Determined not to disappoint I climbed the stairs, unzipped my pants and pissed a streak all the way across the landing. I ate Cheetos by the bagfull and gulped salty water to fill the vases with puke. I tipped half a bottle of whiskey over Dad's prize amplifier. I threw some coats I'd stolen from school half under Mum and Dad's bed. I wanked into some condoms and left them floating in the bowl. I smoked and ground the butts out on the carpet. And in my head I saw the party, catalogued the incidents, drew up the story board. To admit, to tell.

If I could not be the son my Mother and Father wanted, then I could at least collude in my own fictionalization, I owed them that much.

(1498)

TKO #12

In 1500 words or less, write a story or scene that includes the people as characters who created these postsecret cards. You may explain why each wrote them, write their stories, etc. They may be separate scenes or combined. The only limitation I intend this prompt to put on you is you must in someway referencing the creators of the three cards. I will check the word limit too!

Click on the postcards to view the larger size.







This TKO is due Saturday at 11:59pm (PST).

Voting!

You have TWO days (vote due Sunday at 11:59 pm) to rank the responses to TKO #11. 1 is your most favorite and 6 is your least favorite. Rank yourself as 6 (it won't count against you, of course).

Audience members to this blog can also vote! Email me your lists at misshb AT gmail DOT com

As for Plumeria, I will give him/her a break. Please rank him/her too. This was her/her message -- "Please include me. I forgot that the deadline was Friday, and I was unable to post due to a death in the family. She was the grandmother of a childhood friend, and I was as close to her as my own grandma."

Pleasant Plumeria #11

Hard to breathe. Cotton everywhere—my mouth, my nose, my lungs, my eyes…my mind. What day? Yesterday was…bad. Yesterday was lonely and strange and long. Longer than the day before, but then, all the days seem longer now. If only I could make some sense of it, get things clear. So hungry, but food makes it worse. Swallowing takes too long, then there’s no more air. Then the coughing, then the pain, then the blackouts. When did this become my life?

* * *

Nina woke slowly, gradually surfacing from the depths of her sleep. She stretched, yawned, and glanced over at her bedside clock. Five thirty in the morning. This was a record for the week. Grateful that her thoughts had finally subsided enough to let her exhausted body rest, Nina peeled back her blankets and swung her legs to the floor. She kneaded her sore muscles, massaging her own neck and lower back before standing up and padding to the bathroom. Careful not to wake her sleeping family, she closed the door with a muted snap and sat down on the toilet. Another day had begun.

* * *

Everything is so foggy now, it’s all I can do to make sense of the clock. Five thirty? Is it morning or night? I can’t move my shoulders, they’re useless. This whole body has failed me, I can’t even look out the window anymore. Where’s Haywood? Why isn’t someone here to explain, to lift the fog and remove the cotton and make sense of it all? Where did my Haywood go?

* * *

As the coffee began splashing down into the pot, Nina pulled a banana off of the bunch on the counter. She stared down at it absently, wondering how it could still be so bright when everything else was so grey. Maybe eating it would help. Maybe somehow all the light and color of the banana would leach into her, bring back her smile, help her feel something—anything—other than helplessness.

* * *

“H-H-…Hay!” I’m wheezing, but I hear myself. Can I do it again without coughing? Are there enough breaths left to try one more time? “H—“ Oh no… I never imagined this kind of pain. I never imagined the red hot searing of my lungs being ripped apart by cancer. Cancer. Such a strange concept. Not something I ever learned much about, and now that I have so much of it, I can’t understand it anyway. All I picture are invaders, green and evil, pillaging my body. And they’re winning.

* * *

Nina stepped out into the early summer morning. The air still had bite, and there was mist hanging in the grass. Luckily the walk was short and the flagstones in the garden clearly marked her path. Slipping though the gate in the old wooden fence, Nina entered her parents’ backyard and headed for the sliding glass door. As she plodded along, she caught herself in the reflection. Bags, purple and angry, drooped from beneath her eyes. Her pallor was grey and sickly, and her unwashed hair hung in limp strings from her hastily tied ponytail. Swallowing thickly, she looked away and opened the door.

* * *

Mean, spiteful invaders. Tearing at my chest, tunneling holes in my memory, and laying siege to my brain. All I want to know is where-- “Hay!” The pain is excruciating, but I’ll bear it. I’ll bear it for Haywood, because he’s at the back door and he needs to know where I am. The only way he can help me is if he can find me. “Hay!”

* * *

Unaccustomed to voices in her parents’ home, Nina slid the door shut quickly and hurried to the family room. Something wasn’t right. Her mother was ailing—dying—and she hadn’t spoken in weeks. The cancer that had manifested itself in her lungs had metastasized throughout her body, finally taking root in her brain. No one had even thought there were words left for her to express. When Nina saw her mother it became clear that something had shifted. Her usually vacant eyes were now glassy and dilated. Her labored breathing was rapid and frequent, more so than it had been in recent days. But most of all, it was her face that had changed. No longer lank and expressionless, she had a look of pure pleasure, exaltation, plastered against her features.

* * *

Haywood, you came! You came back! I heard you at the door and now you’re here and you didn’t leave me after all. Why did you stay away so long? They told me you weren’t coming back from that hospital, but I knew better. I knew you wouldn’t leave me. Are we going somewhere together? But I haven’t done my hair. And these clothes, not really fit for traveling. Oh, you charmer, you always knew just what to say. Alright, let’s go then. Where are we heading, is it far? Not too long? Promise it won’t be frightening? I know, you’ll be there with me, but it’s just the change. Change is hard for an old bird like me. But you’re right dear, of course. Anything would be better than staying in that old chair. Let’s go Haywood, I’m ready.

* * *

Nina knelt by her mother’s side as her breathing slowed. Although she had known this moment was coming, had become unavoidable, she was still somehow unprepared. She grasped her mother’s frail hand and felt her papery skin, cool to the touch. Even though it was for the best, Nina felt hot tears spill down her cheeks—the first tears she had shed—as she quietly said goodbye to the woman who had given her life, love, and happiness. Closing her eyes briefly to staunch the tears, Nina heard a faint whisper: “Haywood, I’m ready.” Eyes still closed, she smiled, buoyed by the knowledge that her mother and father were finally reunited. Finally at peace.

I love you Grandma.

Feisty Fern #11

A man in an expensive suit strode confidently from the black Lincoln Towncar. He carried a briefcase in his right hand. There was a bulge under the left flank of his jacket.

Stan swallowed deeply, but his mouth was so dry he didn’t get much out of it. An old Hawaiian shirt rested loosely on his back. Khaki shorts and leather sandals that covered his toes finished his ensemble. A scuffed, brown leather bag shifted back and forth between his sweaty hands.

I look like a goddamned cliché. Here to buy coke, and I look like a Delorean brought me here from the 80s. And from Miami, Stan thought. He fought back a self loathing laugh. Laughing was a bad move when you were stealing from Rocky Marciano.

Not Rocky Marciano the boxer—that would be a sane move. This was Rocky Marciano the top dog badass motherfucker. When someone told him the nickname Rocky was already taken by a man named Marciano, he carved an “R” into the guy’s tongue. That was in the sixth grade—Rocky’s last year of school. He was a man who it was not sane to fuck with. But Stan had little choice. Rocky was the only guy moving the amount of coke he needed to cover his debts.

Stan put a hand across his forehead to shield his eyes from the setting sun. He and the suit were the only two around—Rocky had seen to that. It was late evening on one of Rocky’s construction sites, and all the workers had left hours ago.

^^^^^

A man in a blinding shirt walked methodically from the old, dusty Trans Am. It seemed as though he had to focus all his attention on each step, or else he might stop still where he stood. He carried a tattered brown bag in his right hand.

Ryan took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He straightened the lapel of his suit and tried not to look nervous. The .45 strapped to his left side helped with the jitters. The two guys with shotguns behind the darkly tinted glass of the Towncar didn’t hurt either.

This guy looks like a holdover from Magnum PI. I wonder why Rocky even does business with him, Ryan thought. He was careful not to let his guard drop, despite the buyer’s schmucky appearance. When you worked for Rocky Marciano, underestimating the people around you was unwise.

One of Ryan’s former coworkers had once made such a mistake and had been taken by a buyer. Rocky held his nose against a meat slicer. It was the industrial strength kind where a whole log of meat swipes across the razor sharp blade, cutting it thin. Ryan had watched the man’s nose land in a pile one sliver at a time. He had seen the blade cut through the base of his nose and barely nick his upper lip. He had seen blood pouring from his mouth as the man begged for Rocky to stop—the deformed lips barely able to form words to explain that living without a nose would be punishment enough. Rocky had not stopped until he held a small section of the back of the man’s scalp by the hair, with the entire head splayed out in a pile of neat, deli thin slices. “Lunch, meatheads,” Rocky had said and then laughed a high pitched laugh. Ryan’s stomach turned at the thought.

The grinding of gravel underfoot was the only sound as Ryan walked to meet the buyer in the middle of the construction site. The buyer stopped next to a table saw with a two by four still resting, slightly bowed, across it. He set his bag on the table.

^^^^^

This is a fucking stupid plan. I’m going to die here, today, Stan thought. But then, he was going to die on Sunday if he didn’t try it. This was the only way he saw to make good on his fifty thousand dollar gambling debts. These were not friendly debts. These men scared him more than Rocky Marciano, boxer or drug lord. He had the first ten thousand of it. The only way he knew to turn ten thousand into fifty was to throw dice. He lost the money literally throwing dice, so now he was going for a more metaphorical roll.

The people he owed money to would take the coke. It was as good as cash to them. All Stan had had to do was figure a way to get fifty thousand worth of coke for ten thousand worth of bills. It was an amateurish method, really, but he thought that if he could give a good stare down, he might make it to the car. If he could do that, the Trans Am would outrun the Towncar, and he could find a way out of Rocky’s grasp later. He just had to hope the thug in the suit wouldn’t count his bag too closely until Stan got to the driver’s seat.

“Stan,” he introduced himself.

The suit nodded brusquely at him.

^^^^^

Ryan sat the case of coke on the table next to the leather bag. He opened it for Stan to examine, which he did only briefly. Going mostly with Rocky’s reputation, Ryan guessed. Most people would want a closer look at the stuff.

Stan opened the bag for him to look at, and he glanced in. A big pile of hundreds bound with bank bands. He looked into Stan’s face. Up close he looked worse than he had from a distance. His eyes were puffy and red. His face was covered in a couple days of patchy growth. Ryan thought, This fucker looks hard up. No wonder he’s in a hurry to get this stuff. An honestly set jaw stuck out under a cool steel blue gaze. Ryan shut the leather bag, took it in his right hand and walked away.

When he was about three-quarters of the way back to the Towncar, he pulled a banded stack of bills from the bag and flipped through it gently.

^^^^^

When the suit’s back was turned, Stan grabbed the coke off the saw table. A held breath whooshed from his lips as he turned toward his car, careful not to rush. He was tantalizingly close when he heard what sounded like a stack of bills falling to the gravel covered earth. Excitement turned to panic. Stan ran. His life depended on it.

^^^^^

Under the Franklin on the top of the band was a stack of George Washington’s. After dropping the bills, Ryan set the bag down carefully as he heard Stan begin to run. Picturing his face sliced thin and eaten on a sandwich, he pulled his gun as he turned to face the running man. His arm paused briefly at a ninety degree angle, and then slowly lowered until he was looking down its barrel with both eyes open. A practiced hand fired twice, placing a shot in each of Stan’s lungs.

^^^^^

Stan fell and broke his nose on impact. Small bits of gravel scratched at his throat and sucked into his lungs as he fought for breath. He coughed out three mouthfuls of blood and took a rough gasp. Hot, crimson liquid splashed on his face as he raised his head. He saw his Trans Am, still running, a foot from his outstretched hand. After that, he gave in and lay still. The dice came up seven and his roll was done.

^^^^^

When he picked up the case full of coke, Ryan saw the stare on Stan’s face. It was the same icy look that had convinced him not to count the money immediately. He left the dying body for the weekend crew to bury in the morning.

Peculair Poinsettia #11

“Jim”

I first knew something was wrong when he played with other children. When I was young, Jims’ Aunt Carol and I would push and shove, but then we would forget about it and move on. Jim, once he’s done pushing around, goes back to play; but it’s different. It is as if he’s sulking…or contemplating something. The kids at his preschool, they seem to be afraid of him. He seems just to know what buttons to push to manipulate me and Michael Jim has been tentatively diagnosed with a conduct disorder.

He is still MY son. He’s got my eyes, and absolutely loves when I put classical music on the stereo. He even dances to the music! He really enjoys working in the garage, and is very interested in Michael’s power tools. Unfortunately, he has also inherited Michael’s tendency to wet the bed. Poor Michael struggled with it for years. But Jim seems to be handling it well. With therapy, the school counselor thinks Jim will be alright! He’s also starting to be friends with Janice Hostettler, the little girl two apartments down. They will go to her place and watch Disney Channel together. It is very sweet.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .,

I will never forget him. He was hot. Well, as hot as another eight year old can be to another eight year old. I guess cute would be a better term. I remember going out to recess and noticing him play by himself. I had just transferred from another elementary school, and didn’t know anyone there. The Cute/Hot boy by the Jungle Gym seemed a good place to start.

Hi, I’m Janice.

Hi, I’m Janice.

I one of my most vivid memories of him was how fantastic a mimic he was. Perhaps it was his impressions that intrigued me. Or I was just a stupid little girl. We talked until recess was done, about this Mythbusters show we had somehow managed to see. It was about Sharks. My parents meet Jim’s parents at the “Show and Tell” Night. And it was arranged that Jim would come over to our apartment to let his mom get some cleaning done without interruption.

At first we’d watch T.V. shows together. But after a few visits, he wanted to break the rules. One time, we found matches and decided to burn my Barbie dolls. I was waayyy to old for them, and Jim seemed really keen on the idea. Then he decided to lock me in the closet--just to see how long it would take my mother to figure I was missing. He tricked me to go in by asking if I could get out a board game. Then he shoved me in incredibly hard. He let me scream and cry and bang on the door for about and hour. Then he slipped something between the door and the door frame. I could see by the light coming in from the eaves that it was slick and shiny. It hit my elbow, and I discovered it was a butcher knife that he had stolen from the kitchen. The gash and the feel of my own blood running down my arm, shocked me into silence. Until mom got home, he ran the knife around the eaves of the doorframe—or at least as far as he could reach.

If you tell anyone, I’ll kill you

If you tell anyone, I’ll kill you

If you tell anyone, I’ll kill you…

Mom had gone to visit Grandma in the hospital for three hours, and after all, Jim’s Mom was only an apartment away. Then, Jim convinced her that I had gone to bed already. Mom found me locked up in the closet, with red eyes and blood stains on my clothes the next morning.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“The human psyche is formed in different ways, a combination of both genetics and environment. In children with Attention Deficient Hyperactivity Disorder, the area of the brain that controls inhibitions does not function properly, leading to the symptoms of ADHD, fidgeting, distractedness, and less time-on-task. Similarly, the child psychopathic brain does not function properly in the frontal cortex-the child is unable able to feel remorse. This allows the child to complete injurious acts on others without empathy. Is the child with ADHD human? Yes. Is the child psychopath? Yes, but that question still seems to be up to debate within American society.” ~Professor Dessel, Winchester University

Cool Cactus #11

I shook my head as I looked at the three students sitting in my outer office. It’s not easy being a high school principal. When fights occur, you have to figure out what went down. This should be interesting.

“David, would you step inside please?” David stood up from between the two girls and walks past me into my office.

”Please, take a seat,” I say, indicating a chair across from me. He sits. “Alright David, that was quite a fight out there. Want to tell me what this is all about?”

He looks nervous. “Yeah - Wendy and I were just sitting eating lunch and Colleen came up and went nuts.”

”Any idea why?”

“Well, we recently broke up and I started seeing Wendy. Colleen came into the cafeteria and totally freaked out when she saw us.”

***

There they sit clasping hands and looking deep into each other's eyes. Colleen enters the cafeteria and scans the crowd. Spotting David and Wendy, she stalks towards them, picking up a glass of water on the way.

“I'm really looking forward to the prom this weekend,” said Wendy.

“Me too. I'll pick you up at 7 and we can grab some dinner first.”

Wendy smiles. “Great, I can't—“

Suddenly, Colleen stomps over and pours the water over David's head. ”You bastard! How could you? My best friend?”

David sputters and Wendy jumps to her feet

”Hey! Leave my boyfriend alone!”

“YOUR boyfriend? He was dating me first!” Colleen shouts.

”Well you're the one who broke up with him!”

”Oh sure! Because, he always harbored a secret crush on you. I knew about it and refused to be cheated on.” Colleen is shaking with suppressed rage.

David jumps to his feet. “How dare you accuse me of cheating on you?! I've been nothing but faithful since we started going out!” Colleen clearly looks disbelieving. Wendy comes to David’s defense.

”He's telling the truth. We didn't start going out until AFTER you ended things.”

”Until after you stole him, you mean!” With that, Colleen jumps on Wendy and the two start to struggle, pulling hair and screaming at each other. A teacher runs over and breaks the two up.

”That's enough!”

The two girls struggle in the teacher's grip.

“The three of you go to the Principal's office. Now!”

David stands up and puts his arm around Wendy. Colleen glares at them and crosses her arms, slouching towards the door. David and Wendy follow, huddled close.

***

”Care to tell me what happened, Colleen?”

Colleen was sulking, but suddenly she looks pissed. “Yeah. That cheating bastard dumped me for my best friend, that's what happened.”

I sigh. “I can do without the editorializing, Colleen. Just the facts.”

***

Colleen stalks into the cafeteria and glares around. She spots David and Wendy and makes her way over to the table.

“Great, I can't—“

”You bastard! How could you? My best friend?” Colleen is upset, verging on tears.

Wendy jumps to her feet

”Hey! Leave my boyfriend alone!”

“YOUR boyfriend? He was dating me first!”

“Well you're the one who broke up with him!” Wendy sounds guilty, clearly aware she’s in the wrong.

”Is that what he told you?” Colleen retorts. “HE dumped ME. So he could go after you! He's had a secret crush on you for years. In fact, it wouldn't surprise me to learn that he was only dating me to get to you!”

Wendy turns to David, a hurt look in her eyes. “David, is this true?”

David splutters. “Uh, well, um....”

Wendy's eyes flash and she grabs a glass of water off the table and throws it in David's face. “How could you?!”

Despite being soaking wet, David manages to keep his cool. He looks with puppy dog eyes at Wendy. “Wendy, darling...it's true. I've always had a crush on you. And I wouldn't have left Colleen for you. But she takes me for granted. She doesn't treat me right. YOU do. That's why I want to be with you.”

Wendy starts to waver, and when she speaks, her voice sounds unsure. “Well, why did you wait to ask me out?”

”Because you were dating Paul. You were happy, and that's all that I cared about, even if it meant I was miserable.” David looks very appealing. He is paying no attention to Colleen. His heart is in his eyes.

Colleen can’t believe this. She turns to Wendy. “Oh please. Tell me you're not buying this bullshit!”

David continues to ignore Colleen, looking imploringly at Wendy. “It's true. I love you Wendy. I only settled for Colleen—“

”SETTLED? Why you—“ Colleen flies into a rage at these words. She lunges at David and Wendy grabs her. The two struggle until the teacher comes and breaks them up.

”That's enough!”

Colleen struggles in the teacher's grip.

”The three of you go to the Principal's office. Now!”

David stands up and Wendy puts her arm around him. Colleen glares at them and crosses her arms, slouching towards the door. David and Wendy follow, huddled close.

Pensive Peyote #11

“Mmmmmfffffff!”

With her long tan arms outstretched, Sanga Samarasingha stretched the sleep away. Morning was here and she needed to bring back water from the shoreline for her family. As she lay on her cot, she looked at the ceiling of her modest hut and wondered if the American teacher was right that an education could take her anywhere she wanted to go. Earlier that year, she was introduced to the blond-haired, fair-skinned Oklahoma native who worked for an organization called the Peace Corps. This strange person was in Krueng Raya to set up a school in the village, and Sanga learned that she went by the name “Lisa”.

“What an odd thing to name someone” thought Sanga, but she brushed it off as silly American customs.

Sanga looked and acted much older than her age suggested. At 12 years old, she had already reached a height of 5’3” and her long black hair and fine features betrayed an age much older than reality, and she acted the part as well. The oldest of three siblings, her mother was sick with a mystery illness that left her incapable of caring for the children. That left Sanga to play the part of caregiver, which gave her a maturity beyond her years.

She was a quick learner and had mastered the times tables Lisa had given the class to practice with long before any of her classmates did. Lisa became a mentor for Sanga shortly after they met and Sanga began to believe that she could actually escape her simple life in the village. She had always wanted more, but had not been able to visualize what that could be until she started school.

Ah well, time to get up I guess…

She rolled out of bed and headed for the water buckets. Reluctantly she pulled them onto her shoulders and headed towards the shoreline. It was a quiet December morning, and as she headed for the water, she repeated the times tables she had learned that week in her head. As she reached the shore she began the labored practice of filling up both water buckets. Sanga looked up towards the ocean as she began to hear a low rumbling in the distance. She dropped the newly filled bucket when the ground began to shake…

****************

Lisa Krane had never been to Indonesia before…in fact, she hadn’t even left her home state of Oklahoma before she decided to join the Peace Corps. A 2004 graduate of Oklahoma State University, Lisa received her site notification before graduation and headed off to Peace Corps Training shortly afterwards. She had always been excited at the prospect of spending a few years in a foreign world doing the one thing she loved, and she finally had the chance. Three months after she left Oklahoma and all modern conveniences behind, she traveled to a little village called Krueng Raya and began her project work of setting up a sustainable school for all of the village children. It wasn’t long before a little girl named Sanga caught her eye as especially gifted and ambitious. Their first interaction was a very public controversy over the proper usage of “their” and “there” in a sentence. Lisa had only been teaching for a few months and didn’t believe that she was the one who had made the mistake.

“But Ms. Krane! You told us that the t-h-e-i-r “their” is used in showing possession! Not for a place!”

Lisa looked at Sanga, the blackboard, and back at Sanga.

Damnit! She’s right!

“Oh you’re right Sanga! Glad you’re here to keep me on track!”

With a satisfied grin, Sanga sank back into her seat and seemed to wait for the next opportunity to pounce if necessary. She absorbed anything and everything the experienced teacher threw her way, and Lisa felt like she could make a real difference in this little girl’s life. She began to tutor her privately and gave her lessons far more advanced than what she was teaching in the general classroom.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary when Lisa woke up that December morning. The temperature outside was already starting to heat up, and Lisa silently thanked her years spent in the Oklahoma sun. She couldn’t imagine how those East Coasters were handling the nearly suffocating humidity. She got up and walked over to her files to find the more advanced reading lessons that she and Sanga had planned on doing that morning. Once she found them she headed towards Sanga’s hut.

“She’s out” her mother muttered as soon as she saw Lisa.

“Do you know where she is?”

Sanga’s mother pointed towards the ocean and said “there.”

“Thanks” Lisa said as she headed out the door towards the shoreline. She couldn’t believe how much work Sanga had to do for her family as a mere child. It made Lisa very thankful for the home she grew up in where her main concern at the age of 12 was which one of the New Kids on the Block she wanted to kiss. She soon found Sanga filling up the first water bucket and walked over to her. Right before she reached the little girl the ground started shaking and a low rumble was getting louder and louder. All of the sudden Sanga stood up, dropping the bucket, as she stared out towards the water. The water quickly receded in a way that Lisa had never seen before, and an ominous feeling began to overtake her…

****************

Something’s happening!

That thought quickly raced through Sanga’s mind as she realized her beloved teacher was standing right behind her. She looked back at Lisa and when she turned towards the ocean, she saw a most terrifying sight: a wall of water…getting bigger and closer. All of the sudden Lisa grabbed her hand and jerked it in the opposite direction as they began running back towards the village. Immediately the thought of her family flashed through her mind and Sanga broke away and ran towards her hut. She began screaming for her family to “get out! Get out!” but her mother wouldn’t budge. Lisa was right on Sanga’s heels as the rumbling turned into a roaring noise and the shaking had intensified. Sanga’s siblings raced out of the hut to escape the suddenly vertical ocean and raced towards the woods leaving Sanga alone with her mother.

“Not going” Sanga’s mother muttered. Her eyes showed that she meant it.

She felt the familiar grasp and tug of her hand as Lisa pulled Sanga away from the despondent form in front of them. Sanga allowed herself to be dragged away knowing she’d never see her family again.

****************

No no no!!! We have to get out of here!!!

Lisa had no idea what refuge she would find in the trees. Did not know if they could escape the wall of water closing in behind them. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t form a plan. All she knew was the shaking of the ground, the deadly wall behind her…the need to escape. They were in a full sprint away from the village and through the trees, desperately trying to outrun the monster behind them. The roaring was getting louder and louder with each passing second.

Shit! Shit! This isn’t going to work! We have to get out of here!!!

Lisa stopped at the first thick tree she could find and began to climb, pulling Sanga up with her. Years of gymnastics, despite the horrid early mornings, were proving vital to Lisa now as she contorted her body around tree limbs and further up into the tree. Sanga, half-pulled and half-climbing was right behind her. Neither Lisa nor Sanga could even think anymore.

CRAAASSSHHHHH!!!

As the first wave hit, Lisa and Sanga barely held onto the tree as it nearly broke from the force. Lisa knew that they wouldn’t last very long like this, but there were no other options. As the ocean continued its assault on their tree it broke and Lisa and Sanga were now left to the mercy of their unintended raft. All they could do was hold on for what seemed like days. As the day wore on, more waves came flooding in, and they held on not knowing if they were going to survive.

Lisa knew that the Peace Corps knew that one of their PCV’s was in the heart of the disaster and would send rescue workers.

They wouldn’t leave me out here, would they?

****************

December 27, 2004: Sure enough, Lisa was a high priority evacuation target. They were found still clinging to the battered tree. When daylight came Sanga surveyed the devastation. She had never seen anything like it. Lisa’s face betrayed what she already knew: an absolute catastrophe had just happened…and they somehow survived. She grabbed the fair-skinned hand next to hers. She knew that despite what lay ahead of the pair, they wouldn’t ever leave the other one behind.

Vivid Violet # 11

Homo Suburbia


The baby wakes him, chuntering in her crib - the little teeth pushing slowly through the thin of skin her gums making her short-tempered and fractious. Silently beside him his wife rises to offer her breast. Grey light slides uneasily behind the curtains, he doesn't know wether to get up or not - the alarm clock says it's five-thirtyish - he's got the option of another hour or so's sleep. Then the baby vetos the decision by refusing to return to the land of nod. A ball of softly flailing limbs pushes him off the edge of the bed and into his slippers.

The baby's wails awaken him. The fire has burnt down to a dull orange glow amid a heap of blue-grey ash. His woman shifts under the heap of furs and draws the infant closer, pushing her chapped nipple to his fumbling lips. The baby's cries soften and cease. An ember pops and hisses. At the cave-mouth the cold dawn sky brightens the rock and air sharp with Autumn grazes his cheeks. He rolls out of the furs and stretches, sinews popping in his neck and old scar-tissue across his back twanging tight. Strapping his feet and ankles with swathes of hide, chewed and pissed on, he strides out to the mouth of the cave, to consult with the other men.

Bracing his fingers across the nape of his neck he swivels his shoulders round and about as he clunks down the stairs to the kitchen. His eyes hurt from lack of good sleep and his belly rumbles. He hopes, he suspects vainly, that there is milk left over in the fridge for cornflakes. A cat meows somewhere from the depths of the house; he's not the only one up early. His suspicions were right - the fridge is devoid of milk. Emergency sandwich time. He juggles hard cheese and mayonaise, lettuce and bread; a tomato gets dropped to splat on the tile. Colateral damage in the war against hunger.

The meat from the last hunt is finished. The men decide to first visit the stash from the last kill they'd hidden a few hours walk distant. They hope to find the half-carcass of the great-tusk still resting, shallow-buried in the permafrost, untouched by the scavengers and the long-tooths. They take up their chipped axes and fire-hardened short-stabbing spears and march out in rough single file. Only Twisted-leg stays behind with the womenfolk to guard them from harm, or decoy away any large animals.

The cheese he finds is covered in soft aureoles of off-white mould. He bins it and hunts through the back of the fridge for a can of Tuna. Something winds itself around his ankles and purrs. Staggering he grabs the nearest surface to steady himself and roundly curses the cat for trying to kill him. Dealing out slices of bread like playing cards he smothers each in mayo and flattens out a layer of Iceberg on the top. Busy hacking at the can with the opener he fails to notice the cat which leaps stealthily up onto the Dishwasher behind him.

Most of the meat at the stash is rotten, animals or perhaps just the wind has shifted the snow off the tops of the stacks and the weak sunlight has set maggots writhing in the half-thawed flesh. Old pad marks are scattered around the site, but none they think are new. The men use their spears to prise off the top sections of the buried carcass in the hopes that the deeper layers remain untainted. Sweat starts out of their skins despite the deepening cold. Intent on uncovering the food, they fail to notice another shadow converging on their own across the snow.

Finally levering off the top of the can he sets it to one side for a second to hunt the knife. Quicker than he can turn or lift a hand the cat leaps onto the surface and buries its muzzle into the can, rough pink tongue busy amongst the chunks of fish and oil. Exhaustion and hunger flash into anger and he slaps the cat off the kitchen top and onto the floor, the cat taking the tuna can with it - spraying ruddy hunks of fish all across the terracotta. A paw whips out the rake the back of his hand as he bends to retrieve the can. Furious now he sweeps up the cat in a crushing embrace and heaves it out onto he back porch, slamming the plate glass slider in its frenzied little face. A sudden elation sluices through him and he grins and waggles his fingers derisively as the cat leaps vainly at the handle. Victory.

The long-tooth is on top of one of the men before anyone hears it; its great bladed inscisors hooked into the man's chest just below the collar-bone; its huge, musclar hind legs raking out the mans bowels in great arcs of blood and shit. Leaping back the men surround the great cat and prick at it with their spears - the blunt points scraping along the cat's fur as it shakes its head and roars - amber eyes darting, seeking weakness, seeking fear. Tripping over his own feet the man falls backward, bruising his tailbone in the hard-packed ice. It is only happy accident that brings his spear up, its butt slammed into the ground with the force of his falling body. In the same instant great cat leaps - its body blotting out the wavering sun above him. He smells its musky sweat and sees the light caught along the edge of its claws. The spearpoint takes the beast in the belly and punches out right through its spine, leaving it writhing spastically above him, until the haft of his spear bows then breaks with a splintering of wood to drop the dying cat onto him, his face pressed into its dirty fur. The man beneath soils his breeks convulsively either in relief or fear, he cannot tell. The others pull him out from beneath the corpse and then begin to butcher the big cat, now strangely small in death, with chipped flint sharp and shiny.

He pulls on his clothes and goes to work. The traffic is light and the parking lot empty. He swears he will come into the office early every day from now on. The day passes without event, and a little tediously - the colleague normally sharing his workspace absent, ill aparantly, flu. He hopes he doesn't get it and finishes all the stuff in his in-box in record time - working without the usual rigmarole of distractions and banter. He leaves early, whistling as he manoevers his car out of the now congested lot. Even stops to buy flowers on the way home, so great is his joie-de-vivre. He puts his key in the door and turns the lock softly, hoping to surprise his wife.

The cat's flesh is diseased they say, some thread-like worms in its lungs and liver. Useless. The meat from the stash will only fill one sled. His leg hurts: his knee twisted beneath the cat as they fell. They decide to load up his sled and send him back alone while they continue on to forage along the game trails till near-dark. He grunts at this dubious wisdom but accedes. Thankfuly the journey is without incident, beyond stopping at a fast running stream, still filled by off-flow from the glacier, to wash out his shit. The camp is strangely quiet as he approaches, womenfolk huddled over their skins, scrapers moving rhythmicly, but their eyes all slither away from his. He cannot see his woman among them. Throat hoarse from the wind and the cold he gives no holler of greeting as he reaches the cave mouth.

The house is quiet until he reaches the bottom of the stairs. Then he hears his wife's rough breathing and the familliar groan and squeak of their bed. Dropping his shoes he mounts the staircase cautiously, his feet slow and clumsy on the steps.

Over the low moans of the wind he hears the rough sounds of his woman's pleasure. As his eyes adjust to the gloom in the cave he sees the shape of her spreadeagled across the furs, twisted-leg's heavy buttocks thrusting at their junction. The baby gurgles in the furs nearby. He wonders now, if his son is really his. Intent on their union, neither of the lovers notice as he heaves a frozen length of meat from the sled, heavy and jagged with splintered bone.

Dragging up the stairs like a man on the way to the chair, he nears the open door of the bedroom he's shared with his wife for eight years. In the nursery to the left he hears his daughter shifting in her crib. Through the mirror on the vanity table he sees his wife folded over on the edge of the bed, her hair plastered across her face by sweat and sperm. And his colleague, looking remarkably spry considering his bout of flu: working his tongue into her as she grinds her cunt into his face. He knows there is a gun on his side of the bed. Two strides and he's there.

(1496 words)

TKO #11 / Results of TKO #10

Results of TKO #10

Sociable Sunflower is removed as a result of inactivity.
Classic Carnation and Loud Lilly are removed as a result of the vote.

***

TKO #11

Write the same story from two different points of view.

Maximum of 1500 words. I really will count the words and erase any words over the limit (I know that's mean but it's the only way to be sure nobody gets extra words).

Due Friday at 11:59 pm (PST).

This is the final six. These players will all be ranked as a result of their responses but no contestants will be removed.

Classic Carnation #10

I hadn't taken a trip on a bus in ten years, hadn't heard the squeaking of tires, hadn't seen the puffs of exhaust fumes sail into the skies. I sit at the bus stop positioned next to the job that payed my way through college and graduate school. The job that got me an entry level job which allowed me to climb to the top of the corporate ladder in no time. So as a chief executive officer of this company, I sat at a bus stop waiting for my ride.

We'd met here. My car had broken down and I had taken shelter in the bus stop from the pouring rain to wait for a friend to come pick me up. He was an older man with gentle eyes and a kind smile framed with a little stubble. A ratted old ball cap on his head, he offered me a handkerchief from the pocket of a fairly new jacket.

"It's cold out there."

"That's the understatement of the century. It's freezing."

"Last of storms in late fall. What'd you expect it to be? Balmy? This isn't Florida, Miss."

"No, it's the Pacific Northwest, and as for what I expected, well, I expected the heat of my car." I grinned. "Oh, and the name's Dolores. Dolores McGovren."

"And I'm Nathaniel. Nathaniel Smith."

We shook hands and became instant friends. Nathaniel worked for some networking company nearby doing a job I couldn't quite understand despite his many attempts to teach me. We began meeting every Wednesday at the bus stop and would grab lunch at a little hole in the wall place that was Nathaniel's favorite. Soon, we were recognized as regulars and our waitress, Sally, would have our drinks and appetizer on table the moment we got there.

Over our lunches, he became a second father to me. When I graduated with my bachelor's degree, he gave me a goldfish. "You gotta learn responsibility for others, sweet pea. It's about taking care of others this whole experiment of life."
It became a proverbial joke of ours. On his birthday I got him a cake shaped like a goldfish. For Christmas, I received a stuffed goldfish. Father's Day, he received a box of Goldfish crackers, and on my wedding day he gave me a necklace with a goldfish charm. I wore it at all times.

I was fingering it when I boarded the bus to our favorite little luncheonette. I sat quietly in a back booth and ate my usual before hopping a taxi to the cathedral. I sat in the back and cried for him as they carried him past. In the graveyard, I said my last good-bye.

I went back to the bus stop. I've been sitting here for hours, fingering the charm, hiding again from the rain.

Pensive Peyote #10

Screeeeechhh!!!

As the bus flew past him in a most ungraceful stop, he jogged alongside it waiting for the contraption to stop long enough for him to jump on.

Whoosh!

The doors whipped open during its last few feet of travel and he waited until it came to a complete stop before climbing on. The driver shot him an apologetic look, and he shrugged it off as he deposited his money in the fare box. This had happened every morning for the past five years, and you would think that after driving the vehicle for so long, you would understand the concept of slowing down before the bus stop rather than screeching past. But alas, the driver was a creature of habit and did the same thing every morning.

He braced himself for the traditional reaction he always got when he took the bus to work. People would look up at him for a split second and snap their heads around and look out the window while trying to act like they were doing nothing wrong. The typical “I know I’m not doing anything wrong, but you may think I am because that’s your job” mentality.

While suppressing a smirk that often came to his face whenever he was thoroughly amused, he made his way to the back of the bus. At 6’0” tall and 170 pounds, he was an imposing figure. His bright blue eyes offered a seemingly stark, yet natural, contrast to his tan face and dark brown hair. Officer Bailey couldn’t figure out which he enjoyed more: his job or the reaction he got when he jumped onto a city bus wearing the well-known dark blue uniform. At first it annoyed him that complete strangers within a 50 yard radius felt like they had to be perfect angels in order to avoid being arrested, but it had become an amusing part of his day.

He sat down behind what appeared to be a man and his granddaughter. The little girl peeked up over the back of the seat to look at him. Bailey waved to her and mouthed “hi”. She giggled and turned around to presumably tell her grandfather that she talked to the police officer. He turned around and smiled back in an appreciative manner, and then turned his attention back to the girl. What struck Bailey immediately were the girl’s clear blue eyes and her nearly jet-black hair. It was as if he had found a twin born about 25 years too late.

“Where we goin’ grandpa?”

“We’re headed to Daggett Lake in upstate, but first we have to swing by your mother’s place to get your rod.”

“What’s a rod grandpa?”

“It’s what you use to catch the fish in the lake, remember Amber?”

“Oh yeah! We’re goin’ to catch some fish, aren’t we?!?”

“That’s right, and if you have any of that true Anderson blood running in ya, you’ll be catching ‘em left and right!”

“Just like you, right grandpa?”

“Right!”

Bailey winced as he overheard the conversation taking place in front of him. Thankfully they couldn’t see his reaction. He remembered his first time at Daggett Lake. He wasn’t much older than the girl in front of him when his own father took him fishing for the first time. It’s not an experience he enjoyed reliving, but the conversation in front of him forced the scene back into his head.

His father had picked him up from his mother’s little Brooklyn apartment. He was too young to remember when they had separated, but he remembered the divorce. All of the sudden he was whisked away from the place they all shared on 10^th Avenue and found himself sharing a 2-bedroom place the size of a closet in the middle of Brooklyn. He had just made some new friends in his kindergarten class before he was forced to start all over again.

“You know I don’t want to bother your mother, so could you go in and get all of your gear for the lake?”

“Sure dad! I’ll tell her you’re out here too!”

He was still in that stage afterwards where he believed if he could just get them talking again, then everything would go back to the way it was. He took it upon himself at the wise old age of six to patch up a marriage that his adult parents had been unable to keep together.

“No! Son…if she wants to talk to me, she knows where to find me.”

“Well…okay…I guess.”

He went inside and gathered up his tackle box, fishing rod, and the lunch his mother had packed for him. As he gathered everything up he noticed his mother’s bedroom door was closed. As he grew older he realized that she would do that whenever she thought there was a risk of his father coming in with him. It was her way of avoiding anything and everything that had to do with her ex. His father’s way of avoiding her was to sit on the steps leading up to the apartment building, so he knew that the only way to get them to interact was to force their hands as much as he could. It was a doomed effort from the start, but that didn’t stop him.

While he was packing his lunch, he suddenly had an ingenious idea: he would pack another lunch and tell his father that mom had made it for him! That would surely get them talking, right? Pleased with his idea, he went to work making another sandwich…just like dad liked it: way too much mayo, and only one lettuce leaf. His dad had never cared much for the healthier side of food, and that fact was well-known. After he finished, he put the rest of his clothes into his backpack, yelled goodbye through his mother’s door, and took off down the stairs.

He practically yelled out “mom made a sandwich for you!” as soon as he made it to the sidewalk. A look of surprise clearly registered on his father’s face, and for a moment, he looked up towards the apartment window as if contemplating going inside. It was gone in an instant, and he looked down at his son and said “you know your mother is out of town right now.”

…

Bailey froze. He had completely forgotten. He looked at the ground while mentally berating himself for being so stupid, and when he looked back up at his dad he saw something he had never seen before. Anger. An anger aimed directly at him.

Smack!

He was stunned. No sooner after the backhand, his father kneeled down, grabbed his shoulders, and said “don’t ever pull something like that again!”

And just like that his father grabbed all of his stuff and led them towards the bus stop like nothing had happened. They went on their trip, caught tons of fish, and came back to the city without ever mentioning it. Bailey ended up telling his mother what had happened, and he had never witnessed a verbal barrage occur over a phone like the one he saw when his mother called his father. After that, things were never the same between him and his father. He eventually stopped calling, and their first fishing trip also became their last.

High school graduation passed, and there was no word. College graduation passed and no word. He entered the academy and graduated near the top of his class. No word. Now, five years later, he was next in line for promotion to the prestigious rank of detective in his precinct. No word.

Bailey was angry for many years over the estrangement. After all, it was his father who had hit him, not the other way around. He used every word in the dictionary to negatively describe his father, but “coward” always came back around. He wondered what his father would do if he saw him today. How would he react? He wasn’t sure, but he learned in college that if he continued festering in his anger, it would consume him and turn him into the same bitter old man that felt it was appropriate to backhand good-intentioned six year olds on the sidewalk. His rage evolved into a desire to help others like him: the kids who come from “broken homes” who are already assumed to fail. It’s why he became a cop.

Screech!!!

This was his stop…well, actually it was about 20 feet ago, but the driver never failed in passing every stop on the route. As Bailey got up to leave Amber turned around and smiled at him again. He handed her one of those McGruff stickers (kids always loved those) and said “have fun fishing.” With that he bolted out of the bus doors and headed to his patrol car.