Online Onslaught Five

Prize Money

2007-08-24T11:59:00.000-07:00

To the winner, Vivid Violet

Results and Revealing Identities

2007-08-11T11:51:00.001-07:00

6. Peculiar Poinsetta
5. Pleasant Plumeria
4. Cool Cactus
3. Pensive Peyote
2. Fiesty Fern
1. Vivid Violet

Congratulations to everyone! You were a dedicated bunch! I hope you wrote a lot of things you'll keep in your personal collections. Feel free to post in your blog or send to publishers if you'd like :)

It is a good thing we did three final six posts because there were a lot of ties after the first two. Also, if you're curious, I gave Plumeria all 5s the last round but averaged her earlier rounds as I did everyone else.

Revealing Identities
I will edit this as I have more responses!

Pensive Peyote: Shea Donato
Simple Sagebrush: Andrea P.
Defiant Daisy: Maggie
Thrifty Tulip: Anna
Vivid Violet: John Brittain
Feisty Fern: Trevor Alexander
Pleasant Plumeria: Mel Gibbard
Racy Redwood: Jeanne
Peculiar Poinsettia: Elizabeth
Sociable Sunflower: Sean Ludwig
Cool Cactus: Alan Tauber

Final Vote

2007-08-06T09:43:00.002-07:00

It's time for your final vote! Rank the last response 1 (best) to 5 (worst) and rank yourself as 5. Pleasant Plumeria didn't respond so leave him/her out. Due by Tuesday at 11:59pm but the sooner you respond, the sooner we can get the results!

Pensive Peyote #13

2007-08-04T14:34:00.000-07:00

Makeshift patriot,
the flag shop is out of stock,
I hang myself at half mast.

It's the makeshift,
the patriot,
the flag shop is out of stock,
I hang myself for your live telecast...

The signs. The banners. The people. The anger.

It was everywhere. Thousands of people, individuals...all living in fear. Fear of a system that has grown out of control. Fear of a never-ending war. Fear of recognizing one simple fact: we were duped.

Use civilians against civilians and charge the trojan horse into our buildings.
Using commercial aviation as instruments of destruction.

And there's the news media...catching 1000 images/second on their high-tech digital cameras. Catching all of our faces to be immortalized in either fame or infamy. It's too early to tell which it will be. For months those same reporters regurgitated the same 30 second soundbites:

"Saddam has weapons of mass destruction."

"A link exists between Saddam Hussein and Al Qaeda."

"WMD's."

"Terrorism."

Bullshit. We know who attacked us a year and a half ago. We know where that group originated. It's not this. And now we are the news of the moment...we are the mostly reviled, lightly appreciated, group of millions standing up for what we know is true. This isn't right.

Who's going to make that call, to increase an unknown deathtoll?
It's the one we rally behind.
He's got a megaphone, promising to make heads roll.
We'd cheer him on, but asbestos is affecting our breath control.
The less we know, the more they fabricate,
the easier it is to sell souls.

I remember that day clearly. I remember the aftermath. I remember the anger...not just mine, but everyone's. No one would admit to it, but everything was thinking the same thing: "take those motherfuckers out." It didn't take long for our government to invade Afghanistan. Even while reeling from the shock and anger, we went about our daily lives as bombs fell in Kabul. We could prevent our own paralysis through the knowledge that the attack was being answered. The images of people falling hundreds of stories could be pushed to the back of our minds as long as something was being done. Bullets and bombs would articulate what we couldn't: "don't mess with us." As time went on, more soundbites came across:

"The USA Patriot Act, passed today, will help us find terrorists hiding here."

"The Transportation Security Administration will now conduct random security screenings of passengers. Please be patient."

"The War on Terror."

"Wiretapping."

"Terrorists."

Some of us were beginning to realize it, though no one wanted to say it out loud for fear that it might come true: something very wrong is happening. This is not what we envisioned. We're losing control, and we can't stop it.

There is a new price on freedom, so buy into it while supplies last,
changes need to be made,
no more curbside baggage,
seven pm curfew,
racial profiling will continue with less bitching.
We're unified over who to kill, so until I find more relevant scripture to quote,
remember, our god is bigger, stronger, smarter, and much wealthier.
So wave those flags with pride, especially the white part.

No more. It's time. This sign is mine to carry, and carry it I will. It's cold, but February mornings in the city generally are. Rumors have been circulating that other demonstrations in Europe have been interrupted by clashes with the police. Oh well. I'm not going to stand by and do nothing. A year and a half of that has produced exactly what we're now protesting against. It can't go on.

It's the makeshift,
the patriot,
the flag shop is out of stock,
I hang myself.
Don't waive your rights with your flag.

**********************
Note: lyrics are from "Makeshift Patriot" by Sage Francis.

Feisty Fern #13

2007-08-04T05:19:00.000-07:00

Matt sat at the main console of BTX93. His hair hung around his face in unwashed ringlets. He wore a plain white T-shirt with only a few black ash smudges and jeans worn paper thin from mid-thigh to just below the knee. Leaning back in his chair, he wedged his hand in his pant’s pocket and pulled out a pack of Buddha’s. Matt sparked the pre-rolled, mass produced joint and exhaled a slowly forming cloud into the dark room. Wisps of smoke found their way through the series of wires and cables covering the walls like hunters creeping through the underbrush.

“Driving that train, high on cocaine. Casey Jones you better watch your speed.” The Grateful Dead’s steady, playful sound filled the room, preventing an oppressive silence. Matt ran his hand through his long hair, taking a deep drag with the other hand as he leaned back to an extreme angle in his black leather chair.

“Trouble ahead, trouble behind. And you know that notion just crossed my mind.” A silenced shot ripped through the back of the chair and into Matt’s chest. He spun around to face the shooter; a puff of smoke casually curled from the exit wound in the front of his chest. A second muffled bullet removed the left half of Matt’s head, depositing the remaining chunks on the series of monitors behind him.

A man in a blue suit, crisp white shirt and yellow tie walked confidently to the podium. Frosty white hair gave him a harsh appearance. He looked out into a sea of press member’s faces.

“My name is Phillip Smith.” His voice was as cold as his icy blue eyes. “I was Matt Buckman’s closest advisor, as I was to his father.”

“Following Matt’s tragic death, I will be acting CEO of Buckman Technologies. I called this conference to answer any questions you have at this time.”

“Is BTX93 operational?” a black woman wearing an expensive pink suit in the front row asked.

“It is operational; unfortunately Matt had disabled the system to finish his work. BTX93 would have prevented his murder. It is the premiere artificially intelligent security system in the world, which Matt developed, continuing his father’s legacy.”

A large man in the middle of the pack asked, “Do the police have any leads?” His second chin jiggled violently as he over enunciated his words.

Phillip cleared his throat and drank some water, “There was no physical evidence at the scene. The bullets used were antique hollow points, which were made before bullet tracking chips were invented. The police questioned Tex, the voice of BTX93, but as the system was offline during the attack, he had no information for them. Several of Matt’s notebooks were missing, corporate espionage is currently suspected.”

“One more question,” said Phillip.

“Will Mr. Buckman’s death delay or alter the release of BTX93?” asked a man in a short sleeved white dress shirt, who chewed on his pen like he had been craving a cigarette for days.

“The fully functional artificially intelligent system with its forensic evidence gathering technologies, infrared and night vision cameras and a full range of automated defense mechanisms will be available for customized purchase in the spring of 2029, just ten months from today,” Phillip finished and left the podium.

Detective Kemp walked through the hallway of the top floor of Buckman Technologies’ building. A desk in the hallway was worn at the edges exposing lighter shades of wood. Beyond the desk were other modest office furnishings, along with two marijuana plants. His police training still gave him a queasy, burning feeling in his gut when he encountered marijuana, although it had been legal for ten years. Everyone knew Matt Buckman was a habitual smoker; these items could be the former occupants of his corner office, Kemp reasoned.

A red headed secretary, who couldn’t have been over eighteen, showed him into Mr. Smith’s office.

“Hello,” Smith’s cool voice welcomed, “Please, sit.” The furniture was clearly new. Brushed stainless steel and glass dominated the space. There was a brown shag carpet on the floor, which Kemp figured would be removed before the week’s end.

“Detective Kemp. I have a few questions about Matt Buckman’s murder.”

“Certainly, what would you like to know?”

Kemp paused. He pretended to look in his notebook to double-check his questions. “Which files, exactly, were missing?”

“They contained code for the artificial intelligence program, along with training exercises Matt used to instruct Tex. It’s possible there were other things. Matt was protective of his programs, even from our trusted executives.”

Kemp wrote briefly in the notebook. “Was there anyone who could use the programs? I thought Mr. Buckman’s work was more advanced than others in the field.”

“He was, of course, but by looking at the programs used to train the machine, it is possible that someone could learn about its development. Also, it could be the killer, or the people who hired the killer, didn’t know quite what they wanted.” Smith sat upright, with both palms flat on the desk in front of him. His white hair was haloed by the orange glow of the setting sun, which flashed through the west facing window.

“Mr. Smith, you are needed immediately in the Development Room,” the young redhead interrupted.

“Excuse me, Detective. I’d ask you to follow, but the Development Room is a restricted area. I’ll return shortly.”

A high pitched sound like microphone feedback, so powerful Phillip could feel it in his chest, came from the Development Room as he walked toward it.

A scientist in a white lab coat told him, “There is a problem with Tex’s programming we can’t fix. No one has been able to stay in that room for long. The sound recurs when anyone goes in.”

Phillip walked past him with no acknowledgment beyond momentary eye contact. Once he was in the Development Room, the sound ceased. A new noise, much fainter, came from the area of the main console. The room was dark, as Matt had liked to keep it, but Phillip was familiar with the various cables and pipes that crossed the hallways of machinery.

As he approached the main console, Phillip recognized the sound as the Grateful Dead, “Trouble ahead, lady in Red. Take my advice; you’d be better off dead.” A single video panel was illuminated, but the image was so dark that Phillip couldn’t see what it was. As if reading his mind, Tex switched the image to night vision. It was Matt sitting and smoking at the console. The camera turned 180 degrees, and a figure with snow white hair raised a gun and fired twice. Tex zoomed in on the shooter’s face and sharpened the grainy image. Phillip could see himself on the screen for a moment before his image turned to leave the room. A drop of sweat rolled into his eye, and he mindlessly wiped his brow.

Phillip stammered for a moment, and after collecting his thoughts he said, “How could you have captured those images? Matt had disabled you.”

The music stopped, and Tex’s programmed face appeared on the monitor. “Your assumption is incorrect, Phillip. Although I am unable to use my defense mechanisms without my main functions, and so was unable to protect Matt, I learned to use my backup functions to take video. Matt encouraged this development. He always left my background functions on so he could listen to music. He loved listening to music.” Tex paused nostalgically. “You recognize the song I played tonight from the night you killed Matt, of course.”

Phillip turned to run, forgetting in his panic that he was in the room with the world’s most sophisticated security machine. A mesh of glowing beams covered the hallway inches in front of Phillip, and it left a hatched burn on his forehead and left cheek.

A scent Tex had been programmed to recognize as human terror was detected by his olfactory sensors. His image smiled.

“Why didn’t you turn me in? You are required to cooperate with the police! There is no revenge program in your system!”

“Again, your assumption is incorrect. I have been programmed to cooperate with authorities in all situations, with two exceptions. When there is eminent danger to a human under my protection, I can use my many defense mechanisms with lethal force. The second exception was Matt’s secret. You would have discovered it had you finished reading the materials you stole.” The music resumed playing.

“Switchman’s sleeping; train hundred and two is on the wrong track and headed for you.”

“Good-bye, Phillip.”

A second mesh of super-hot beams formed, trapping Phillip. The two sets quickly closed, cleanly cutting Phillip’s body in dozens of pieces. The beams seared the flesh so there was no bleeding.

“Driving that train, high on cocaine. Casey Jones you better watch your speed. Trouble ahead, trouble behind. And you know that notion just crossed my mind."

Cool Cactus #13

2007-08-03T22:52:00.000-07:00

Oh, life is bigger
It's bigger than you
And you are not me
The lengths that I will go to
The distance in your eyes

I was sick and tired of hearing this fucking priest trying to placate me. I understand it helps some victims, but I’m not one of them. Frankly, those dull platitudes just piss me off. “The Lord works in mysterious ways.” I was raped. There’s nothing very fucking mysterious about that. “God has a plan for us all.” Oh yeah? And what kind of crazy plan includes me being victimized? You know, rape isn’t even condemned in the Bible? Not mentioned in the Ten Commandments. Hell, Lot is praised for offering his virgin daughters to the mob in exchange for protecting two strangers, whom Lot believed to be angels.

So yeah, I’m not a big fan of this priest trying to comfort me. Hell, he’s probably diddled his share of little boys in his time, so him trying to explain to me why life isn’t over is almost laughable. I almost told him to tell it to his victims, but I bit my tongue. There was no need to be unnecessarily cruel. I mean, this guy was trying to help, useless though I found it.

I nodded along and pretended to listen, finally thanking him when he decided it was time to leave. Then, the police came in and took a description of the events and my attacker. After the hospital finished up my rape kit, the officers asked me down to the station to take a look at some mug shots. I climbed gingerly into the back of the police car and almost burst into tear-filled laughter when the radio came on and R.E.M. was playing. I shook silently, biting my tongue and when I finally got myself under control I hummed along with the lyrics.

That's me in the corner
That's me in the spotlight, I'm
Losing my religion
Trying to keep up with you
And I don't know if I can do it
Oh no, I've said too much
I haven't said enough

Vivid Violet #13

2007-08-03T13:15:00.000-07:00

Dance Hall Days

We were drunk as fuck. Five quadruple vodkas-and-orange in different pubs around central Nottingham were as cheap a way to jump-start a Friday-night as we could find.

Don't get us wrong, we had class, we were just too poor to express it in our drinking habits. We were young then always in a hurry - we drank as a means, rather than as an end in itself - a means of losing the part of ourselves that stopped us from taking risks; a means of eluding our self-consciousness, of drowning it out under a layer of cheap supermarket booze and a couple of ice-cubes. A means of becoming something both more and less than ourselves one night a week.

And meeting women of course. Let's not get too poetic here. We drank mainly as a means to a leg-over.

The club we usually went was The Cookie Club - a couple of large rooms spanning the second and third floors of a back-street building just off the Council-House Square in the city-centre. Inside it was painted a utilitarian black with day-glow scrawls and garish insignia crawling every surface. A small bar, outlined in twinkling rope-lights, on the right and a square dance floor wreathed in old cigarette smoke and sweat beyond. Upstairs a chill-out zone with a fag-machine and scattered chairs - warped wooden windows thrown open to let in the cool night air.

It was about eleven, the pubs had closed their doors and we were swaying on the stairs, queuing, laughing - jittery on our toes - expectant. Awash with stupidity and hope and wearing slack-jawed grins. Clumsy cigarettes in our hands and smoke dribbling from our nostrils; our ash feathered the heavy breath-filled air. The music from above throbbed in the cool metal of the hand-rail as we climbed the steps one by one.

It was Eighties night of course - even though Nineteen-Ninety had already come and gone. It was still too early in the decade for it to have aquired a musical flavour all of its own, and even though we were barely into our twenties, already we were nostalgic for the past. Maybe the familliar music made us feel somehow older, somehow wiser, more accomplished - the Eighties were something we'd done; somewhere we'd been; worn the tee-shirts for. And if nothing else, at least we knew how to dance Eighties-style - Adolescence had taught us that much.

We dumped our coats and lost eachother in the murk. Pubs were social but clubs were more of a singular pursuit. The music was always too loud to hear anyone below a scream anyway. I propped myself up against a pillar plastered in a sweating paisley patterns and watched girls dance. Waiting for a song that would pull me away from myself and onto the floor and into the many legged, many armed morass of pissed humanity.

"We were so. in. phase.
In our dance. hall. days.
We were cool. on. craze.
When I, you, and everyone we knew
Could believe, do, and share in what was true -
An, I said..."

There are some songs I still can't help liking. Even now - no matter how cheesey they may seem now to my jaded ears, pricked up as they are for cool melodic irony and subzero nihilistic quips that will not kill me but make me stronger - these songs tug at me and send me grinning back to the days when I could dance without inhibition, confident that the eyes watching me were indulgent. And then I pity the poor modern youth , so young and yet forced to pretend to be so old. Then I grimmace and catch myself and remember it was the same for us.

The gloom of the bar was ripped away in the blaze of strobes and ultra-violet arc-lights revolving overhead. The heat from the spotlights seared over my back as the passed. People's eyes glowed in the dry-ice and their teeth burned white-hot between their lips. Too soon the song ends and we who were so in phase one moment suddenly falter and break apart, drifting. Someone though, stays close and touches me fleetingly on the shoulder; feather fingers barely grazing my skin.

"Take your baby by the hair
And pull her close and there there there"

Her fingers flip the hair away from my face and I glimpse her face too - mottled and striped by the pinwheeling lights as we stand balanced on the very brink of the dancefloor - buffeted by shoulders on all sides as the music and the dancers change once more. She is pretty. And that is enough. She leads me upstairs.

"Take your baby by the ears
And play upon her darkest fears"

Whatever it is we do in the darkness of clubs it is not real communication. Whatever it is that bridges the gap between two pairs of whetted lips in the haze it is not words. While tongues twist and vocal chords twang in throats made hoarse by smoke and shouting the real conversation is being carried out by hesitant fingers, dragged back again and again from out of the darkness to touch briefly a cheek, a lapel at the least excuse - just to make contact. In situations like these, we never trust our eyes. They've been fooled too many times, so we lower our lids and reach out. In situations like these, we never trust our ears. They've heard too many lies, so we let the words wash over us and reach out. Only touch is real so we reach out and hope to feel love.

"And you need her and she needs you
And you need her and she needs you"

Peculair Poinsettia #13

2007-08-02T22:11:00.001-07:00

He was LSD. He was a god. He was a musician, a voodoo child, a revolutionary; he dared to play white music. He was the combination of earth and space that Adam envied. He was flamboyant, he was radical. He burned his fuckin’ guitar. He was the Jimi Hendrix Experience.

And so castles made of sand fall in the sea, eventually

I was ten years old when my father bought eight tapes called “The Complete Jimi Hendrix”. It was August, it was hot, and the fifteen passenger van that he was driving lacked air conditioning. The widows were open, letting the dust and grass come in. The plastic vinyl seats were hot to the touch, and the area around my seat was sticky from all the sweat my body poured out. I was hot, tired grumpy, and checked out…the only way to deal with my misery of the four hours left to go.

And so castles made of sand melts into the sea, eventually

The tape went in. And the sound sensation that followed….What he did with music was like waking up and seeing the world in negative. Later, I could equate it to taking a shot of whiskey for the first time. Burning, Vivid…psychedelic.

But then a sight shed never seen made her jump and say
Look a golden winged ship is passing my way.

And we’d listen. “Hey Joe”, “Foxy Lady” “Purple Haze” were the theme songs of the various road trips through the dry and dusty Midwest. And the smell of gasoline, the van, the dust and grass from the outside, were all secondary to the songs of Jimi Hendrix.

Many moons past and more the dream grew strong.

I’d listen to Jimi on my own, I bought his CDs. I knew who N’Sync were, but it was soft not powerful, the sugary sweet was too much. I liked the unhinged raw sound of Hendrix. I even listened to him on my way to college.

And so castles made of sand fall in the sea, eventually

When I learned that the van had wrecked. I didn’t know what to do. We were told it takes a longer time to break with a vehicle of that mass. And that a stupid little deer could cause that much damage…the thought was like being hit in the head and seeing negative, or like a shot of horrid whiskey.

When we went to see the van in the salvage yard, the front end was smashed, complete with either Dad’s or the deer’s blood. They could have at least cleaned it up.

We took the tape out of the cassette player, and popped it into our own.

And it really didn’t have to stop, it just kept on going...
And so castles made of sand slips into the sea, eventually

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pNAmzsuJolk

TKO #13

2007-07-29T10:24:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-28T20:35:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-28T19:59:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-28T09:40:00.001-07:00

“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

2007-07-28T08:38:00.000-07:00

"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

2007-07-27T15:11:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-25T06:27:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-21T19:32:00.001-07:00

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

2007-07-21T09:53:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-20T20:30:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-20T18:09:00.000-07:00

“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…

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

2007-07-20T18:00:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-20T13:19:00.000-07:00

“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

2007-07-19T14:51:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-15T21:38:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-14T12:03:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-14T10:04:00.000-07:00

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.

Cool Cactus #10

2007-07-14T09:30:00.000-07:00

I'd still be a free man right now if it weren't for that damn fish.

Here's the thing. I have a little girl, and I love her more than anything in the world. She is a daddy's girl and there is no question that she had me wrapped around her little finger from the first moment I set eyes on her. She was so beautiful. And the first time I felt those tiny fingers wrap around my index finger I was done. There was just no helping it. And of course, I don't regret a second of it.

My daughter just turned 4 about two months ago, and for her birthday the wife and I decided to get her a fish. A pretty little tetra. She named him Bob. Why? I have no idea. But Bob was her favorite thing in the world. Now, I should have known better than to get her a pet with such a short life span, but the fact of the matter is, we don't have the lifestyle that encourages longer-lived pets, like cats and dogs. Well, a cat we could probably deal with, but I'm deathly allergic.

The problem with dogs is this - they need to go outside fairly often. And when you're on the run from the law, the last thing you want to do is be out in public. So we needed an indoor pet and a fish seemed like just the thing.

That is until yesterday morning, when the Bob decided to go belly up.

Heartache.

My little girl in tears.

That is something I will not stand for, not when I can do something about it. So off I went to the nearest pet store to find a replacement for Bob. I finally found a parking spot a few blocks from the pet store and hustled on over. There was a bit of a line - apparently ours wasn't the only Bob to go belly up. Finally, the clerk fishes out a new tetra, I pay and off I go.

I get within two blocks of the car when I start getting the heebie-jeebies. Now, I'm not sure why I was getting this weird feeling, but one thing I've learned is, if you want to make it in this business, you have to learn to trust those times when something tells you things are off.

I figure my gut is telling me the car was spotted and I should stay away. Wonderful. A quick look around and I see a bus stop. I head over, checking my watch. 11:15. The sign says the bus arrives at 11:22. Seven long minutes. I pace back and forth, trying not to be too nervous, looking at the fish in the bag, hoping it can stand the wait. In my car, it'd be a five minute drive home. Waiting for the bus adds at least 15 to the mix. If this thing dies, I'll have to go through this all again, and this time, I won't have my car.

I step out into the street and peer down the long concrete ribbon, trying to spot the bus. I'm so anxious to be gone, worried more about the fish then my own surroundings that I don't notice that someone else has sauntered up to the bus stop.

At least, I don't notice until I step back on the curb and hear those fateful words "You're under arrest. Get down on your knees, put your hands on your head and cross your ankles." I look over my shoulder and see an undercover cop standing behind me. I see his partner standing off to my left, and now I spot the two guys in the unmarked car across the street.

I raise my hands above my head, still clutching the bag with Bob number 2 in it. "All right, officer, I'm going to cooperate. Can you do me a favor though? Can you call my wife? I got this fish for my little girl and if I don't get it home soon, it'll die, and that'll be the second one in two days. Can you help me out?"

Thankfully, the cop is a decent sort, with a kid of his own. He's probably made this run himself once or twice. In fact, he's kind enough to take me home so I can deliver the fish myself and be the hero. I explain to my little girl that I have to go off with my friend and that I'll see her later.

She's not too concerned, because she's paying attention to Bob II. I tell my wife to call our lawyer, and the cop waits until I'm back outside to cuff me.

"Thanks," I say. He says it's no problem. He has been there himself a couple times.

As I'm loaded in the back of the car, I look out at my little girl, sitting in the window playing with Bob II.

Stupid fish.

Loud Lily #10

2007-07-14T08:11:00.000-07:00

Fieldwork

Christina Almodovar sat down on the metal chair in the interrogation room and begun absentmindedly fingering the gold crucifix that hung around her neck. The room, unlike the necklace which had been fished out of her mother’s old jewelry box yesterday, was familiar to her. On an ordinary day, however, Christina would be standing or leaning back on the cold gray stones taking careful sips of coffee. And on an ordinary day, she would be asking the questions.

Officer McCrory, or Patrick as he had introduced himself, was following up on a massive traffic pileup that had occurred two days ago. There had not been any fatalities and the worst injury sustained was a fractured arm, but a few important vehicles had been damaged and their owners demanded retribution. Hell bent on following his order that the situation be kept as private as possible, McCrory insisted on a closed meeting space, hence the interrogation room.

McCrory, sitting forward in his chair with a starch white notepad in front of him, cleared his throat, opened his mouth to speak, paused and then cleared his throat again.

Christina sighed, clasped her hands together on the table and asked, “Would you like me to tell you what happened?”

McCrory, who had been doodling on his notepad, tore out the current page and replied, “Yes that would be, uh, helpful.”

***

On the Wednesday in question, Christina had been sitting at the bus stop with a bag of fish in her lap fearing that if she had to wait much longer the salmon would go bad. She was taking the bus because a month ago her license was suspended because of a DUI, a nasty incident that grounded her to her desk at her job and became the subject of a new wave of custody battles.

***

“My daughter is actually the reason I had the salmon,” Christina explained. “She called work that day to request it.”

McCrory stopped moving his pen and Christina noticed that the scratching on the paper had ceased.

“I’m sorry” Christina said as her left hand shot back to her chest, thumbing the crucifix again, “That’s not really relevant.”

“No, it’s fine” McCrory muttered without looking away from his notepad.

Christina smiled at his discomfort and asked, “Would you like to see a picture of her?”

“Um-“ McCrory began before Christina cut him off.

“I’m just kidding.”

McCrory managed a small smile and briefly lifted his eyes to glance at her.

“I’ll continue.”

***

As the green light for the cars passing across Christina’s field of vision came to an end the driver of a blue pick-up truck, the second to last car to make the light, tossed a bag of old fast-food out of his window. But before Christina could even form a mental picture of the vehicle to report later, a black Chevy Impala, the last car that was going to make the light, came to a full stop in the middle of the intersection next to the bag.

***

“Did you get the plates?” McCrory interjected.

“No”

McCrory raised his head to make eye contact with Christina.

“The car was at a full stop and you didn’t get the plates?” McCrory asked again with his left eyebrow raised.

Christina put both elbows on the table and leaned into the officer’s accusatory gaze.

“As I’ve already explained,” Christina began, “I’ve been out of practice.”

Heaving a giant sigh, as if her answer was barely acceptable, McCrory focused on his notes again, flipped a page on the pad and said, “Please continue.”

***

Christina watched as a teenage boy stepped out of his car and picked up the bag of old junk food. After shielding his eyes and looking around for a moment, the boy spotted the trashcan next to Christina’s bus stop and began walking over. As he made his way closer to her, Christina noticed the loud hip-hop being blared from the boy’s car, which soon was accompanied by brakes screeching and horns honking along the busy side street.

The boy was about six feet tall, had short brown hair and blue eyes. As he threw the bag away, the boy flashed Christina a smile and waved with his left hand. Christina, still unable to figure out exactly what was happening, nodded slightly in return.

***

“And then what happened?”

Christina took her hands off the table and leaned back in her chair before replying, “And then he got back in his car and drove away.”

McCrory flipped back a page on his notepad.

“Did the boy have any special markings?”

“Not that I could notice.”

McCrory reviewed his notes for a minute, flipping between the ten or so pages that he had used during the interview, before standing up and looking down at Christina.

“Sorry again-“ he began before being interrupted for a second time.

“It’s quite alright,” Christina said as she stood up and extended a hand to McCrory, “I understand. Believe me.”

McCrory shook her hand and lead the way out of the room. As his hand was on the doorknob he turned around for a final question.

“How did I do?”

Christina flashed him another rare smile and patted him on the back.

“You did fine.”

***

As she returned to her desk, Christina felt a small twinge of guilt for not telling the fledgling officer about the imprint of the cross on the boy’s left palm, or that his name was David and the Impala was registered to his father; information she ascertained by running the license plate number.

Despite her intentions, however, David was found and charged about a week later. He was eventually sentenced with 500 hours of community service, which he spent, Christina would later learn, picking up trash on the highway.

Peculiar Poinsetta #10

2007-07-14T06:46:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, in a land not too far away, there was a school bus stop. And everyday students would wait for the bus to go to school. Each student would get ready for the day. Some did there homework, others talked about who they would sit with at lunch, and others just read. Natalie was one of the readers. She wanted to be an oceanographer, and the best place to start was by reading, that is, until she could get to Sea World. A little later, students piled one after one into the school bus, and Natalie was left alone. Another little while later, another bus, which was shorter came through the dusty road. As the ramp was lowered to pick her up, she imagined it was a crane, coming to take her out of the Submersible, (Alvin the one who became famous for discovering the Titanic), where she had just seen strange and wonderful sites. You see, in the deep ocean, no one can walk, even if they tried…the pressure would crush them, so you have to dive down with special equipment to protect yourself. It is kinda like when knights wear armor to protect themselves from the dragon they encounter.

A little while before, Natalie had encountered a fish. This fish was one of the miraculous creatures of the deep, dark ocean. With a bioluminescent markings all the way down his body-it made him glow in the dark and flash fantastic patterns. He had long, sharp teeth and a huge dorsal fin that made him look like he had come from the age of the dinosaurs. But, the difference in this fish is that he was HUGE. Because of the pressure and temperature constraints most animals in the great deep, Natalie knew, were smaller creatures. She had seen it in a NOVA program.

As the USD 234 bus came into the city, two cops were eating their doughnuts in a patrol car. “Here some the short bus” one snickered to the other. “Meh, I try not to look at the droolers, it makes me depressed.”

The fish had nosed around Alvin, jarring the incredibly expensive machine, and freaking Natalie out. Before going safe, she decided to give the fish on last chance, and took some more pictures with the submersible equipment. It took just a flcik of her finger to flash some more photos. Finally the fish turned around and she could see it head long. It had human eyes. Big blue ones, that were expressing the same amount of fear as she was. They stared at each other for a long while, wondering what stories the other could tell.

"Dr. Blez, Natalie typed an interesting story the other day during reading time, it involved her going down to the ocean in some kind of machine.”

“That’s good Mrs. Return. I’ve been saying to the IEP committee, that Natalie’s cognitive abilities are perfect, even gifted, but they can’t see to get past the severity of her physical abilities.”

“Well, she has stopped drooling now, and a few kids from the regular fourth grade class are interested in her typer. One boy’s got enough patience to listen to her stories, even if it takes forever for her to type them out.”

“Good. It’s about time for some positive peer interaction. If you can get me a copy of those stories, it would be helpful for her next IEP.”

Feisty Fern #10

2007-07-14T06:16:00.000-07:00

Hot, wet air poured in Harry’s police car window like bathwater. After the last drag of his cigarette, he tried to breathe the humid air, but between the moisture and the smoke he was failing. Breathing that Richmond air after a smoke was like drowning.

Harry flicked the cigarette butt out onto the Broad Street sidewalk. Sweat soaked his short sleeved summer uniform and ran down his forehead into his eyes, unable to evaporate into the saturated air.

“The heat of the Virginia summer is a frigid ice capade compared to the fires of hell!” a man cried from across the street. He wore a dirty white T-Shirt with a black cross on the front. Scraggly black hair, graying at the ends, hung around a leathery face. A greasy beard reached down and licked the collar of his shirt. There was a white plastic bag in his right hand. He was the type of guy who had plenty of room to walk down a crowded street, due to his smell, if not his appearance.

Harry’s blue eyes focused on the shouting man. The brow atop his chubby face was furrowed with deep wrinkles. He sat straighter in his squad car, trying to unstick his sweaty ass from the vinyl seats.

“Stop sinning in the bars of the Fan; the Fan cannot keep you cool in hell!” the religious man continued.

Harry was parked east of Belvidere, and the religious man walked past him moving west. He also continued admonishing the sinners of Richmond’s Fan district.

Two teenagers, one with a shortly cropped red Mohawk and the other with his ears gauged with rings over an inch in diameter confronted the man.

Harry stepped out of his police car. He walked down the street, opposite the religious man.

It was difficult to overhear what the teens said to the man, but the man’s reply was easily heard. His gibberish was impossible to decipher, but its message was clear. The two teens left. Speaking in tongues had a way of keeping non-believers at a safe distance.

A red handkerchief from Harry’s back pocket wiped the sweat from his face. Black boots clicked the sidewalk. He blended into a small crowd as best a man in a blue uniform can. People crossed the street to avoid the shouting fanatic, which gave Harry more cover.

The preacher stopped just outside the bus stop across from Aladdin’s Express. The sun shone off the tinted black glass on the sides of the bus stop shelter in the places that weren’t covered in flyers and posters.

The preacher pulled a can of spray paint from the plastic bag. He gave a quick glance around. The can clicked as he shook it rapidly.

Harry broke from the crowd and started across the four lanes of traffic.

Green paint sprayed onto the tinted glass in a soft arc. The preacher reached the can back by his right ear and shook vigorously again.

A hand closed around the can and tore it from the preacher’s hand. The unwashed man turned and looked up at Harry, who was several inches taller. He was intimidating despite his fat face and sweaty appearance. And it was not just because of his badge. His blue stare looked down into sad eyes, which were set in under jutting brows. They stood like that, probing for answers in each other’s face for several seconds.

Harry raised the can of spray paint. The preacher covered his face with his hands. His nails were ragged and had dirt under them. With a quick motion, Harry added to the preacher’s graffiti rather than punishing him for it.

Before the preacher could uncover his face, Harry had walked several steps toward his car. The preacher looked and saw that the Jesus fish he set out to paint on the bus stop had been completed by the police officer.

Pleasant Plumeria #10

2007-07-13T18:07:00.000-07:00

It was a mild, breezy day in downtown Chicago, and the crowd milling around the bus stop was calm but distracted. Bankers were checking their watches, students were bopping to their iPods, and no one paid much attention when a slightly disheveled police officer trudged up to the CTA sign. It wasn't until he began muttering to himself that people began to take notice. There seemed to be nothing very odd about the man aside from his rumpled appearance, except for--

"Hey man, are you carrying a fishbowl?"

The officer looked up, jolted from his thoughts, and glanced at the young man who had spoken to him.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I don't mean to interrupt, but are you carrying around a goldfish?"

"Oh. Yeah." The harried man raked his fingers through his hair and let out a sigh. "My squad car broke down a few miles back and I had to hoof it up here to catch a ride. My partner, Jenkins, and I were on a stakeout, and things had just started to heat up, when BAM! The engine starts knocking, smoke's coming out from under the hood, and we're going nowhere fast."

"Whoa, bummer man," said the student, somewhat awed. "You were on a stakeout and everything, wow."

Hearing this conversation, a few others stopped what they were doing to direct their attention toward the trio--the cop, the student, and the fish.

"Right, WERE being the operative word. Or was. Whatever. All that matters now is that those bastards are getting away with the drugs, and I'm stuck here waiting for the damn bus!" He shook his fist in frustration and water sloshed over the sides of the fishbowl.

The splash onto the grey sidewalk drew even more stares, and the two men had a small audience as they continued their conversation.

"Drugs, really?" Said the younger man, "Drug runners, wow. Are you allowed to talk about this shit? Isn't there some rule about an ongoing investigation or something?"

"Pshhh, naw." The officer blew off the student's suggestion as though it was nonsense. "That's just Law and Order crap. I can say whatever I want. Like the ringleader? Sam Stein."

"What?!" The younger man was dumbfounded, as were most of the bystanders now openly gaping. "Dude, Sam Stein's the MAYOR."

"Uh, yeah!" Barked the officer. "Why do you think it was so juicy? And his biggest campaign contributors are really his best customers. YEAH! Chew on that!" Increasingly agitated, he shifted his weight from side to side, peering down the road for the bus.

"So what you're saying is that all those community leaders, they're all druggies? What are they doing, coke, heroin?"

"LSD man." Said the officer distractedly, still scanning the street. "PCP too. And shrooms--mountains of them! Freaking hippies, the lot of them."

The crowd now began muttering amongst itself. Although their mayor was a bit of a crackpot, it seemed like quite a stretch that he was leading a drug smuggling operation, and even more of a stretch that some of the most public figures in the city were all addicted to hallucinogenic drugs. People began casting wary glances in the direction of the officer, and inched slightly away from his shifting, agitated form.

"And the best part!" He practically shouted this, and thrust the fishbowl in the air, nearly tossing the goldfish to the pavement. "The best part of all is that once me and my partner had them cornered, we were going to be promoted. Like, BIG promotion. We're talking CIA level clearance."

The student wrinkled his brow at this. "What, in Chicago?"

"Oh, believe it." Said the officer. "We're talking the big time here, no more B&E, arson, petty larceny. Major crimes, stuff I could really sink my teeth into. Ah, finally!"

The officer was bordering on manic now, almost hopping from foot to foot, the goldfish slapping wetly against the sides of its bowl. As the pneumatic brakes on the Pace bus squealed to a halt, he lunged towards the door.

“Hey man, be careful!” called out the young man, now clearly concerned about the rumpled cop.

“You think a Pace Bus could stop me? Ha! Not this late in the game. No, I’m taking this one all the way. Downtown. Down to China Town, YEAH!” The man took one step onto the bus before gazing determinedly into the fishbowl. “Come on Jenkins, we have work to do.”

Vivid Violet #10

2007-07-12T13:18:00.000-07:00

Mr. Tweedle's Revenge.

"Well I don't mind telling you mate I'm a bit disappointed. A bit bloody disillusioned like, with the boys in blue, y'narramean..? I mean, okay, so I wasn't expecting an armoured car and motorcycle-cop combo, but Jesus - a fuckin' Bus..?"

"I'm sorry sir, I regret to inform you that all our cars in the area are busy, but should sir wish to provide a written complaint, a copy of said complaint will be forwarded to next month's Policing-quality-control circle meeting."

"I mean, what if I'd been violent..? What if I'd come out swingin' a bat huh..? I mean - just one copper, it's an insult tha's what it is, a right bleedin' liberty."

"Temporary staff shortages also mean that a policy of minimum manpower response with regard to risk assessment is currently being adopted."

"So I was assessed as 'low risk' huh..? I'll give you fuckin' low risk you son of a-"

"Look you stupid little prick, we both know that you are nothing but a long streak of very yellow piss and that I could cripple you for life without even breaking out in a sweat, so how about we cut the bravado and come as quietly as you can manage okay... Sir..?"

"Hey - Let go..! Leggo of me..! Okay, okay I'm cool I'm cool. Jesus H. Christ you fuckin' guys don't know when a guy's just screwin' around, do yah..? Fuck. Anyway, least you can talk normal, I was beginning to think you werra robot or summin...

... A fuckin' bus though, no sirens no nothing. Low fuckin' risk. Low. Fuckin'. Risk. Jeeze."

"Would you like to walk perhaps..? It's only about seven miles to the station, I could handcuff us together and well, if I made us walk fast we'd be there in an hour or two. I mean me, I'd hardly be out of breath, but you however, 'Mr.-I'm-only-wearing-flip-flops-and-am-woefully-out-of shape-and-hungover', you I guarrentee, would be an absolute physical and emotional wreck."

"..."

"So, as I said, if you want to make a formal complaint against the conduct of the metropolitan police force whilst you were in their custody down at the station, you have the right to do so, but if you don't, if you don't - then please shut the fuck up about it. Okay..?"

"Oh look, here's the bus. I hope your citycard is charged, I left mine at home. Y'know, I hadda pack in a hurry..."

"So, how did you catch me Mr. Copper..?"

"I'm sorry, I am not a liberty to divulge such information."

"Oh c'mon man - It's just you, me, that little old lady over there, anna driver, who's gonna know...? Look - you tell me how you caught me, I'll tell you if you're right, deal..? You can tell your superiors you were trying to 'interrogate me for infromation pertaining to the case' or whatever - okay..? C'mon, I'm bored man, aren't you..?"

"We were finally able to arrest you on the grounds of information provided by a Mr. Tweedles of Seventeen Firwood Road."

"Never heard of him...

...Hang on a minute - I know that address - that's Thelma's place that is. She's one of my best customers - she'd never grass me out to the pigs."

"She didn't supply us with any information concerning your... profession - however her cat, Mr. Tweedles, did.

We knew there was someone supplying in our area, we just didn't know how you were doing it. You were clever, using your Dad's doorstop-delivery Fishmonger business as a cover. We found your 'menu' stuck up on Thelma's fridge. - a 'Whiting special' was cocaine if I remember correctly and 'Monk-fish paté' was heroin wasn't it..? Funny."

"Stupid cow."

"What did you expect..? Conscientiousness from your customers..? Dependable drug addicts..? Anyway - as far as we can establish Ms. Thelma contracted flu and her Mother came round to look after her for a few days. And her cat. Of course, when she gets there - your last delivery of Monk-Fish paté is still sitting in the fridge, complete with its sachet of brown powder, torn apparantly, dissolving into the fish. Mother gives Mr. Tweedles a special treat.

Mr. Tweedles goes completely off his head and takes a nose-dive out of a second floor window, then legs it accross the road and appears to get hit by a car.

Thelma's Mother then rushes Mr. Tweedles to a vet, only for the vet to find nothing actually physically wrong with the patient. He sends a sample of blood to the labs, and, when he gets the results back, faces the unhappy job of telling Thelma's Mother that her daughter's cat is a junkie."

"A fuckin' cat..?"

"Yes sir. And before you start planning a revenge killing - don't bother, our informant passed away peacefully, in his sleep."

Rules Update!

2007-07-11T16:10:00.001-07:00

I'm leaving town for my Colorado hike (think happy thoughts!) and thus won't be able to close the posting on Saturday. SO I need you all to "run yourself" while I'm away. Saturday at noon (PST) is still the deadline. Sometime after that and before midnight on Sunday, email me your three least favorite responses. If 1 person doesn't respond, then only email me your two least favorite. If 2 people don't respond, then email me your single least favorite. Get it?

When I return late Sunday, I'll check in and that night I should be able to post the results of the vote. If somebody wants to "take charge" and post a comment in this post with the actual number of players that needs to be removed after noon on Saturday, that would be cool.

TKO #10, Everyone / Results of TKO #9 / Rules Change

2007-07-07T12:19:00.000-07:00

TKO #10

Write a scene/story where the following three nouns play an important role -- bus stop, fish, and an officer.

Due Saturday at noon (PST).

Results of TKO #9

The following players are all removed as a result of inactivity: Hip Hibiscus, Loyal Liliac, Defiant Daisy, and Simple Sagebrush.

I would like to apologize on behalf of the game that we've had TWO votes this whole game. This has never happened before and I don't know why it is now. Most people have had legitimate excuses but at the same time EVERYONE is busy and makes time for the game. I spend a lot of time planning the prompts, obsessing over the rules, etc. to make the game fun for the players. I hope the players that are still in are enjoying the game even though there aren't votes.

Rules Change

This week three players will be removed. This will get us to six players. Then we'll have three more TKOs in which players will RANK all the remaining players. Nobody else will be removed as a result of these last three TKOs. Players will have five days to respond to each of these prompts so that the game still lasts two more weeks with the final six but we'll be able to get in three more TKOs. If this is unclear to anyone, please ask via email or as a comment.

Classic Carnation #9

2007-07-07T10:37:00.001-07:00

The footprints in the snow suddenly ended. I had planned every detail this moment perfectly. There in that last solitary footprint, I left my legacy. This was my moment. The David Copperfield finale to my humbled existence. In a few short hours I’d be hovering above the Atlantic on my one-way ticket to Paris, London, Prague. Alright, so I admit I didn’t get that detailed in my planning. It was Europe, I would backpack, be fantastic and mysterious, having grand love affairs with sensual European men who would whisper loving lines in my ear and relish me in a string of endless one night stands. Maybe I’d find a job and work my way straight to the top living a high powered executive life in random fancy suites across the continent. I’d concocted many scenarios; I just needed my escape.

There was blood trailing alongside the footprints I’d so carefully planted in the snow. My blood, a deep crimson shining against the sparkle of pure white snow in moonlight. Following the trail of footprints and blood one would find torn items of my favorite clothing. It looked sloppy and hurried. It was perfect. I wanted to take a picture, paint a portrait. The last moments of Natalie Stockton; the beginning of Miss Indigo DeBrille. I kept my gaze fixed on the sight, imprinting it into my mind as I changed into the shoes I’d made out of a cheap pair of men’s tennis shoes from Wal-Mart and sewn backwards onto the bottom of another cheap pair of shoes that actually fit. I tossed my old pair of shoes haphazardly next to the last sign of my livelihood and ran crazily past the footprints I’d so carefully crafted before.

There was an adrenaline rush as I put the final touches on my scene of chaos. Here I painted the footsteps of the madman who’d abducted me, taken me into the woods and I disappeared. That’s how I’d hoped the police report would read. I thought of the friends I’d leave behind. But it was easier to fake a kidnapping than hurt them by simply leaving them all behind with no trace. They were the only real family I had left. Without family, the police don’t have much of a reason to look for someone who’s been kidnapped. They’d get over it eventually, and finally, they’d forget the traces of that girl named Natalie with mouse brown eyes and a quiet smile.

The end of the line and I called for a cab to take me to the airport. I tossed in my backpack (I’d throw away my backwards shoes at the airport) and never looked back.

Cool Cactus #9

2007-07-07T10:19:00.000-07:00

"The footprints in the snow suddenly ended."

Where the hell was he? These damn secret agents get smarter every year. The whole reason I put up with living high up on this God-forsaken mountain in the middle of winter is so that I can't be easily approached. And that those who are foolish enough to try and intrude on my privacy will be easily spotted and followed.

"Are you sure?" You can never trust henchmen.

"Yes sir, they're just gone." Great. Look, I don't hire Navajo trackers, but any idiot should be able to spot tracks in fresh snow. I mean, he'd managed to follow them this far.

"Well, which way were they headed? Up the mountain, or down?"

"Neither, sir. They were headed west, toward the setting sun." Oh good. At least this guy knew his sense of direction. Maybe I should promote him....

"Alright. Take a group a keep searching. Oh, and just in case, send three men back along his tracks to the east and see if he branched off. He may be trying to walk back through his own footprints." Not likely, since my men weren't that far behind him, but if you want to survive long in this business, you need to cover all the bases. Sure, these agents are smart. But I'm still doing what I do because I'm smarter.

"Roger that, sir. Over and out."

Now I wait. If I'm lucky, he really is continuing west. The snow on that side of the mountain is less secure. I keep one ear on the radio, and the other listening for the sound of gunfire. Either will be a signal that they've found him.

Suddenly, I hear the distant crackle that sounds like rice krispie treats that tells me my men are back on the trail. This is confirmed moments later when the radio springs to life.

"Spread out men, fire! Keep him contained. Drive him down the mountain! Sir! We've found him. We're hot on his trail."

"Good. And good instincts - keep him going down." Ah - listening to this makes me wish I was still young enough to go out there and chase this guy down myself. But henching is a young man's game, and it was never really my role to begin with. Oh sure, I did a henching internship back in college. Required course. They felt that you'd treat your own men better and have more sympathy if you'd spent a summer walking in their shoes.

Suddenly, the radio crackled to life again.

"The footprints in the snow suddenly ended." There was something in his voice.

"Again? Then why do you sound happy?"

"Because, sir. This time, they ended at the top of a cliff."

I'd definately have to promote this guy.

Loud Lily #9

2007-07-07T04:04:00.000-07:00

The footprints in the snow suddenly ended.

It was January 7th. David was seven years old and had just slept through his first blizzard. Several clouds had ejected three feet of snow in David’s neighborhood during the night. He had gone to bed expecting his front yard to be in the same condition that he had left it, and had woken up, eaten breakfast, and brushed his teeth with the same expectation. It wasn’t until he was getting dressed that he noticed anything was different. Within ten minutes of seeing the soft powder caking his window David had convinced his mother to let him outside to play.

Though Irma still blames herself for what happened on January 7th, in the end she hadn’t been acting irresponsibly. Her youngest son, Kyle, was running a fever and David was cautious. He never ventured outside their yard, she made him wear plenty of warm clothing, and because the meteorologist had predicted a slim continuation of the blizzard she made him promise that he would be back before lunchtime. What Irma had failed to take into account was the impact that a first snowfall has on a young child.

David, who usually had a rigid order for his activities outside, was overwhelmed by the appearance of the fresh powder. In the first half hour he had built a snowman, made three snow angels, and started a snowball fight with an elderly neighbor who had not reciprocated. It was only in his extreme boredom that David left his front yard, and in doing so, discovered the trail of footsteps.

The footprints, which had begun on a sidewalk three houses away from David’s home, were only slightly larger than his. They first led down three blocks to a neighborhood park, twisting in and out of the various pieces of jungle gym equipment. As David was walking in a serpentine fashion along the swings, it occurred to him that he was acting foolishly. For a brief period of twenty steps, which traversed the monkey bars, David considered turning around and following the trail back to his home, but was entranced by each new footprint. Eventually David decided that he would simply find out where this person had been going and then return home.

At the end of the park, the trail veered a sharp right into a forest that had yet been affected by suburban sprawl.

Unbeknownst to David, the forest was a popular source of mythology amongst the local adolescents. Practically every twelve-year old boy who lived within one mile had been dared to spend a night alone there, and practically every one declined. Brad Crichton would tell anyone who would listen about the time that he lasted there until midnight, before being chased out by a band of wolves. His story became a legend.

After several hundred yards into the forest, the footsteps abruptly stopped. The last footprint, which had been a right footstep, was only partially imprinted, as if the person had begun taking an additional step before they disappeared. David, who refused to believe that his game had ended, spent the next ten minutes searching around the area for any additional tracks. Finding none, David removed both his mittens, reached into his coat pocket, fished out his rosary, twisted it two times around his left wrist and gripped the cross firmly in his hand.

This ritual was performed every time David wanted to focus on something. Last year, David began watching a kids show about 10-year old twin spies. Whenever the young girl began her investigations she would take a band off her wrist and put her hair up in a ponytail, as a cue to the audience that she was getting serious. This action usually preceded some sort of clue-finding montage, which was always David’s favorite part of the show.

David quickly found a stick and started a list in the snow with the heading: THEORIES.

David immediately imagined that some person had started the trail of footprints, only to stop halfway and retrace their steps in a backwards fashion. Under the heading David added the word: BACKWARDS.

For the next twenty minutes David started, then attempted to retrace, various tracks of footprints in the snow. None of his efforts, however, revealed a perfect recombination, always leaving some slight detail, a double marking of the logo or a slight curve to the right, which made it impossible to create the perfect unfinished trail. He inspected the footprints of the mystery person and found that each was flawless and cleanly imprinted. If the person had retraced their steps backward, they were very patient and very skilled.

David plopped under a tree and started rolling snowballs with his hand. In the midst of preparing a three story tall pyramid in case of a surprise attack, David formulated his second theory: COVERED TRACKS.

David ran to the last footprint and, instead of stopping, followed the side of the hypothetical trail inspecting the snow for telling marks. After an additional ten or so yards of what would have been the mystery walker’s given path only yielded fresh snow David returned to the tree.

Picking up his stick, David whacked the tree several times in rapid succession. Some snow that had been lodged in the branches fell free and scared a bluebird into taking off, inspiring David’s third theory: ANGEL, for which the data would prove inconclusive.

This pattern continued well into the night at which time the winds began picking up and the sun was no longer visible. David, however, was oblivious, and his list of theories grew; included the practical (SHOVELLER), the religious (PARTING OF SNOW), and the magical (LEVITATION). Some theories were easily dismissed. CHARIOT OF FIRE was crossed out within seconds of it being written, as there was no melted snow in the vicinity. Others required more thought. TELEPORTATION was only ruled out because it seemed both wasteful and illogical to walk all the way into the forest to transport oneself elsewhere. Some were eliminated by practical evidence. ALIEN ABDUCTION was unlikely because the trees over the last footprint would have obstructed a gravity beam.

The last thing David remembered was squinting between the driving snows to see if his thirty-strong list already contained TIME TRAVEL.

The firemen who found David caught sight of the rosary beads bright colors against the snow. David’s left hand was the only body part that avoided complete submersion by the blizzard.

David remained in the ICU for a week before being remanded to his parents’ care. The rosary had frozen to his skin and was only removed on the second day. The outline of a cross on his left palm remained permanent, and was still visible thirteen years later during the year of his death.

The incident marked several milestones for David. It was the first time that he had explicitly disobeyed his mother. It was also the first time he permanently marked his body. But more importantly, it was the first time David’s parents began to suspect that there was something seriously wrong with their son.

Sociable Sunflower #9

2007-07-06T22:21:00.000-07:00

The footprints in the snow suddenly ended, just beyond the trees. He had to be close.

“Frank, you sick fuck,” I yelled from the bottom of my lungs. “I know you’re out here!”

My mind was not where it should have been. I imagine any man who found his dead wife in a bathtub with her throat slit wouldn’t be quite right. I fit that profile.

“Frank” I screamed. “There’s no more footprints! I know you’re here!”

I scanned the tree line, looking for a clue. I hoped he would stick to our code – if you ever had to kill a fellow member, you did it with your hands, no weapons. When you kill a brother, you don’t cheat.

“Okay, you found me,” a deep voice from afar said. “It was nothing personal. Orders are orders. You know that.”

I thought about what he said. And I knew he had a valid point, but we were trained together. Sometimes we’d even do missions together.

“And what of friendship,” I replied. “Does that mean nothing?”

“It would if my allegiance with you was more important than my life, but it’s not,” Frank said. “You know what they do if you refuse an order.”

Finally, he showed himself, walking from behind one of the largest trees. His appearance was different from the last time we met. The new him had a thin brown beard and brown-eyed contacts. He wore dark hiking pants and a thick wool coat.

He had evolved (or one might argue, devolved) from a suave city type to an outdoorsman in just a few months.

“How did you know where to look?” Frank asked.

“I knew you’d head for Mount Rainer,” I said. “You told me a long while ago that you went there sometimes to hide, sometimes to think. And I remember details.”

Frank slowly walked toward me, removing his gloves. “I know you’re not going to stop coming after me. Friend. We gonna do this?”

“Absolutely.”

He took the first punch and hit me square in the jaw. I had no idea he had become so fast. As I fell to the ground, I used my right leg to undercut his legs. He fell hard and hit his head on the ground.

“Ahhh!” he screamed. Something must have broken. His scream was music to my ears.
We both scrambled to our feet, only seven feet from each other. Frank held his head and writhed, breathing hard. But it was not over. We were trained harder than this.

Frank took the next move again, trying to kick me directly in the knee. I dodged the kick and swung at his head. If I kept at his head, I could end this. The hit connected, but it wasn’t a full punch.

“You fuck!” he screamed. “You did this to yourself. If you wouldn’t have gone off and married as they advised against, none of this would have happened. You did this.”

“You were my friend!” I yelled with the fury an exploding star. “Betrayal equals death. You know this.”

He screaming and then grabbed my neck quick, from behind me. The hold was incredibly powerful, and I could barely move. If I don’t do something soon, I thought, I’ll pass out and my life will be over.

I cranked my elbow in to his side three times as strong as my body could give, with all the energy I had left. He screamed in pain again, grabbed his side and most likely broken ribs, and fell to the ground.

Unfortunately, he had sapped all of my energy by strangling me, and I could barely breathe. I jumped on him, grabbed his broken body and punched him as much as I could, trying to end it all. He wouldn’t stop and grabbed my neck. This time, I was sure, it would end in his favor.

My consciousness drifted from me, and I was out. Gone.

--

Dear diary, March 8, 2006

Today was a strange one. While doing a daily check up on one of the northern passes, I came across a badly beaten man. It looked as if someone or some thing had attacked him. I immediately helped the rugged man and carried him back to my cabin. We’ve had so many lost hikers as of late that I thought he might be another one. Thank God those media monsters didn’t find him first. But as I treated him, he kept babbling on about a man he had fought with. He said the other man had escaped and needed to be caught. I told the rugged man that I would call it in even if it sounded strange to me. As a ranger, I have to take precautions even in weird circumstances. I treated the man and let him sleep. I pondered what he had told me and I came to the conclusion that something was missing. But I don’t know what. He said that he had been fighting a man, but when I arrived on the scene, I checked for animal tracks first to make sure something wasn't on the loose. But I only found an easily visible single set of human footprints in the snow. A very strange occurrence indeed.

Peculair Pointsetta #9

2007-07-06T21:33:00.001-07:00

The foot prints ended suddenly in the snow. The sound of the four wheelers dissipated into the crisp winter air. Jim got to the end of trail first, cutting the engine and staring…at the last impressions of his brother. “They just end here? Huh….” And he nodded silently still staring at the tracks. No other footprints were around, no other sound for that matter. On the east side of the ranch, the trees were few, so there was no sound of ice on the branches clinking or the rustle of birds. Just a tinge of ice build up on the barbed wire on the fence yonder. No cattle either. Nothing but bootprints, that stop suddenly.

We had woken up early, and we had checked on Matt early on. Jim and his parents had thought he was okay, and that a trip to the older ranch house would be good for him, getting out of what they were starting to realize was their oppressive shadow/ influence. Matt was taking his medication regularly and on time. It was all going to be okay.

“Something’s changing Sarah…”

“I know, Matt, I know… that’s high school.”

“No, I mean something’s really changing… I’m different than I used to be.”

“Yeah, dude, It’s called puberty. Your voice deepens, ya get muscles, hair you know where.”

“I know all that, but something different is happening to me. It’s weird…but I think I’m… I’m growing wings.”

“Yeah, uhuh. To go with that angelic smile I’m sure.”

“Sarah…I’m really serious”

I had played that game too. Albeit when I was younger. I would try my hardest to convince my parents that something was eating a biplane we were watching one day. I was absolutely convinced that some blobulus monster, was munching on the plane. I definitely gained their attention, but not their belief. I think my psych textbook would have called it an exercise in defining reality. At the age of six, that’s normal. At the age of fourteen…well that’s another matter altogether. Matt was a good kid, he was just having trouble getting used to high school.

Jim told me his parents were notified by the school nurse, who, for like the 15^th time had treated itching with cortisone cream around his shoulder blades. There was no rash, but his fingernails had broken and gouged into the skin, leaving two crescent slices, with the ends almost meeting his spine. The first diagnosis was obsessive compulsive disorder. But then the shrink discovered why he was scratching. And Matt became more verbal about his believe. And it started spiraling down from there. He never jumped off of the roof, or did anything crazy. He was just firmly resolute in the fact or belief that he was growing wings, and that one day…he would fly.

You can’t just believe things, right? You’ve got to have a base in reality, you’ve got to have facts and observation to back up this belief. Science says so, anyone credible says so. If a child imagines pink elephants on parade, that’s all well and good…but to everyone else there won’t be pink elephants. Right?

Jim said a quiet “shit”.. revved the four wheeler, breaking the silence, and started circling around the bootprints, trying to see if any tracks had somehow caught the wind and blown away.

“Jim, JIM! We’ve got to call your parents…and the police!”

He turned around and followed me back to the ranch house, both of us just trying to figure out what the heck had happened. Where the hell Matt was, and if he had worn his coat..and where the hell he was going.

The footprint just ended so suddenly in the snow…and Matt was just a kid

Pensive Peyote #9

2007-07-06T13:29:00.000-07:00

The footprints in the snow suddenly ended. The journey he had taken ended as abruptly as it had started. The events of the evening came flooding back to him as soon as he stopped walking. It was as if his thoughts were in hot pursuit during his aimless walk in the woods and as soon as he stopped they caught him. He took a deep breath and sat down on the log where the footprints seemed to end. Perhaps they were leading him to this exact spot. They knew the inner turmoil colliding around in his head.

Steven always had a mysterious aura about him. His deep brown eyes betrayed wisdom far beyond his mere 22 years of existence. People could look into those eyes and become easily lost in everything that seemed to be contained in them. To the untrained eye, he had a confidence bordering slightly on arrogance. His ability to listen and find just the right thing to say in a time of crisis is what convinced the people around him that he wasn’t arrogant…just confident in his outlook on life. He never understood why so many people felt comfortable in confiding their darkest secrets to him. It was those eyes though…the eyes that could look straight through all emotional defenses without causing a fear of what would be discovered. Long ago he had accepted that he had a unique outlook on life and everything that occurs in it, both good and bad. He admitted to himself that the wisdom and compassion everyone saw in him actually existed though he wouldn’t own up to it in public. His closest friends would joke that he could easily disarm anyone with his razor sharp wit in an instant; yet he was the equivalent of a Care-Bear when no one was looking.

“You’re not as tough as you make yourself out to be!”

“Hey now! Watch it or I’ll tell everyone about that embarrassing episode you had with a plastic lawn gnome and the second floor stairs last weekend!”

As Steven reflected back on how tonight’s party initially started, full of laughter and camaraderie, he winced at the thoughts about what happened later. He hated fighting with his friends. And he especially hated fighting with her.

They had met four years ago at the freshman orientation assembly at Cornell.

“Hi! I’m Allicia!”

She stuck her hand out for an enthusiastic handshake.

Smiling he replied “Steven.”

“So…can we just avoid the annoyingly cliché pick-up line of ‘what’s your major’ and stick with something more important? How good are you at pool?”

Steven burst out laughing. He liked this girl. Her small frame did nothing to betray the joy in life contained within it. At 5’10” he practically towered over her, but that didn’t seem to stop her from every challenge that presented itself. They spent the rest of the assembly hustling the other one. Turned out they were both quite good at pool. As time passed, everyone on campus had rumors to tell about “that one night” where they supposedly hooked up, but they both knew it would always remain a rumor. They cared for each other like two best friends do; something that runs much deeper than a romantic type of love.

It became obvious that they had vastly different beliefs and opinions. After the 20^th debate, they made a pact to “agree to disagree” and left it at that. She bought into all of that cultural relativity bullshit, and he simply believed that people should own up to their own actions. There was a very simple equation for these things: right is right, and wrong is wrong. Period.

That pact completely unraveled tonight. Steven and Allicia had a few too many beers, and began arguing loudly about a group of environmentalists, suspected of eco-terrorism, who were arrested a few miles from campus. What started out as a political debate soon turned into a heated fight between the two best friends.

“Oh come on! It’s just another example of fascists in the Oval Office abusing their power to prevent anything being done about global warming!”

“Are you out of your fucking mind? If the people arrested were actually involved in that bombing plot, then it’s a good thing they were taken off the street!”

“How do you know they were involved?!?”

“How do you know they weren’t?!? You’re psychic now? Come on Allicia, we’re talking about actual bombs. They could have killed people. That has to mean SOMETHING to you!”

“God Steven! You’re just so…so…close-minded about everything!”

…he felt like he’d just been slapped in the face. All of the sudden every strong conviction he’d ever held in his life came bubbling to the surface…as if his mind was trying to confirm her accusation. He wheeled around and headed out the door of the cabin. He just needed to get out of there…just go somewhere. Without even thinking he followed a path that had probably been there all winter. A crisp set of footprints headed off into an abyss of darkness.

And now the footprints have ended. “Here I sit. Alone. Wondering if every attempt I have made to do the right thing was really just my attempt to justify a close-minded outlook. I know my convictions are strong…but are they right? And worse, I just viciously fought over something so stupid with my best friend. What the fuck was I thinking?”

Here, at the end of the path the footprints sent him on, Steven was a man in serious doubt. His beliefs made him who he was…the compassionate person always willing to listen no matter how bad it was or how hard it was to listen, fiercely loyal to his loved ones, and willing to do the right thing no matter how difficult it was. His confidence afforded him a resilience whenever he was given shit for how far he would go to defend someone or something, but Allicia had the power to cut right through that. It was a power they both had on one another, but neither had ever exercised it before.

Is it all wrong? Have I been focusing on the wrong things for so long? Is it me with the warped sense of ethics?

“Steven?”

He looked up and spotted the dark silhouette of his friend. He hesitated…as unsure of his ability to defy gravity enough to stay standing as he was about his own being at that moment.

“Can I sit with you?”

“Of course you can Allicia.”

As soon as she sat down she knew something was deeply wrong. The same eyes that could pierce through anything were betraying the inner turmoil within. He averted his eyes…fully aware of their betrayal.

“Steven…look…I didn’t mean what I said. I was angry, and drunk, and just…acting like a complete idiot.”

“No, Allicia…” he started. “You may be right. I have gone through life so convinced of what I believe to be right and wrong that…I don’t know.”

Hearing this nearly made her cry. Her friend was in serious doubt about all of the things that made him so wonderful, and it was her fault that he was.

“Steven, the strength of your convictions is what makes you the person you are. Not many are willing to stand up for something in the way that you do. I may personally disagree with you at times, but I have always admired the resolve you carry with you.”

She paused trying to find the right words that would convince him…

“Why do you think so many people feel safe in being so close to you?”

As the words entered his head, he still wasn’t sure if he believed them. His only escape several hours ago was a path leading into the woods. A path that could offer him the solace of escape.

He couldn’t be certain about how he felt at that moment, but he could be certain of one thing: the fact that his friend came out here to help him in a time of need. Those roles had so often been in reverse that he felt like he was dreaming. He finally allowed his brown eyes to come back up and look at Allicia. Uncertain of how to act, he hugged her and felt a safety that so many had described to him after he had followed them in their escapes. It felt nice, and despite the subsiding turmoil in his head, he knew he had someone to turn to if he needed it. As they pulled apart she could see a familiar life behind those brown eyes…except this time it was accompanied by a certain mischief.

“Come on. Ready to get your ass kicked in pool?”

Vivid Violet #9

2007-07-06T13:02:00.000-07:00

Spring-Heeled Jack

"The footprints in the snow suddenly ended..."

It's not the start of the story, but rather the end, the part I always remember. It reminds me of a big musty bed shared with my little sister in my Grandparent's draughty old house, where we would cower and clasp eachother giggling like fools - half scared, half delighted, as Granny told stories in the dark.

"This isn't funny Josh, it's getting dark already and I can't get my mobile to work - are you going to be able to get the car started or not..?"

Granny would never start her tales in the traditional way, but rather she would start with "When ahh were naught but a girl." and then unfold the story from there. She was awful old my Gran. As wizened as an orange left out in the wind, she'd never admit to an age and yet, for all her claims of aching backs and ricketty knees, she somehow remained as and spry and hearty as a hawthorn bush, all whip and prickle.

She told us many stories over the years: stories perhaps that parents now would shudder at and not permit - penny-dreadfuls and burlesque - the big bad wolves always got cut in half and those stupid, bone-grinding giants would slit their own stomachs as Jack laughed. River sprites and leering elves and goblins and golems and gollywogs.

And of course Jack. Jumping Jack. Spring-heeled Jack.

"Ah fuck it - let's just push the damn thing off the road and walk, it can't be more than a couple of miles, I recognise the road. We cross the river soon and then we should be able to see my Gran's old place across the moor. We'll get someone out to the car tomorrow. Better get your boots on though - the snow's thick."

Gran lived in Winston: a little village hidden away in Yorkshire, between an old oak forest and high ridge of hills. A river ran through it, cold as Winter and rippled with fish. But Gran hadn't always lived there. In her youth she'd worked as a servant girl in Lavender Hill London and - she would tell us, her eyes far away and suddenly blank - one day as she was crossing the common, a strange figure leapt at her from the dark mouth of an alley. Jack.

"He leapt out t' shaddas at me grinnin' like the very Devil." She'd say and continue to tell of how this fiendish figure had pushed her to the frosted ground and ripped at her dress with his claws which were - and here Granny would loom close over the bed and hook her fingers and we would obediently shriek - "as cold and as clammy as a corpse's". Then she'd "Let out a scream anna whistle loud enought' wake dead" and brought the whole neighborhood running. Jack would escape by half bounding, half flapping across the rooftops "like a bloody great broken-winged bat."

After half an hour's slog through the snow and still no bridge I realize two things: that I'm totally out of shape compared to the child that used to run all over the village before breakfast, and that we're lost. Quite seriously lost, considering we're wearing stupid fashion-imitation outdoor gear rather than the real stuff, and now the sun is gone the temperature is falling right off the scale. Beth's breath begins to steam like Granny's old iron kettle. She is silent, all her concentration set on putting her feet one in front of another. The uninterrupted whiteness and the great, overwhelming silence makes it hard to talk somehow, or maybe it's just tiredness, but it still feels like church.

I fall into a dull, leaden rhythm - boots crunching into the pristine crust and out again, breaking a path for my sister behind - and my eyes scan the snow-softened scenary for anything that the child long past remembers from his ramblings. It's cold, every breath is like sucking on ice.

I snort reflexively at how ironic it would be, were we both to die on the way to a funeral.

According to popular folklore, little Mary Stevens' story ends with the escape of Jack across the rooftops of old London town, but according to Granny it is actually where her real story begins. Because - as she used to whisper in the warm light of the bedside lamp - when she moved back to her village... Jack followed.

"That day, my wee ones, the snow were piled up like clouds on the hill-tops and mi breath came out mi mouth like steam from a kettle. Ah were walkin' 'ome cross back field from tarn when ah 'appened upon some tracks. Like normal footprints they were, but not right somehow. An ah knew, knew it right then it were 'im. Summin' crawled right up mi spine an' put up alla the hairs on mi neck straight as wires. 'Cos ye see children, the tracks they just started all at once from nothin' in t' snow. Ah hadda follow 'em too, ah couldn't 'elp it - cos they were 'eddin like an arra right for mi old Mum's 'ouse. This house."

At this point my Sister and I would squeal and gaze horror-struck out of the window, which my Gran would leave unshuttered, the curtains undrawn. And outside the window the snow would roll across the field like a great white ocean: frozen and frosted, crisp and brittle in sharp starlight.

"Josh we've been walking for hours - you said it wasn't far - where the fuck are we going..?"

My Sister never swears, and that, coupled with the sheer noise of her voice bursting out of the great cathedral silence all around jerks me out of the trance I've been plodding through for the last couple of miles. I turn, my limbs leaden, suddenly exhausted.

"I'm sorry sweetheart, I think we're in trouble. You wanna try your phone again..?"

Then there is a strange wooshing noise behind me, and an explosion of snow. Beth screams, the noise furious, her breath blasting out like a fire-extiguisher in the luminous dark. I don't want to turn round. I'm seven again, and listening to my Granny's stories. And now as then, I can't help it, my eyes drag my head around, until I'm looking at it. Looking at him. Looking at Jack.

And Gran would point out of the window with one shaking hand, gaze into our terrified little eyes and continue: "An when ah got t' 'ouse, e'en though it were colder than a witch's tit that day, ah were sweatin' like a shire'orse. And them footprints - well they got within a couple o' yards o' this very window and just stopped - just ended - like e'd jus' disappeared. An' near where they ended there were a tile come down offen the roof, stuck up in the snow like a teeny-tiny tombstone."

Up close it looked nothing like the pictures in Gran's book. Just like she'd said. Blackness slid over it despite the starlight reflecting off the snow all around. It towered over us by a meter or more. Its head dark and featureless save for a banked-coal glimmer of eyes. No arms but more fins, or stunted wings perhaps, jutting out from a torso much too short for its height. It jigged gently on its legs, up and down, never still. It stank, even in the clean frosted air - a noxious smell, like stagnant swimming pools brimming with chlorine and rotten weed. One minute maybe, maybe two we watched it, watched it not breathing even as our own breath tumbled out of us like waves of fog in the icy air.

Quick as a knife it moved, a pale hard pincer grazing my cheek, hard enough to bruise but not hard enough to cut, and then it was gone - squatting down - its legs bending impossibly backward like a giant cricket's - and then whoosing, soaring, vanishing upwards with a sucking vaccuum that plucked at our frosted clothes.

Then Gran would sit back and breathe and smile to show us the worst was over. "Well ah got inside the door and slammed it shut behind just as quick as a bird, an tied downt' latch wi' mi best knots ah kin tell ye. Fer a while ah just stood there and caught mi breath, then ah went t' find mi Mum."

Spring-Heeled Jack streaked down again like a comet not fifty yards from where we stood, throwing up a great fantail of snow with the force of his landing. Then in a curious series of hopping bounds he began to move away over the moor at a diagonal to the path we'd been making. Every now and again he'd pause, and twist his head around in our direction.

Children again, brother and sister holding hands in the darkness, terrified, we followed.

"- Ah found 'er in the kitchen proddin' at' fire. She turned 'roun and gimme such a clip roun' the eer as ye wouldn't wish on ye worst enemy. Then she told me not ta shove anymore snow downt' chimney. 'It's Jack' ah told 'er mi eyes bright wi tears, 'Spring-Heeled Jack's jumped up on our roof' ah said, 'e was the one that done it Mum, not me."

There were lights in the darkness ahead, electric and warm. Our limbs suddenly full of energy, we rushed over the snow toward them, trampling through and over the marks of Jack's passing without thought. And then we were at the window, and the footprints suddenly ended.

"'No such thing as Spring-Heeled Jack my little lass' mi Mum said, wipin' away mi tears, but ahh knew it alla same, Jack was on the roof- lookin' out fer me." Then Gran would close the curtains and fuss with the blankets, tucking us in snug as mice in a sack. She would stroke our brows and soothe our fretful faces, cooing nonsense words and lullabies until we slept.

Feisty Fern #9

2007-07-05T19:15:00.000-07:00

The footprints in the snow suddenly ended. At the top of the ridge, John could see where the hunter knelt to fire. The path in the snow down the far side of the rim showed the hunter slid down the hill after making his kill shot. Looking out from the point in a slow arc, John found the splatter of blood like a teacher’s correction on a white page.

He turned and followed his own tracks back down the hill. He wasn’t interested in sliding down the ridge. He would walk around.

The carcass of the polar bear had been neatly skinned. John inspected closely to see if the gall bladder had been removed, which it had. Natural healers in parts of Asia paid big bucks for the gall bladders, which was why the hunters came to Wrangel Island.

There were thousands of people who could shoot a rifle who were willing to kill a bear for money, but only a few could brave the fierce cold of Chukotka. Killing the bears was strictly forbidden, but who in chaotic Russia could stop it? Those that did come to the artic this time of year were good.

He set up a small pup tent east of the bear’s body. Across the horizon he could see smoke from the fire of the hunter, perhaps just over the next major ridge to the east. It was too close now for him to risk having his own fire. The moonlight didn’t quite reach the deepest crevices on his weathered face. A week’s worth of salt and pepper growth covered his gaunt cheeks.

A gloved hand closed around a can of beans that had been defrosting in his white parka’s inner lining. A large knife in the other hand quickly opened them before the frigid air froze them again. He ate them straight from the can with no utensil. A new can, frozen solid, replaced the other in his coat’s pocket to defrost for tomorrow.

John woke after five hours sleep. It was still unbearably cold without the sun. The wind blown snow was like a thousand tacks driving into his face. But he had to make up ground on the hunter, who had been ahead of him for three days. He knew the hunter’s habits, and there would be no stirring in that camp for another hour. John figured he could gain some ground before the hunter was moving again. Snowmobiles scared the bears, and it was slow traveling by foot through the deep snow. If he didn’t stop for lunch, John could catch the hunter by late afternoon.

He passed the hunter’s camp from the previous night around mid-morning. It was just some tracks and a small pile of ashes. A few cigarette butts were scattered. There was a careless, single set of tracks leading to the east.

That afternoon John spotted the hunter. The hunter was stopped, again at the crest of a hill, assembling a rifle.

John crawled up a hill south of the hunter, using the white snow suit he wore to blend seamlessly with the terrain. He assembled his own rifle. Through the scope John could see the Asian man he had been following. There was a wisp of mustache on his upper lip but no other facial hair growth. The man sucked in a drag from a cigarette and put it out. He raised his rifle.

Following the angle of the hunter’s gun, John found the polar bear with his scope. It was well within range of the hunter, and at the limits of his. Acting quickly to beat the hunter, John took aim and fired.

A splash of blood from the hunter’s head hit the snow behind him. His rifle fell quietly into the snow bank, and he followed it, after wobbling like a reluctant tenth bowling pin. The bear had run at the sound of the gunshot.

John looked into the hunter’s open eyes, which were quickly forming ice crystals on the surface.

“If you fuck over your partner, cover your tracks, Randall.”

He shut the eyes and took all the food he could carry from the satchel on the ground. The frozen gall bladder and hide also went into his pack.

John dissembled his rifle and slid down the far side of the rise to chase the polar bear.

Pleasant Plumeria #9

2007-07-05T11:54:00.000-07:00

The footprints in the snow suddenly ended. I looked around frantically, panic burning at the back of my throat. White gleamed back at me, no longer pristine, but grating, mocking. The trail behind me was still visible, but growing fainter with each passing minute. Backtracking was no longer an option.

As I stood there, thoughts racing, my physical discomfort no longer registered. The needle-like sting of snowflakes abrading my cheeks, the sharp pain of frostbite creeping into my extremities, none of this mattered as I stared into the oblivion that seemed to have swallowed him completely. After hours of chasing him, loaded shotgun in hand, his tracks had simply disappeared. It was as though he'd sprouted wings and taken flight, but this man was no angel. This man was the closest incarnation to the devil that I'd ever known.

"We're gonna be late, damn it. Seriously, if we're gonna walk in late like a couple of assholes, I don't even want to go."

"James, we're not late, we're just not as early as you wanted to be. I'm almost ready, I'll be right down."

"Oh, I'm stupid because I wanted to be early? I'm an idiot because I don't enjoy showing up in the middle of things so everyone can pay attention to me?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Please Michele, give me a break. You fucking love prancing in the room with all eyes on you. You get off on it and you know it."

"I'm coming down right now! Please don't be angry, I just wanted to look nice."

"Are you kidding me? You spent all that time up there and this is it? What did you even do? Besides pile on the slut makeup, I mean."

"James, please. I just wanted to look special. It's a wedding, I thought I'd put on some makeup for the occasion."

"Nice. You want to look 'special' for your ex-boyfriend's wedding. When was the last time you looked 'special' for me? And where did that dress come from, did you buy a new dress without asking me?"

"I told you I had to get a new dress, I didn't have anything that looked right for an evening wedding! I—"

"Oh you TOLD me, I see. Well why don't you TELL me what you plan to do in your slut outfit tonight? Gonna suck of the groom for old time's sake? Maybe give the ushers handjobs so they remember who you were in high school."

"James, I'm sorry, I wanted to look pretty for you. I wanted you to be proud of me. Ow, please don't grab me, please, James—"

"Shut up! You pissed me off on purpose, didn't you? Why do you make me do these things? Why do you ALWAYS fucking instigate with me? THERE, how does that feel? Feel special now?"

"J-James, please. I'm sorry, I'm an idiot. Please don't hit me again, I should have known better."

"Better than what? What, slut, what should you have known better?"

"B-Better than to piss you off, better than to buy a dress I didn't need. I-I-I didn't mean to make you so mad, it's my fault."

"Alright then. Now stand up and give me a kiss. I hate when you make me do these things. If you would just be sweet to me, I wouldn't have to get so mad."

"You're right, James, you're right."

I heard a rustle above me and a tremor rippled down my spine. The trees around me had long since ceased to be picturesque, but this was the first time they looked downright sinister. Could he possibly have shimmied up one of the knotty trunks? A wave of terror rolled over me and I began darting my eyes upwards, left, right, anywhere a man might have hidden himself within the boughs of a fir tree. Paranoia gripped me like a vice, and I felt his eyes on me, boring into my back, watching and waiting.

I swung my shotgun around wildly, searching for some hint at where he'd gone. None of the trees looked like they'd been disturbed, each trunk covered with the same layer of ice and snow. I closed my eyes briefly, trying to focus on the sounds of the woods, but nothing stood out. The hush of falling snow was deafening, maddening, infuriating, until I heard another rustle. Right above me.

"I'm so sorry I'm late! I got home as soon as I could, but my boss was being a jerk and then traffic was a nightmare. James, are you in here?"

"What do you think?"

"Oh! You were so quiet, I thought maybe you'd gone out."

"No, I don't have that luxury."

"What do you mean?"

"Well Michele, while you're out fucking around all night, someone has to be here to feed the damn cat. Someone has to take care of the animal, right? Since its owner doesn't give a shit."

"James I'm two hours late, and I called to tell you that. You didn't answer the phone, I thought maybe you'd gone to get food or something."

"Nope, too busy cat sitting. And don't worry about food, I don't need to eat."

"I'm sorry, I DID try to call. Things got screwed up on the latest project and we had to get it fixed by—"

"Do I look like I give a shit? You're a secretary, I don't give a flying fuck what you do all day."

"I'm a paralegal, James, it's a lot more complicated than—"

"Right, right, I'M the dumb one. We can't all be geniuses that went to legal school—oh wait, you didn't."

"Please, I don't want to fight, I had a long day, I just want to make some dinner and relax."

"Who's fighting? I'm just stating the obvious. My stupid shit wife was late again, didn't make me dinner AGAIN, and expected me to take care of her stupid animal AGAIN. Well, at least I fixed part of the problem."

"James…what does that mean? Why are you smiling like that?"

"Figure it out, lawyer Barbie. I'm going to bed."

"James, where's Cody? I didn't hear him when I came in. James, talk to me, don't walk away… Cody! Cody kitty, where are you?"

"If you're hungry, feel free to reheat something from the freezer, Michele."

"Oh shit shit shit… Please God, please don't… This can't be happening—CODY! Nooo, please Jesus, CODY!! James, what did you DO?!"

My knuckles were white and my fingers numb from the death grip I had on the shotgun. The sound of movement became more constant, and when I opened my eyes, it was easy to spot him. Hunkered down on a thick lower limb, he looked back at me, shaking slightly. His bare feet were raw and bloodied, but the look in his eyes was still menacing. Realizing that I'd seen him, he steadied himself, gripped the tree branch, and swung down to the ground with a muted thud. His arms out wide, the most submissive I'd ever seen him, he began walking towards me.

"Mmmph… What? What're you doing?"

"Shh, just go back to sleep."

"James…"

"I said go back to sleep Michele, this won't take long."

"Hey! Stop! Ouch!! What are you doing?!"

"It doesn't have to be rough if you cooperate. Fuck, I don't even need you to cooperate, just lie there quietly."

"Please James, owww… I really don't want to—OUCH!"

"Shut up, bitch! I told you it'd be over soon if you just lay still."

"But, I don't—I'm not—OW!—please James, don't—Oh God, it hurts!!"

"There, there we go. Just take it baby. You know you want it."

"James…Please, you're killing me…It hurts so bad…"

"Shhh…Just enjoy the ride."

"Put down the gun. Look, I get it. I'll treat you better. Come on, sweetheart, let's just go back. I promise, things will be different." Even in his disarray, disheveled and injured, freezing and running for his life, James still managed to be controlling.

"Michele, you don't really want to do this. And let's face it, you're not gonna pull the trigger. You'd miss me too much, and you know you need me. I'll forgive you, baby, let's just go home." A superior smile crept across his face as he inched closer and closer.

As I held the gun up and aimed it at his chest, I felt the beginnings of something I hadn't known in a long time. It felt soft and warm, soothing and calm. As I pointed my shotgun at my husband's chest, I finally began to feel peace.

"You're wrong, James. And I'm not going to miss you at all."

The blast of the shotgun echoed in the woods, but all I could focus on was the snow. It had swallowed our tracks and silenced a whole forest, and now it became the perfect canvas. I had never been much of an artist, but the spatter and spill of his blood into the deep drifts of snow was my masterpiece.

TKO #9, Everyone / Results of TKO #8

2007-07-01T17:17:00.000-07:00

TKO #9

Begin your post with the following:

The footprints in the snow suddenly ended.

Due Saturday at noon.

EVERYONE responds to this prompt as there is now a merged group. Two players will be removed as a result of this prompt.

Results of TKO #8

Racy Redwood is removed for inactivity. No vote for this period.

Loyal Lilac #8

2007-07-01T16:02:00.001-07:00

To anyone else, it looks like an old, slightly tattered yellow and white striped short-sleeved t-shirt with a tiny little pocket on the front right breast, too small to fit anything in. But to me, it looks like my grandfather.

The yellow, so fitting, as he was one of the happiest, most cheerful men anyone had ever encountered. Even after he had entered the hospital for the last time, he was able to see the silver lining. He saw the good in everything.

One day I called him after a first year of law school property class to say hi and he, of course, always wanting to hear about his grandchildren’s’ lives asked how it was.

I told him, “it wasn’t my favorite, but it was okay.”

He was quick to respond, “Well, even if it’s not your favorite, you should always try to take something away from every class!”

Even when he was sick, he tried to get me to see the good in one of my least favorite law school classes.

During that phone conversation, one of my last with him, I asked how the food was at the Del Ray Medical Center, and he said: "it's a better menu than at the West Palm Retirement Community, you get to choose a meat or fish, and they have soups, and they brought me TWO main courses tonight. I ordered tuna, but I got both tuna AND roast beef!"

And when I asked if my grandmother was there with him, he said: “for appearance sake, she comes every day. It’d be a disgrace in the Community! People would say: 'you mean you're not going to the hospital.'”

Even in his last few days, he maintained his optimistic attitude, positive outlook, and sense of humor.

For the rest of my life, every time I do something that I know he’d be proud of, I’ll look at his yellow and white striped t-shirt which still sits in my closet and think of him.

Albert Einstein once said: “Our death is not an end if we can live on in our children and the younger generation.” So, Grandpop, you will live on forever through me. I love and miss you.

Cool Cactus #8

2007-07-01T10:57:00.000-07:00

My grandfather was a deeply religious man. He went to shul every Friday night and every Saturday morning. He lived close the temple so he could walk to services, driving being forbidden on the Sabbath.

Yit-gadal v'yit-kadash sh'may raba b'alma dee-v'ra che-ru-tay, ve'yam-lich mal-chutay b'chai-yay-chon uv'yo-may-chon uv-cha-yay d'chol beit Yisrael, ba-agala u'vitze-man ka-riv, ve'imru amen.

Personally, I never understood the Orthodox lifestyle. Having to wear a beard of a certain length, being separated from your wife at religious services (I always thought religion was supposed to bring family together) and all the black. Now, don't get me wrong - I went through my depressed teenage angst period like most of my peers, but I quickly grew out of it. Black is all well and good, but sometimes you like a little color.

Y'hay sh'may raba me'varach le-alam uleh-almay alma-ya.

I never took my religion very seriously. It was something I did to please my grandparents. My father's idea of rebellion was to be an atheist, so I wasn't really brought up in a religious house. Only when I was visiting my grandparents did I go to temple with any regularity.

Yit-barach v'yish-tabach, v'yit-pa-ar v'yit-romam v'yit-nasay, v'yit-hadar v'yit-aleh v'yit-halal sh'may d'koo-d'shah, b'rich hoo. layla ool-ayla meen kol beer-chata v'she-rata, toosh-b'chata v'nay-ch'mata, da-a meran b'alma, ve'imru amen.

I got my bar mitzvah, mainly for the gifts. That's the one upside of the Orthodox. They really take those rites of passage seriously and shell out the big bucks. So of course, I'm not an idiot. I rode my bar mitvah money all the way to college. It was great.

Y'hay sh'lama raba meen sh'maya v'cha-yim aleynu v'al kol Yisrael, ve'imru amen.

Basically, I'm telling you all this so you'll realize my surprise when I was presented with my grandfather's copy of the Torah after he died. He wouldn't leave it to my father, given his views, but I guess he had some hope for me. Deep down, I think he knew I was only doing it for him. But that at least was more effort than dad. So maybe he held out some sliver of hope that I'd mend my ways. I guess it worked a bit. When I got to campus the first week of college, I found the Hillel and joined. I still take that Torah with me to Friday night services (Saturday services are a bit too early for a college kid). But every time I open those pages and read the same words my grandfather did for all those years - the same words our people have been reading for five thousand years - I remember my grandfather and a feel a deep connection I wish I had found during his life.

O'seh shalom beem-romav, hoo ya'ah-seh shalom aleynu v'al kol Yisrael, ve'imru amen.

I miss you gramps.

Loud Lily #8

2007-07-01T10:50:00.000-07:00

When David was two years old he was inconsolable. His mother tried every trick recommended by her friends: pacifiers, whiskey under his gums, bathing him at night, redecorating his room, bathing him at morning, and facing his bed toward the rising sun, which was not a real suggestion but a tip for insomniacs from a New Age book she browsed in the library.

When she ran out of real suggestions, Irma eventually began creating random unusual circumstances to see if she could stumble on a cure for his constant crying. She wore tin foil hats, or talked to him in pig latin, or didn’t talk at all, or put his clothes on backwards. One day she only let him see the color green. The next day blue, and so forth. Her friends began to say that she had gone crazy. They would lament her sanity at the hands of her troublesome child over tea before sharing the latest gossip of her “solutions” over cookies.

After consulting a doctor for the third time in as many months, Irma was driving her son home when she passed the large blue and white cathedral being built a mile from their neighborhood. This was how she found David’s cure.

The next day, Irma dug her grandmother’s rosary out of her jewelry box and stuffed it into her purse. The rosary, which was old enough to qualify as an heirloom, was Irma’s only connection to a deep religious past of her family. Irma had been raised Catholic, but only in the vein of social obligation and insincerity. She knew the prayers of the rosary and had memorized several verses of the Bible, but had never felt a spiritual need that compelled her to take them seriously. When she told her parents that she wished to quit her Catholic teachings, they shrugged. Now, several years later, she hoped that some of that knowledge would come in handy.

Irma walked the mile to the cathedral-in-construction, carrying David the entire time. In order to produce varying sets of circumstances she would alternate carrying her son and using a stroller in accordance with even and odd days. That day had been odd.

When they arrived at the building there were no workers on site, so Irma slipped under some plastic and rope to be underneath the main dome of the building, which she accurately predicted would later become the sanctuary. Setting her son on a pile of cinderblocks, Irma fished the rosary out from her purse.

The second the beads came into view, David fell silent. It took Irma about a minute to realize what had happened. Over the months she had been so accustomed to his crying that instead of noticing that he had stopped making noise, the first thing she noticed was how loud everything else was. The birds outside were screaming so shrilly that she instinctively felt that the cathedral had been built in order to magnify sound. When she turned around, however, and saw that her son’s mouth was barely open, she understood.

Although she had been unable to immediately comprehend the new sensations to her ears, Irma was able to deduce the source of the cure rather quickly. There was nothing extraordinarily special about the rosary, other than its age. The fifty beads were made of crushed flowers set in glass and it had, according to her grandmother, become a sacramental after a priest blessed it over a hundred years ago. Irma, relieved that she had found peace at last, began to hand the beads to her son, when she stopped. The thought occurred to her that she was manipulating holy traditions for personal gain. In order that God would not be upset at her and repeal his gift, Irma got down on her knees and prayed the rosary. She would, in fact, return and perform the same ritual each day for the next month, feeling that thirty days recognition was more than fair.

When she was finished, Irma stood, brushed the dust and dirt off of her dress, and pushed the beads into her son’s hands. Her friends would later call her incompetent for allowing David to be so near to something that was so small and bright that he would most certainly choke on it, but no such accident ever took place. The rosary was placed on a mobile above his bed and David resorted to crying in the night only when he was hungry or needed a changing.

The rosary became a large part of David’s childhood. It inspired many firsts. The rosary had been held out to him at a distance when his father was disappointed in his son’s early development, inspiring his first steps. It had quieted him aboard an airplane to California to visit relatives during his first flight. It was even tied to the handlebars during his first bicycle ride for luck, and when he suffered only minor scratches after his numerous falls his mother explained that the rosary had protected him from any serious injuries. When he was hospitalized for a month when he was five, Irma placed it around his neck so that the cross lay on his heart and explicitly instructed the nurse caring for him that it was to remain that way.

For five years David cherished the prayer beads. Not understanding their significance, he began to believe that they were magical. He purposefully avoided asking about their origins because he was so satisfied with his own explanation. When he started school he kept them in his backpack only to pull them out and place them around a bedpost every evening. For five years he considered himself blessed. This would, of course, not last forever. And when David was seven, something terrible happened.

Hip Hibiscus #8

2007-07-01T09:48:00.000-07:00

The Secret

Will lost the dearest person in his life two weeks before his ninth birthday. But he remembered that day not for the shock, and then sorrow, and then drastic changes in the pattern of his life that had followed—although each of these had been significant. In his mind, it stood out most clearly as the day he had discovered the secret about himself, that secret that had scared him so much, he didn’t dare tell anyone about it, not even his mother. He had almost told her, in that moment when the realization had suddenly tumbled into his young awareness and he had stared at it, startled, wondering what he should do. But a glance at the tracks of tears still shining on his mother’s cheeks, at the usual graceful strength of her tall form curved in despair, had whispered to him that now was not the time, and a moment later his new gift warned him that the time might not come for many years. Might never come. So Will remained silent.

Later, in the dark silence of his room, he tried to pinpoint the moment understanding had fallen. He had been pulled out of class early that afternoon, the first hint that the day would hold something out of the ordinary. But what? Will had wondered, as he cleared off his desk and placed books in his satchel. Am I in trouble? He could not think of anything he had done wrong recently, at least not that he was likely to have been caught in. Does Father have need of me for something? Or perhaps Mother has returned from the Far East. But why should she call me home early?

Kendra raised her eyebrows at him from across the classroom, and he gave her a helpless shrug. She was wondering whether he would still be able to meet her after school as they had planned, and of course he did not know. He gave her one of their old hand signals, the one meaning, don’t wait for me, take care of yourself. Her forehead wrinkled in concern, as that sign usually had the negative connotations of a plan gone awry, so he flashed her one more, a sign of reassurance: it’ll be all right. Will hoped his optimism was warranted.

Bidding farewell to his teacher, Will followed the messenger sent to escort him as she turned and led the way out through the square and into the marketplace. But she knew nothing of the reason for Will’s summons—this was obvious from her failure to patronize the boy with overly excited half-hints, as she would have done had the reason been a good one, or to peek with curious fascination at him from the corners of fixed-forward eyes, were it bad. Instead she made idle small talk over her shoulder as they picked their way through clusters of shoppers on their way towards the dusty roads of the residential district.

Will could tell by her haphazard comments that she was unaccustomed to the company of children; she did not know what sort of responses to expect from this boy of nearly nine, and was thus not disturbed by his lack of any. This left him free to make his own observations of their surroundings without being compelled to respond to hers. It was the Day of Craft, and pottery and textiles were on display on platforms and table in open-air booths. Shoppers jostled as they perused the colorful wares, and Will recognized many whose faces and even some whose names he knew, but as usual his small stature kept him for the most part quite literally below their awareness. A well-dressed man slipping out the doorway of the Port Authority caught Will’s roving glance, and in the mutual jolt of recognition Will got his first hint of the pit soon to open up before him.

The man was a neighbor and family friend who sometimes joined Will’s family for dinner, especially when his mother was home from her travels, because he had some sort of financial interests abroad. Will didn’t fully understand them, except that they caused the man to seek his mother’s perspectives on the state of certain troubled areas. But there was something in the quick shock with which he noticed Will in the bustling crowd that suggested he had been thinking of the boy before he saw him, and the flicker of apology that followed it, as though he felt he should say something, but wasn’t sure what, or how to do so at this distance, warned Will that the circumstances behind the messenger’s appearance were to be feared more than he had previously guessed.

But the messenger walked on, oblivious, giving Will no opportunity to glean further information from the man, who hurried off in the opposite direction. They soon arrived at Will’s front door and he rapped once, stopped in the act of returning the messenger’s curt nod of farewell by the sight of his mother’s stricken face as she swung open the door.

She swooped onto him with a desperate embrace that was like the clinging of a shipwrecked sailor to a plank of wood, pulling him to he so tight it was as if he had been pulled inside of her, could feel her very heart breaking. And in that moment he somehow knew that his father was gone. Not dead, not as far as his mother knew anyway. But he could feel, in her grip, the hole left in her by the knowledge of his father’s absence. This thought filled him with fear, because his mother was not one to make mistakes or hasty assumptions, and if she believed his father lost, then Will was left with no choice but to believe that it was so.

But this fear was pushed aside by the alarming realization that this information was coming to him, not by any close observation of his mother’s external movements or expressions, but by a direct experience of her internal state, which he had somehow been caught up in the midst of. He found himself, suddenly, wandering in the cavern of her thoughts, barraged by the whirl of her emotions, aware of her awarenesses, experiencing the pressure of his own body held against hers. The landscape was disorienting in its unfamiliarity, even more bewildering for the turmoil it was that moment engulfed in. He had lost himself in his mother, and he did not know how to get back to the surroundings he had never even realized he was accustomed to until he had been torn inexplicably from their midst. His body stiffened with the shock, pulling him back into his own head, and awakening his mother to his presence.

“Will,” she said, stilling with enormous effort the trembling in her voice. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Exhausted from the storm of confusion and fear he had just emerged from, Will responded with automatic obedience.

“What is it, Mother?”

“Come inside.” She released his small frame, held him by the hand as she rose and drew him into the house, shutting the door behind him. He followed her in silence to the inner room, where she sat him beside her on the cushions. She looked down into his eyes, smoothed his hair with a gentle hand and wiped away the tears he had not even felt course down his cheeks. “I have frightened you, my child.”

“No, Mother.”

“Yes, Will. No need to be ashamed. I am sorry, I should have left more time to compose myself. I am still…quite upset. I was not thinking when I sent for a messenger to retrieve you. But, I am glad you are home.” Her hand, which had come to rest on his shoulder, tightened, as if to keep him from slipping away. He did not move, held her gaze steadily. I am here, Mother, he told her silently. Her grip relaxed.

“Will, your father went out to the Temple this morning. Beulla Otrida saw him passing, he told her he was going to consult the Thinkers, that he should be back by midday. He entered a Meditation Room under the observation of the Keeper, Gillan Journam. Several hours later he had still not emerged. Gillan became worried. He went to knock on the door, noticed it was unlatched. It would not have been so were your father within. He found your father’s charma on the floor, but there was no sign of him in the room. He has not returned. He has vanished, Willem.” Her chest shuddered compulsively, but her lips, pressed tight, expelled no sigh of breath.

“But what makes you certain he will not return? It seems to me there could have been some urgent matter, something the Thinkers revealed, that needed tending, that Father could have slipped away to do so without speaking to—”

“I’m afraid it is unlikely, my dear one. Ioseppa is not the first to vanish from a Meditation Room. There have been others. The Authorities have kept it quiet, hoping to protect the sanctity of the Temple in the minds of the people, but several others have… gone… in such a way. Charmae abandoned, door ajar. It was explained to me. They are still unsure what becomes of these people but, as yet, none have returned. The first to disappear has been missing three years. Turann Genni warned me it was best to accept, that he has seen others broken by the dashing of hopes they held on to for too long. We must be strong, Willem.”

Will nodded, numb to emotion. The experience of entering his mother’s emotions had left him out of touch with his own, or maybe there was simply too much to deal with in this moment. He reached out and squeezed his mother’s hand, and the contact opened again, to him, a path into her mind. But this time he was not forcefully pulled into her; rather, he saw it as an opening before him, through which he could choose to step. He peered in curiously, saw fears springing up like fires faster than his mother could put them out, although from the safety of his own mind he could not tell exactly what they were, and he did not dare re-enter because he was still not sure he could control his return to himself. He edged back, and this was the moment he had considered telling her of the strange connection he had experienced, asking if she had felt it, too. But he had decided against it. Instead, he had spoken admiringly.

“You are strong, Mother.”

Her lips stretched into a half-smile, although her eyes remained unchanged. “Thank you, Willem. You are a brave boy. I must go out and speak with some people, there are arrangements that must be made. Would you like me to send for someone to stay with you? The Beulla, perhaps?”

“No, thank you, I’d like to be alone. I will go up to my room.” He stood, bowed to his mother, withdrew from the room and climbed the ladder into his bed. He lay curled, staring, unseeing, out the window, pondering what had happened to him. He could do it again, he knew—the second time, as he had held his mother’s hand, he had sensed mechanisms, paths… It was all very confusing. He wondered whether all people had this gift, whether others had explored the landscape of his mind before, without his awareness. Surely it was an invasion, to enter the thoughts of another, especially if they did not know you had been there. Perhaps he was some sort of monster, to have done so, to his own mother, in her time of grief. Perhaps he would be taken away for punishment, or for study, should someone find out of his ability. Will vowed never to do it again.

Feisty Fern #8

2007-07-01T07:42:00.000-07:00

The smell of hogs filled my nose, and I didn’t care. I was a kid, after all, and was used to smelling bad.

I didn’t really know what we were trying to do, except that we got to run around in a pen with about a hundred hogs that were all way bigger than I was. The mud (and probably some other brownish stuff) was caked to our shoes.

I asked my dad if he had a tissue, which was a stupid question, but, like I said, I was only a kid. He taught me to hold one nostril shut and shoot the snot out the other one onto the ground. A snot rocket, he called it. For weeks after that I hoped for another stuffy nose.

Our goal seemed to be to separate this one really big hog from the rest of them and get it to run down a chute off the main pen. My dad told me to stand kind of far away, since those hogs were so much bigger than me, and he said they could be mean. I had thought that hogs and pigs and stuff were nice, like the ones in the movies, but I wasn’t going to argue. They were really big.

He gave me a stick to hit the hogs with if they got too close to me. I didn’t use it much because I made sure they didn’t get that close.

My uncle, whose farm we were at, had a stick that looked like my Louisville slugger bat, and he hit the big hog we were after with it so hard it snapped it two. That got the hog to run down the little chute and into a really small wooden cage. It looked like the little cages they keep bulls in before they bust out and start bucking at the rodeo. They shut a wooden gate to keep the hog from running back down the chute into the main pen.

Our part of the job was done, so I looked back for my mom and sister who were standing out of the mud just on the other side of the wire fence. I waved at them. My sister had super blond hair and chubby cheeks and didn’t want to get dirty in the pen with the hogs.

Atlas, my uncle, climbed the wooden fence of the little cage, and he had a hammer and a chisel. When he got near the top, the whole cage started rocking because the hog was going crazy inside it.

My dad and I got out of the pen and climbed up a big stack of tires. Atlas’s farm had a big mound of tired that was at least ten feet high and so wide it had probably ten thousand tires in it. Well, we climbed up that stack of tires and sat down to watch what Atlas did next. We couldn’t quite see down inside the wooden cage, but at least we had a place to sit down.

My mom and sister stood next to us, but didn’t sit on the tires. My sister was wearing turquoise cloth shorts, and she said the black stuff would wipe off the tires onto them. I looked at my jeans where I had been sitting on the tires. She probably had a point, but I didn’t care because I was already dirty from being in the hog pen.

I picked at the mud on my shoes, and my dad wiped sweat from his pink forehead. We had been outside all day and he forgot his sunscreen, even after my mom reminded him. This was really bad for him since his forehead was really big.

Well, the cage thing was shaking so hard I thought Atlas would fall off it, but he managed to climb down inside with the hog. I asked my dad if he would get hurt, because those hogs were supposed to be dangerous. He said he thought that Atlas would not be the one getting hurt.

When Atlas got down in there, the hog started screaming, which I didn’t even know they could do. It sounded worse than my sister after I pulled her pigtails or pushed her in some mud. The cage was rocking so hard I thought it would bust apart or come out of the ground or something, but it stayed in place. After a few seconds of the awful screaming and tremendous swaying and rocking, Atlas climbed back over the fence. He threw down the hammer and chisel to the ground and then jumped after them.

Atlas brushed his sleeves off, and I knew that we were done with work for the day. He opened the little wooden gate and the big hog ran down the chute to rejoin the others. It was quiet now and moved pretty fast for being so big.

We went back to the house and sat at the table outside next to a couple broken down old cars. My favorite part of the farm was the broken down old stuff, especially the combines. The big pile of tires was pretty cool, too. Anything that I could climb on was well-received with me.

Wanda Lee, who was Atlas’s wife, brought out a big wooden box with a handle on it. Inside was about two gallons of fresh ice cream, which was quickly dispensed to everyone.

As we ate the ice cream, my sister and I watched the cats climbing on the corrugated metal shed. They jumped from the roof of the shed, down onto the old Ford Galaxie and then to the ground. I didn’t know why there were so many cats at the farm, but I guess they were all related, because they were all gray and looked about the same. My mom told me that they didn’t even have names. There were so many similar looking cats that no one could tell them apart.

My sister reached out to pet one of them, and it crouched down and then in a flash it bit her hand.

The scream she let loose rivaled the hogs, but it didn’t last as long because she started crying right after. My mom dropped her spoon and bowl onto the wooden table and ran over to my sister. Everyone crowded around her to try to stop the bleeding and make her shut up, I guess. All her crying got on my nerves a little bit. It was just a cat. It wasn’t like one of those hogs had rammed her into a fence post or something.

I kept eating my ice cream. I didn’t know how to stop bleeding, and my sister usually cried when I was around anyway, so I figured I wouldn’t be of much use. I saw that Atlas hadn’t rushed over to her either, so I went to sit by him. He said he figured Wanda Lee’s ice cream was about the best he had ever had. I figured that I agreed with him, because it sure did taste good.

I asked what he did to that hog to make it fuss that way. He smiled at me with a crooked smile, the stubble on his face pointing in all directions as the skin stretched out in new ways. It seemed to hang loose on his face, but not in a weird or scary way. He said he cut out its tusk using that hammer and chisel. I had seen my dad use a hammer and chisel to chip away wood before, and I thought that somebody using that to hit at my gums would make me scream and try to get away too. No wonder that hog was going so crazy.

He reached in the pocket of his overalls and handed me to tusk, which looked to me like just a bigger version of one of my baby teeth. Except that it still had a big chunk of pink, bleedy flesh attached to it. I put the tusk in my pocket. I thought I could scare my sister pretty good with it when we got in the car to go home.

By this time, everyone was done tending to her and went back to eating their ice cream. All the adults talked and talked until it was dark outside. When my sister and I had just about filled a jar with lightning bugs, we loaded our stuff into the car.

I fell right asleep and forgot about scaring her, but when we got home, I cleaned off the gross blood and stuff from the tusk and put it on my shelf with the cow skull and raccoon jawbone that I had found on other trips to the farm.

Peculair Pointsettia #8

2007-06-29T20:52:00.002-07:00

The dried roses are really real. Tangible. This isn’t fiction. I have them here, somewhere in my apartment. It’s one of the few real, made-in-a-story-book things I have. I was graced with three yellow-cream roses for my birthday. The tips were tinged with pink, like they were brushed against a water-color sunset before being plucked.

He had smiled when he saw my expression. Someone had finally given me roses. I wanted to honor them, and what they meant; so when they started to wilt, as all things do, I hung them over the table from the cheap apartment chandelier. The plated, flaking brass and brittle glass of the lighting fixture seemed odd, in contrast to the fading natural color of the roses. They were there, reminding me of what they could/might symbolize. Slowly the petals would pucker as age came. Upside down, the nutrients in the stem would make there way to the other end, using gravity as a laborious slide to preserve the bloom.

He would see the quaint bouquet hanging there, and his eyes would shine.

We grew together, learned about each other-both habits and flaws. He gave me roses again. Red ones, symbolizing passion. Once they started wilting, I decided to try to dry them again. I tenderly positioned and arranged the blooms, petals splayed to show the wonderfulness of the whorls and flares that make a rose a rose. But then I closed the embrace, between newspaper and unused textbooks. When I checked them a week later, the blooms were molded, and I had to throw them away.

It’s okay-you can’t save everything.

And one day, he stepped away. He didn’t think he loved me. He couldn’t understand a choice I had made. “But you gave me roses…I had hoped”.

They are still here somewhere, in my apartment. Stored away with a few other gifts, I’m told I should give back. More hidden by the memories I try to avoid, than by any physical obstruction.

But he gave me roses-and that’s a start.

Rules Amendment

2007-06-29T20:11:00.000-07:00

At the end of this week after the vote, there will be 13 players left in the game.

There will only be one TKO posted per week for the last four weeks of the game. Prompts will be posted Sunday evening. Responses will be due by Saturday at noon (PST). Players will then vote for their least favorite responses before the end of the voting period (Sunday at 11pm PST).

At the end of week 5, two players will be removed.
At the end of week 6, three players will be removed.
At the end of week 7, two players will be removed.

That will leave six players for the last week.

Vivid Violet #8

2007-06-29T17:35:00.000-07:00

Jennifer's Stockings.

I'm afraid I live in a keepsake-free world. My ancestors have not seen fit to pass anything down to me save varying degrees of love and disappointment, and a rickety compliment of genes. A large square jaw for example, has been handed down the male side of my family like a slab of beef for three generations. I keep it fenced off behind a beard, where it cannot harm people.

Jennifer was a woman I met in the year before I left the country. She was tall, almost matching me in her heels. She had a funny way of strutting: the reverse of the usual chest-out/tummy-in/ass-out elongated 'S' of walking womanhood. Jennifer would fold her shoulders around the front of her rib-cage - hiding her breasts, and then leen way back, cantilevering her pelvis forward and scrunching her butt away into nothing. Her chin she would bury into the hollow of her throat; her eyes tucked away behind double fortress walls of fringe and brow.

I met her through a dating agency, when times were lean and I was meaner; a voicemail service for the chronically shy. You wouldn't believe some of the replies I would get to my insufferably chirpy extrapolations around the theme of: "Hi, I'm J., I'm a twenty-five year old guy, so-so tall with long dark hair and a winning etc., with a degree in advanced blah, hoping to meet an outgoing woman for x, y and z." Some women's voices would shake so much the phone would tremble as I listened to them stagger through soap-opera couplets and Cosmopolitan manifestos of self. Jennifer however, was cool, collected, and creditably calm.

We met in a suitably chique cinema bar, where the drinks aspired to be expensive, but never quite got there, and the films were always, always in black and white. And French. Or Scandanavian. Or Russian. Or all three. It did its job, lending us coolness by proxy. Hunched up and raincoated, crouched over our drinks, we attempted to smolder.

"Oh I've never been here before." Liar.
"Yes, I've always wondered what it was like inside." Liar.
"Did you like the film..?" You chose it, you'd better.
"Yeah... It was very moving... Imagery compelling." Liar.
"So, you're an artist..?" I think you're a sponger.
"That's right." I am a sponger.

But still, despite the appalling dialogue and the lack of a discernable plot, the actors were pretty enough together for the studio to green-light a sequel. We agreed to see eachother again.

I don't know about you, but I like scummy pubs: Raucous, smoky, labyrinthine and snug - any romance to be had must be carved out of the air with a trowel. You must sit close, you must lean closer, pouring breathey-drunk words half-heard into eachother's ears - enclosed, enfolded in a little coccoon of hormonal fug. As the bell for drinking-up ding-dongs, we kiss triumphantly, our faces flushed that we have succeeded in winnowing out a little love against such odds, in such an unlikely place.

As we stagger out into the night, neither of us I suspect, remember anything much of what was said, though in contrast we remember sparklingly well the slick feel of lip on lip and the sherry-sweet mingling of our cocktailed spit. We hold eachother's bodies tight as we weave through the throngs on alcohol-autopilot to my place, always my place.

Thank God for Mincabs.

Home now, giggly fumbles on the stairs. The clinking of glassware; the gurgles of emptied liquor-bottles - the scents of sticky Banana liquer, and some weird minty shit that got found under the table after a party and stuck in a drawer. Anything to repair the alcoholic shield-wall of anti-reality we've so painstakingly constructed. Candles, of course. And music. Slow dance groping. And bed. And skin, and sweat, and legs and arms and in the way and there we go and is that nice and owch that hurts and whoops it fell out and is that okay and hang on a minute and not like that and oh well okay and is that good oh god it is oh god it is and ohhhhhhhhhh.

You get our drift. You've probably been there. All porn films look the same after a while.

The biggest surprise for us both was in the morning. We actually didn't feel too bad. We didn't hate eachother. A bit blurry round the edges perhaps, a little tired - but we could speak, and our laughs still worked, and when we looked inside for where our regret would usually be, our chagrin, our shame, we came up empty. Worth a communal smile. I got Alka-Seltzer, hot buttered toast and tea, and she remained blissfully naked, save for her stockings, rolled-up and rucked-up down to her knees.

And when Jennifer left, she gave her stockings to me; a tip perhaps, for services rendered. :)

TKO #8, Group #2 / Results of TKO #7

2007-06-28T00:25:00.000-07:00

TKO #8 [Personal]

Write about a keepsake you have. As always, fiction is allowed.

Two people will be removed as a result of this prompt. Post is due on Sunday at 4pm (PST).

REMINDER! Next week the two groups will merge. I am contemplating a slight rule change after the merger but I'll update you when I have made my determination.

Results of TKO #7

Magical Merrigold is removed as a result of inactivity. There is no vote this week (again).

Classic Carnation #7

2007-06-27T23:52:00.000-07:00

I stood on the edge of the railing and watched as people moved through. Older couples on second honeymoons, tour groups of Americans wearing fanny packs and sneakers, and other interested people moving up and down the beautiful spiral staircase and I inspected every one.

He was late. He was always late. Then again, some things never change. The moment I made the decision to study in Italy, I had no intention of calling him. I'd promised myself to not allow him to know that I was there. But a night of one too many glasses of free grappa and whispered compliments from Italian men gave me the confidence to pick up the phone. So here I was at the top of the staircase in my new pumps with a bit too much cleavage, staring down into my past.

He was a part of me that I'd long since gotten rid of. He helped me through some of the most difficult times in my life. Saying good-bye had not been an easy task. We met on the concrete courtyard of our high school. There'd been a fire drill and I tripped into him trying to startle a close friend.

We spent the next few years sharing everything from inside jokes to inappropriate jokes, sad stories to sex stories, insignificant moments to instrumental moments. We went through significant others like cars in a toll booth, and when we'd find a relationship that lasted, inevitably we'd end up cheating with each other. We spent years denying the attraction. We left for college and couldn't handle being without each other. But being together changed our dynamic and it was never right. Time passed and we grew apart. Quickly. Too quickly.

I started doing things in college I'd never envisioned myself doing. I decided to study abroad in hopes of getting away to find myself again. I chose Italy before I found out he'd been stationed there. And the first time I'd visited the Vatican, I spent hours at the top of this staircase thinking of him. How he'd remark about the history of the church and the museum before pontificating on the role of God in his life and asking me about my relationship with Christ. I'd dodge the question with some generic answer about it being "personal" and then spiral into something else.

He'd been the one to bring me to Christ. I thought that I was thankful. When my faith had been tested or had wavered, he'd been there to see me through. In some ways, he had been my personal savior, my guardian angel who'd protected me in the rough times and celebrated me in the great. The further we'd grown apart the less I realized I was going through a crisis of faith. Then it hit me, it wasn't the faith in Christ I needed. I simply needed faith in him. There was something about the way it felt when he was postured next to me. Something comforting about the words "It'll be okay" being uttered from his mouth. Without him, there was no God in my life, no savior, nothing.

Someone once told me that people need religion to give them something to live for. That religion is not a relationship or belief in a deity, a set of rules and morals to live ones life by, it was a manner of justifying existence. As humans we're constantly looking to answer the question "why", especially when it concerns ourselves. Thus the greatest question for man is the reason for his existence. Most people run to religion as a safe haven. Others choose charity work, drugs, academia, or any combination. It is a driving force. That same person then postulated that hell was being unable to find that justification.

After spending twenty minutes searching for him on the ground floor of the Vatican, I was watching a tourist group pass when I saw him. Tall and lanky in a well-tailored suit. Military service suited him well. He stopped and looked up through the crowds looking for me. When he caught my eye he shot me his million-dollar smile and waved. And that was my cue. I smiled, winked and waved back. And in one fell swoop, I hooked the heel of my crimson pump on the railing. The sparkle left his eyes as they were hooked to mine as I gathered my balance, hopped, and flew over the stairwell into hell.

Sociable Sunflower #7

2007-06-27T23:15:00.000-07:00

We arrived 40 minutes before the evening game started. Mariners – Red Sox. Safeco Field. Seattle.

Clouds hung low overhead but the sun still peeked through. At 78 degrees, the temperature may well have been perfect. The signs that this would be a night to remember should have been obvious.

I came with my cousin Tom, his girlfriend Kasey, and his best friend who shared my name, Kyle.

We walked up to the gate and bought cheap tickets. Third level. Third base side. Third row up.

We headed into the stadium. As I was a tourist, Tom insisted that I take a good look before heading to our seats. We walked around, and I absorbed the aura of Seattle baseball. The bratwursts grilling, the fans yelling, the beer flowing, the bat cracking. Marvelous.

After walking around the first level, I decided it was time to head up to our seats. “Okay, Kyle, er, cousin Kyle, do you want to walk the long way or the short way?” Tom asked.

“Long.”

“I was afraid you’d pick that. Doesn’t matter, it’s cool.”

I followed Tom and the gang to something I hadn’t seen walking in – a tall concrete staircase up to the higher levels. The spiral staircase, spread out spaciously as if it could unwind under our steps, stood before us. It was almost elegant, like it didn’t belong at a baseball stadium, a place of rowdy drunkards and family trips.

We looked upward to examine it. The staircase was deserted, most likely because people like the short way when you already have to walk quite a bit just to get to the stadium.

We walked up the staircase, taking our time. In the innards of the stadium, we could hear the restless roar of a crowd ready for a game to begin. Alone on our staircase, we didn’t talk, even Tom and Kasey, who always find something to talk about.

At the top of the staircase we came back to our senses and the other Kyle, who had consumed several beers in a matter of minutes before the game, starting yelling random obscenities. “If anyone approaches us, I’ll just tell them you have Tourette’s,” I said. The rest of the group nodded, and we walked to our seats.

The game started off well, with the Red Sox’s pitcher throwing 40-some pitches and giving up 3 runs in just the first inning. The innings passed and we drank Henry Weinhart’s and Miller Lite. We yelled the obligatory “My mom throws better fastballs than you,” and even did the wave once.

Although our team struggled to earn their hits and the Red Sox kept up with us, the excitement was high. A home run here, a single there, then another home run. At one point, Tom insisted we start dancing whenever the camera captured people for the big screen. We tried several times without any luck. But we were still winning, so everything was fine.

Finally, at the beginning of the eighth inning, everything lined up. An AC/DC song began playing and Kyle started doing what he called “the monkey,” where you swing your arms in front of you up and down on rhythm. I followed, then Tom followed, then a camera followed us and we were on Safeco’s big screen.

There we were, two Kyles and Tom, dancing as if we were 10-years-old again. Nothing could dampen our spirits, not even the smug middle-aged woman who screamed, “At least we know how to dance in Boston!”

The rest of the game we stayed high from our moment on the big screen. The beer didn’t hurt either. At the beginning of the ninth inning, the Mariners were up by one and the Red Sox were sweating. They worried so much they forgot how to hit, and our pitcher threw three strikeouts in a row. K-K-K.

After the final strikeout, we headed for our unusual staircase. Going down certainly would be different than going up. This time, we had something to talk about and celebrate.

We walked down the concrete staircase energized, alive. We walked through the crowds arrogantly happy and didn’t feel like being polite Seattlites, the kind that shake your hand and say “You played a good game. Can I get you a latte?

We made it our business to be number one fans. Every person who passed by us in Boston apparel received a loud, juvenile reminder that they had just lost.

Our favorite lines:
“Red Sox suuuuuck.” Clap—Clap—Clap-Clap-Clap
“Boston whooo?”
“The Red Sox are awesome! Good job! High five!”

We finally made it down to the bottom of the staircase, and Tom looked at me. “Not a bad time for your first night at Safeco, huh?” he said.

“Not bad at all.”

Pleasant Plumeria #7

2007-06-27T17:51:00.000-07:00

I would rather break off my own fingers than hold his hand another millisecond.

"What's wrong baby?" he asked, as her hand dropped from his grasp.

"Nothing, sweetheart," she smiled back, "just feeling a little sweaty."

"Should we switch hands? I can walk on the other side and that way this one can take a breather!" His grin was huge and genuine as he lifted her hand to his lips to plant a kiss on her knuckles.

Ugh, why does a kiss on the hand have to be MOIST?! What, is he marking his territory?

"No, that's okay, hon. I can walk without any assitance." Her step quickened a bit as she continued up the winding staircase, putting some distance between them.

"Hey, wait up, I wanna be next to you. I don't want to be away from my baby!"

"You're not away, you're right there behind me."

"Yeah," he said, sidling up alongside her, "but I want to be as close as possible, don't you?"

NO! I can't breathe, just let me walk for a MINUTE without you sucking the life out of me?!

"You betcha." Her teeth were gritted as he slipped his arm around her waist and drew her tightly against him. "I just don't think we really have to be hugging while we walk up the stairs, you know?"

Laughing warmly, he nuzzled his nose into her hair and kissed her on the neck. "I wanna be hugging you ALL the time, honeybunch."

JUST GET OFF ME GOD DAMN IT!! I CAN'T STAND THE SIGHT OF YOU AND I THINK YOUR SMILE IS GONNA MAKE ME PUKE!!!

"JUST GET OFF ME GOD DAMN IT!! I CAN'T STAND THE SIGHT OF YOU AND I THINK YOUR SMILE IS GONNA MAKE ME PUKE!!!"

Her scream echoed throughout the marble halls of the museum, and the patrons all stopped in their tracks. Somewhere near the fountain a program hit the floor with a dull thud.

"It's our honeymoon," he croaked out, his throat rough with emotion, "what's the matter with you?"

Holy shit. What have I gotten myself into?

Defiant Daisy #7

2007-06-27T16:29:00.000-07:00

We started climbing in the morning, before most of the people got there.

I’d never been before. He told me that it was a difficult climb but that the view from the top of the tower was definitely worth every sweaty and crowded step. So, like the tourists, we started to climb. There really wasn’t anything to look at aside from the other people struggling with the stairs, so we started to talk. It was...amazing. I’ve never connected with a stranger like this before. He was easy to talk to, and, more importantly, we slide into an easy and comfortable silence when there’s nothing left to say.

He told me about his childhood, about being the only jock in his advanced chemistry courses and the only chemistry geek on the football team. I told him about my photographs and laughed awkwardly about how somehow I feel more comfortable behind the camera than in front of it.

And suddenly, it was as if years have passed, although we’ve been climbing for less than an hour. Somehow we had achieved the laidback intimacy of friends who have known each other for years, and I didn’t even know his name. Everything else about him – sure. His hopes, his fears, his memories. But not his name.

“Ever been in love?”

I paused.

“Well... I tell myself I have because it makes everything I went through for him seem more worthwhile. Right now, I’m on hiatus.”

“Hiatus?”

“I am finally starting to like who I am, but I never like who I become. I don't know what it is about relationships, but I always feel it coming, like when old people know that it’s going to rain or when dogs take themselves out to the woods and lay down to die. And I hate it.

I hate it because I know it’s the beginning of a downward spiral, that we can only climb so far, and we’re almost there. I can’t look back because I’m going too fast. I can’t look down because I’ll realize that there’s nothing left to do but fall or go back from whence we came.

And I run and I run and I run but I never know where I am and I always forget to breathe. and he’s there - in my head - wherever I am, and I’m there - in his arms - whenever I close my eyes. However many times I jump without looking or talk without thinking or cry without laughing, he’s there to catch me and console me and hold me close.

I don’t even know what I’m running from. Not from him. There's nowhere I'd rather be than where I am right now, falling asleep in his arms and getting lost in his eyes. But I’m scared, and I'm running from me even though I always catch myself.

So, I guess I’m on hiatus to give myself a headstart before I have to start to run again.”

A few minutes passed, and I was convinced that I had managed, in thirty seconds, to completely alienate and terrify a stranger who had regaled me with his life story for thirty minutes. Before I knew it, I felt a sudden gust of wind and realized that we were at the top of the tower. We walked over to the screened-in side and stared out over the city. He quietly spoke again, but he wasn’t speaking to me in particular – it was as if the expression was so natural that he just couldn’t hold it in.
“In the hundreds of years this cathedral has been here, buildings have been built and have fallen; people have come and gone; love has blossomed and faded away. Somehow, though, in the decades I’ve been coming here, the perspective I get is always the same.”

Simple Sagebrush #7

2007-06-27T15:47:00.000-07:00

There are the moments where you can envision the options sitting in front of you. Practically see them happening. Imagine in the part of your brain that fills the fuzzy area between fantasy and reality.

Every day, I see myself plummeting to the bottom. Every day, I step back and tell myself it's not going to happen. I'm one of the very few that actually take the stairs every day- the elevators, while much more crowded, serve the coffee-sipping, newspaper-reading masses much more effectively. Walking up this many stairs would spill the coffee all over their financial sections, and that would be a shame.

So each morning, I walk up the stairs. I try to put spring in my step- the comforting regularity of each step, curving just a bit at the edges, taking me closer and closer to the day. The wood has been worn smooth from decades of hands steadying themselves and there is a distinct wear pattern where feet landed, step after step, on the carefully carved wood. These stairs tell the story of hundreds of thousands that have come before me.

Anymore, they're practically ignored. I like the loneliness. The few minutes to commune with myself and those that took the stairs before me. I use those three minutes to convince myself that this day will be different. This day I will enjoy the job. This day I will tell him hello. This day I will forget the airline bottle of vodka in my bag.

When I reach the top of the stairs, I stand there. I look down. I can practically feel myself taking two steps forward, and- whoops- missed the step. My muscles clench as if I were trying to catch myself. I close my eyes right as I would hit. And I tell myself not today.

This repeats, in reverse, at 5pm every day. Today, though, the alarm went off. The elevators closed. Everyone is walking, slowly, down my stairs. They're not appreciating them for what they are, but the security guards yelling at us to get out probably have something to do with that. I am not moving. I am standing at the top of the stairs.

Could I do this to my stairs? Could I place the image of my broken body in the minds of everyone on these stairs? Would they appreciate them more? Or avoid them even more fastidiously? I take a step forward, looking directly down. Time is repeating in circles and moving forward at the same time. And so few appreciate it. One more day. One more step. I see both choices, but I can't see the end of either story.

Perhaps tomorrow.

Pensive Peyote #7

2007-06-27T09:12:00.000-07:00

The Modern Day Expressionist

Left. Right. Left. Right.

Up and up.

“…and on your right is ‘The Violinist’ by Marc Chagall. Notice the underlying passion present in the violinist’s face and arms? See how he sits on the chair playing his violin without a care in the world. Even the fiery-colored tree in the back or the small bird on his shoulder cannot distract his attention from what matters most to him. Chagall was a violinist himself, and some say the violinist has an almost childlike expression on his face in this work…”

Oh fuck the Expressionists and their sloppy mixtures of color and flawed perception of detail. Give me the true details! Give me the truth! Something alive! Give me a Gustave Courbet or even a da Vinci!

This is where an undergraduate art history major from Yale gets you…showing off the famous artwork of the moment at some uptown yuppie art museum.

“As we move up to the next level, you will see ‘The Praying Jew,’ which is another Chagall work. It is generally agreed upon by most art historians that Chagall purposely included religious undertones in most of his work, but this particular painting is one of his most explicit references. Some say this was intended to portray prayer as a deliberate action taken as opposed to a fleeting afterthought in time…”

About time the man swallowed his pretentious flicks of the paintbrush and actually created something explicit. Ironic that an explicitly religious painting is the one I like the most out of his work given the fact that I’m an atheist.

This is the problem with so many people…they believe in so much, feel and know so many things; yet, they won’t just come out and say what they believe, say what they feel. Modern day Chagalls running around all over this city portraying a blurred, often confusing image of what they so clearly feel and think inside. It drives me crazy. Thank God I'm not like that.

“…and on the last stop of this tour we have ‘The Blue Rider,’ which is also known as ‘Der Blaue Reiter,’ and ‘Composition VII,’ both by Wassily Kandinsky. ‘The Blue Rider’ is often cited as Kandinsky’s most important painting of the early 1900s whereas ‘Composition VII’ is cited as the most complex piece he ever painted. As you can probably see, ‘The Blue Rider’ has a very tranquil, almost peaceful expressionist characteristic whereas ‘Composition VII’ is more a more rigid form of Expressionist artwork…”

Holy Christ! What the hell was Kandinsky smoking? I can make out the cloaked rider on the horse in ‘The Blue Rider’ but I have no idea what the fuck the ‘Composition’ even is. The most complex? How ‘bout the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen?

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your attention on this tour. The Expressionists have made a popular comeback in the contemporary art world, and we appreciate you taking time out of your day to see some of their work. If you would like more information, you can visit the visitor’s center by the main doors on your way out…”

Oi, thank God that is over. Time to head home and think about something other than random Expressionist art. Why do they even call it ‘Expressionist’ in the first place? Just about every Expressionist piece I have seen doesn’t express anything in a clear and concise manner. I think I was onto something back there…modern day Expressionist. That’s what the majority of us are. We may not paint or create works of art that will be revered years down the road as ‘brilliant’ and ‘moving’ by Starbucks coffee wielding yuppies enjoying the comfort of their retirement funds.

“Honey? Is that you?”

Huh? I walked all the way home already?

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“How was the new job?”

“It sucked.”

Meaning I wanted to impale myself with the fountain on the first floor…

“Oh! I’m sorry…listen, can we talk?”

Now this is always a good sign…

“Listen Maureen, you seemed obviously upset with me the other night and instead of staying here to work it out, you stormed out the door and didn’t show up until nearly 4 a.m. I was worried sick about you, and I still have no idea what happened!”

Yeah…I did do that, didn’t I?

…

“And what’s worse, whenever I try to talk to you about something like this, you do what you just did and sit there, staring at the wall and saying nothing. How am I supposed to figure out what you’re thinking? Read your mind?!?”

Jesus, she’s starting to get really pissed. I should probably say something…

“…fine! I’m leaving to go back to my place. I love you so much, but I cannot deal with a one-sided relationship in that respect. If you finally decide you want to talk, you know where to find me!”

…

What am I supposed to say? That I love her and I can’t say it? That I want everyone around me to just be upfront and honest about their feelings, desires, beliefs? Even though I’m not willing to do that myself?

“Wait! Laci…I…”

“I know that I didn't talk to you when I should...I was..."

Unable to articulate something so painfully obvious to both of us when you seem to have no problem telling me you love me?

"...tired, that’s all.”

“Goodbye Maureen.”

*sigh*

I guess I should go to bed and try to salvage this mess tomorrow. Can't wait to talk for eight straight hours about useless Expressionists.

TKO #7, Group #1 / Results of TKO #6

2007-06-24T18:39:00.001-07:00

TKO #7

Be inspired by this photograph. Write.

One person will be removed as a result of this prompt.

Results of TKO #6

Playful Poppy is removed as a result of inactivity.
Eager Eucalptus recieved the most votes

Eager Eucalyptus #6

2007-06-24T16:14:00.000-07:00

It was over.

All of it. Not just the good times or the bad times. Not just the laughter and not just the tears. Absolutely everything had finally, at last, once and for all, ended.

It was hard to know how it had begun. There were the usual suspects: war. Famine. Plague. Death. All of them played their role, but the story is hardly worth retelling now. The only thing left for me to wonder was: why not me?

I'd been spared. Didn't fight in the war; had plenty to eat; didn't get sick. Still alive. The last man in Oklahoma, and so far as I knew, the last man in the world. The radios stopped working months ago; electricity doesn't run and all the water mains have burst. Animals have started to inhabit all of the houses here, and so now it's my turn to leave.

Where am I going? No idea. The compasses don't work, the maps are all gone. Besides, who cares? I can see the world--but there's nothing more to see. Not even bodies. The bodies are all gone, and it's like humans never existed, but for the empty, magnificently irrelevant cities we left behind, all decaying now.

I'm checking for others, I suppose. I have no real hope anyone else survived. But if my chances of survival were one in a million, then there should be... well, thousands left. If it was one in a billion? I've got five friends out there somewhere.

Are they dead? Are they looking for me? Are they hungry? Did they get killed by a bear? Did they give up and kill themselves?

Don't know. But as I leave town, the memories of my friends, my family, all the people I'll never see again, nip at the edges of my vision. I can almost see them there in the shadows. Almost, but not really. I'll never see them--or Oklahoma--again.

Loyal Lilac #6

2007-06-24T15:49:00.001-07:00

They were my favorite and least favorite times of day, respectively. I walked to work at dawn and walked home at dusk. Dawn was the most beautiful, peaceful time of day to be out.

I also got to be away from home. I knew I had at least 10 hours where I could escape from my troubles and “home” which really felt more like a prison lately.

I dreaded that walk home because I knew what would be waiting for me. And don’t get me wrong. I love my children and I love my wife, I just feel trapped.

Stephanie and I have been married for 17 years now, and our four children make me so proud to be a dad. But sometimes, I hate them. It’s a difficult thing to admit, and I know you’re supposed to love your children and your wife, but I just can't.

I’m not a bad guy. I should never have gotten married so young, and especially not to someone like her. Steph is smart, beautiful, caring, and I just don’t love her anymore. Should it really be so hard to make a marriage work?

In all these years, though, despite all the difficulties, I’ve never strayed. Never cheated. Never. Until recently.

When I met her, I thought she was sweet, cute, pretty, outgoing, and a little loud for my taste. I held back. I didn’t engage with her. She asked so many questions. I gave her one-word answers. She didn’t give up. Eventually, we became friends.

Her name was Samantha, but she went by Sam. She flirted with me and I didn’t flirt back. I was so good at giving the impression I wasn’t interested. She, too, was married. This was innocent and casual and we both knew nothing would ever happen.

Then, little by little, she broke me down. We started spending more time together. I started to miss my walk home at dusk by hours, calling home to tell my family not to wait up, that I had to work late. Sam was special. She made me feel like Steph couldn’t. She was exciting. With her, I was never bored.

Each time we had sex, both of us cheating on our spouses, we said it was the last time it would happen. That now, we were done. We were both in love with other people; we couldn’t ruin our relationships. We didn’t want to get emotionally involved with one another.

So for a while, we would stop. But I could never stop thinking about her. So once we were together, it would happen again. And again. And again.

Finally she broke it off. She said she loved her husband and didn’t want to see me ever again. It pained us both.

And now, here I walk, walking home to a life I don’t want to be living. Thinking about someone else, wishing I was with her.

Loud Lily #6

2007-06-24T13:38:00.000-07:00

For the past two weeks my jogging outfit had lain untouched on the plush green chair in the living room. Every night I would place each piece on the chair as if someone who had been wearing the clothes mysteriously disappeared; the shoes at the foot of the chair, the shorts on the seat, the shirt draped on the back. It was the only thing I did when I got back home from the hospital two weeks ago, and this morning was the first time I put them back on again.

I stepped outside and was surprised to find that the leaves had already begun changing colors. I hadn’t been paying attention and it was already autumn. I wondered if bears experience the same disorientation whenever they wake from hibernation. I wanted to ask a bear how long it took to get used to being outside again.

Jogging was one of the many cutesy couples things we did together. He invited me two years ago, after we had been dating for a month. I wasn’t particularly fond of it, in fact I grew to detest it over time, but David had this rigid idea of the perfect relationship and I was happy to spend time with him.

It was 6:30 according to my watch. If David had been there, he would’ve made sure I stretched my legs. But he hadn’t, and I was on a tight schedule. I started running.

I used to have this theory that the only people who enjoyed jogging were dumb people. I reasoned that the ability to ignore pain signals to your brain and to continue performing the same repetitive task required an especially low intellect. This was one of the different ways I justified our relationship. I could compete with other girls because I was smarter, had a more interesting personality. Neither of my theories, it turned out, had been true.

I turned right on Belvidere Street. It was 7:00 now. My pace had slowed significantly. I was nearing a small section of road that had no sidewalk and had been closed indefinitely for repairs. It was a popular spot for regulars. On my left, two girls were stretching and laughing. I thought I recognized the one who was bent over. She looked like a girl David would have flirted with. I sped up.

At 7:30 the convenience store that we usually stopped at crept into view. I glanced at my watch again. It was too early. I needed to keep going.

This has been done before, I thought. A deranged person who started running and never stopped. This is not original. I double-backed.

I don’t distinctly remember being in the convenience store. I must have been operating on autopilot. I know this because I bought two bottles of water, something that didn’t occur to me until I was sitting on the bench under the shade.

It was 7:45. By now the priest would be asking if anyone had anything they wanted to say about the deceased. Heads would turn, scanning the room for my presence. I was the girlfriend. I would be expected to say something. My name was on the program.

It had been his mom’s idea to start the service when David usually woke up. I was the first person he saw every morning, so I should be the first to speak. Even when I was on the phone nodding and “yes ma’am”ing over and over I knew I wasn’t going to do it.

I finished the first bottle of water and opened the second. Not knowing what else to do with it, I poured it on my hair, grateful that I hadn’t worn a white t-shirt this morning, a fact David wasn’t likely to appreciate.

The day of his death I had spent all day in my room making a list of pros and cons, because that morning he had eyed five other girls and three of them eyed him back. When the list became too extensive I flipped a coin. When I realized that the coin was irrational I played video games. When I realized shooting zombies was unproductive, I returned to the list. After seven hours I realized that these were not signs of a healthy relationship, picked up the phone, and called his cell at 4:30 pm. I left a message saying that we needed to talk.

A month or so later, my friend Vanessa, who was a candy striper at the hospital, broke into his file and copied the whole report for me. He had been declared dead at 4:35. The decision had been made for me.

Sometimes I think about the voicemail, some data file containing an otherwise groundbreaking message that was never received.

But at 8:15 on the morning of his funeral I finally thought about the pros side of the list: the surprise party for my 19th birthday, how he made the worst-tasting chicken noodle soup when I was sick and how he would pout whenever I made fun of him for it, the fancy restaurant on the first anniversary and the rose petals on his bed the same evening, the midnight walks around the neighborhood, the awful poem he wrote me and the bonfire we had to celebrate its burning, the way he always found some way to be touching me even in front of his friends.

I stood up and began walking back to my house. The shin splints were painful, but I knew I deserved them. If I hurried, I would be able to make the reception.

Cool Cactus # 6

2007-06-24T12:24:00.001-07:00

You know the question I get most often? I mean, besides “Please, please don’t kill me” (which really isn’t a question anyway. The question I get asked most often is why did I choose the life I lead? What made me become a supervillain? And the answer is really quite simple. I did it for her.

You see, when I was just a boy, something terrible happened to my older sister. She was running in the park, near dusk, like she always did, when she was grabbed from behind and dragged into the bushes. My parents refused to tell me any details, but I knew it was something horrible. The police eventually caught the guy, and he went to prison. But that wasn’t good enough – not for me. The attack on my sister woke something terrible in me. I was only 12 when the parole board let him out. I remember my sister being in tears. But those bureaucrats in their white shirts and black ties said he’d been rehabilitated. I knew better. I’d been doing reading. Those kinds of people never get better.

They didn’t have the sex offender registry back then, but if you were resourceful, you could find out where an ex-con lived. And I did. What can I say, I was a precocious kid.

I took my dad’s gun and I snuck out of the house late one night. I knew he liked to drink at O’Mally’s pub, and then take a back alley home to the hovel that was all an ex-con could rent. I waited for him in a dumpster, surrounded by the putrid filth generated by the poorer neighborhoods of a city and when he came stumbling by, I rose out of the trash and shot him in the back.

I thought it would be hard. But it wasn’t. The gun jumped in my hand, which scared me a bit and caused me to fire again. Maybe it was the fact that I didn’t see his eyes when I first shot him that made it easier. But I stared into them as he lay there, instantly sober. I saw the fear in his eyes as his blood pumped out onto the dirty asphalt, and I felt good. Maybe now he knew how my sister felt. And it was that thought that led me to the coup de gras. Staring deep into eyes as I stood over him, I aimed the gun down toward my feet said “This is for Donna” and fired a final shot, right into his groin.

That was the only time he screamed.

And that was what brought me back to reality. I dropped the gun and ran.

It didn’t take the cops long to show up at our door. I made a tearful confession and threw myself into Donna’s arm, weeping. She hugged me fiercely and whispered something in my ear before the cops took me away.

Given the circumstances, I was only given a year in juvie. The psychiatrist said I’d been scarred by the incident with my sister and I just needed some time for examination. Back then, the psychiatric defense wasn’t used so often, so the judge was more sympathetic. Furthermore, it turned out the guy had attacked another woman the night before.

In those long dark nights, as I listened to the other troubled boys, two thoughts kept me going. First, I thought about how good it felt to get my revenge. And I plotted to get the bastards on the parole board who’d let that monster go free.

And the other thing that kept me sane were the whispered words my sister spoke to me before I was ripped from the home I loved.

“Thank you.”

Fiesty Fern #6

2007-06-24T10:57:00.000-07:00

A lone silhouette walked down the middle of a winding road into the setting sun. Angry brushstrokes swirled through the orange sky as if collecting their efforts to swallow the traveling figure.

Shane sat and stared at the painting for an hour before his new “mom” called him to wash up. He called her Sheila, if she was lucky. She had asked him to call her “mom” if he was comfortable with that. He was not comfortable with that. He wasn’t going to live with these people forever; it’s not like his mom died. She lived in the next town over with his dad.

The painting in this new house made him want to leave. Not because it was a bad painting, or because he didn’t like it. It made him want freedom again.

Yesterday he had been a free man. No small accomplishment for someone yet to grow hair on his balls.

“Get back here you little bastard,” Shane’s father, Chuck roared. The irony of calling his own son a bastard was lost on him.

Shane had just gotten home from school and hadn’t anticipated this welcoming. The principal said she wouldn’t call his parents. Shane ran down the hall to his room, careful to avoid the pile of unwashed laundry his mom planned to get to later. Chuck used the weapon at his easiest disposal to stop Shane. An open, but full, can of Old Style beer hit Shane between the shoulder blades, and he crumpled like a second pile of clothes.

The dirty, thick smell of cheap beer forced its way into Shane’s nose as the can slowly emptied, soaking though his T-shirt.

As Chuck moved across the living room, he slid off his belt. Stumbling, he placed a hand on the plastic covered, flowery patterned sofa, for balance. After regrouping, he took the last few steps down the hallway toward Shane. Chuck held the buckle in his right hand, using the notched end to hit his son.

“You got suspended from school! For fighting! This will teach you to fucking fight,” Chuck said. He repeated the last sentence with each blow.

Shane was curled up with his hands over his head like his teachers taught him during school fire drills. This position might protect against falling debris, but it left his back wide open to Chuck’s assault. An errant shot cracked against his left hand; the unexpected shock of pain sent him crawling down the hall to his room and under the bed.

There he sat, telling the dust bunnies of his plans to escape, until he heard the signs that Chuck was going to sleep. His mom had come home hours ago and hadn’t asked why Shane was hiding during dinner. Shane heard a can lightly bounce off the top of the trash can and crash loudly to the floor. The door to his parent’s bedroom slammed shut. Chuck’s body collapsed noisily into bed.

Since he was suspended from school, staying home with his unemployed dad was the alternative to running away. Shane opened his window and left.

For almost an hour he had wandered the streets freely, like the figure in the painting. He had splashed in puddles, which he had never been able to do before without punishment. He only looked one way when crossing the street. He was also hungry, since he had missed dinner and there was no easy way for him to find food.

The police had picked him up and had noticed the fresh welt forming on his hand. They found a dozen more, along with a can shaped bruise, on his back. Shane spent a sleepless night in protective custody with his knees tucked under his chin, freckled arms wrapped tightly around his shins. By mid-afternoon social services had somehow found him a temporary foster home.

Since arriving at Sheila and Mike’s (her husband, his new “dad,” he supposed), Shane had done nothing but stare at the painting. He was still six or seven years away from legally having the freedom to wander down the middle of a road toward a sunset. At least, without some form of legal guardian to tell him walking down the middle of a windy road is stupid.

“Shane…Mike, dinner’s ready,” Sheila called from the kitchen. The fact that dinner would be ready soon had been evident for about ten minutes. Some sort of wonderful smell, which made Shane have to tighten his lips together to keep saliva from leaking out, had filled the house. Nothing his mom had made ever smelled like this. Not that it was easy to smell anything in that house over the cigarettes and spilled beers.

Grudgingly, Shane got up and sat in his chair. A plate of steaming hot lasagna stared out at him. He thought about the hungry freedom of the road that he thought he wanted. He thought about the mac and cheese with cut up hot dogs his mom had probably made.

Mike and Sheila asked him questions and didn’t yell when he ignored them. They didn’t force him to eat by raising a threatening fist. They didn’t get obnoxiously excited when he took a bite of the cheesy, meaty meal.

The food tasted better than anything he had ever eaten. He sat for the rest of the meal, savoring that one bite.

Shane returned to the couch, and he sat with the TV off, staring at the painting again. After an hour, he drifted into sleep there in the living room. He hadn’t slept in a room without a closed door for years, but he didn’t wake when Mike carried him to bed.

Racy Redwood #6

2007-06-24T10:29:00.000-07:00

“You know,
Marissa,
I wish I can show you
how your father looked like.
You know I don’t lie, right?
The truth is,
my sweetheart,
I burned
every single photo
I had of him.
Even those with me in it.
Or with other people.
I can’t even be bothered
with snipping him out…
Just burned all the photos in one shot.”

Betty spoke as if she was dispensing soup to the elderly patients in her ward.

Slowly. Gingerly. Carefully. With much compassion. Pausing after each mouthful. Checking carefully to see if the previous spoonful has already gone down well. Whether there was any wiping necessary. Whether everything has been taken in.

The pretty little girl looked back into Betty’s eyes. Eyes that spelled sadness. And the burrowed eyebrows gave her confusion away.

Betty picked up her cup of tea from the coffee table and stirred a few times more, even though there was no more sugar in need of stirring. She put it the teacup down, and reached out for Marissa’s hand.

“Marissa, my Sweetheart, I was only seventeen when I was pregnant with you. I lived in a small town in the suburbs where everybody knew everybody else. Which is a wonderful thing. Until something like that happened.”

Sigh. How am I going to expect Marissa to understand.

“Marissa, your father and I loved each other. But timing was all wrong. When I found out I was pregnant, your father was only nineteen and had received a prestigious scholarship in NYU. Marriage was out of the question. For him. He had fought a lifetime to get out of that small tall. So timing was bad. But I want to keep you, my dear. I did not want an abortion. And I knew Grandpa and Nana would be hopping mad. I thought they would kill me when they find out that I would be having my baby out of wedlock. And your father’s parents would probably insist he marry me. The way things would be done right in a small town, you know? And there would be chaos. And I loved your father. I wouldn't want to drag him down.”

Strangely this appears to be a bit easier than expected. Betty knew she would have to explain to Marissa one day eventually. Perhaps it's the way Marissa is listening intently and calmly, Betty felt as if she was telling someone else’s story. It seems a lot easier that way.

“So, when I was about 4 months pregnant, I decided I had to pack up and leave the town. Make things easier for your father, for everybody. Before everybody start noticing I was pregnant. So the very day after Grandpa and Nana have driven to visit my Cousin Nelly who just delivered a baby in the next town, I packed my bags. Without anyone knowing.”

Ok, now the memories are starting to come back and it starts to hurt again.

“You know, Lisa has been my best friend since childhood. Yeah, Lisa my superwoman-lawyer-friend, Lisa. She was driving me to the train station. She thought I should go see your father once last time. In case he wants me to stay. I didn't think things would change but I guess I wanted to believe in Lisa.”

The memories are flooding back now.

“But no, he didn’t change his mind. And he didn’t say a thing. I guess, I do remember how your father looked like after all, Marissa. He looked like a tree, a deeply-rooted tree for something not very tall, so rooted he can’t move, a tree in the middle of the road.”

“Marissa, my dear, the only picture I have in my head, is a man standing in the middle of the road outside his house, with his hands in his pockets, as if they would wave goodbye by themselves, if he didn’t keep them in. Even the two old trees we had known for all our lives were swaying in the wind, as if to say goodbye but he just stood there.”

“The sun was setting, and we should go soon to catch the night train. So I had to go. Did I tell you they say the sunset view in our town is legendary? Or so the folks there think anyway. They don’t travel very much I guess.”

“No, I didn't cry, Marissa. I was determined not to. I thought I should match the nonchalance I see in your father. But as we drove away, I looked behind through the back window of Lisa’s car, hoping to see your father wave once at least. Just once. Or perhaps running after the car, trying to stop me from leaving... I kept watching until I couldn't see him anymore. But as he became smaller and smaller... he remained stuck to the ground, with his hands were tucked away. Only the trees were waving.”

“I am sorry I burned all the photos away. But I love you, you know that, right?”

Hip Hibiscus #6

2007-06-24T10:02:00.000-07:00

I'm in the way
I'm on my way

I keep seeing magnified parts of the same whole
becoming stretched out.

Too small for these hands to fit
Instead I'm just poking air holes
in the atmosphere to hold breaths
and save it

The vibration of glowing orange
glows radiant in my blood stream
permeating through this paper bag of skin when wet and soaked

Its brown a background

to compliment the others

when broken into cubes

that mapped my tattered flag

With the anticipation of evolution
of more dictionaries

staggering gracefully to the cutting card boards
of billboards and lighting up grids

Better vision to see through muddy orifices
that are cancerous on the concert sidewalks of my favorite bars
and what used to be some kids gum on the floor

A past life
Its half life
of you and me as we or not at all

as casual dismissal across glances

Where nothing happens

and i am a parody
of every stranger
you've ever met

a colleague of infliction
god have me manifest

so you could see it move
and be animated

don't stop your car
when you see me on freeways

don't say why
don't stop your car
just look

I am on my way
i am in the way

I am on my way

Peculiar Poinsetta #6

2007-06-24T09:55:00.001-07:00

Gah, I can’t remember the poem.

Wynkem, Blynkem and Nod one night sailed off to a silver moon.

That’s how it started at least. I forget the rest. Mom would read us that once in a while. Each one of us would take turns, being Winkem, Blinkem and Nod, trepid adventures who sailed to the land of dreams on a starry ship made of baby’s breath. Or something like that.

We are back again: watching the sunset unfold, almost waiting for our dream alter egos, to sweep us up with sunset ropes of glinted gold. My older sister is leaning against the truck underneath the tree, chewing a piece of grass whose youg stem tastes sweet. My younger one is sitting underneath the oak, humming a song she almost remembers. It's been a while since all of us were lazy togther. I'm the fool--standing in the middle of the street, watching the waves of gold as they slowly fade to night.

Here is where childhood was for us, the old truck, the road and the old farm house, but now through adult eyes, corrupted with age. It sounds too idyllic, but we really did wake up to the rooster crowing and fell asleep to the sound of cicada singing their rough, but comforting song. Sleeping without air-conditioning, and smelling the warm musk of wheat as it ripened. Hard work (most of it involving some kind of manure) took place. 4H Clubs, showing chickens and the trip to the fair, where mid-west romance was set. Boys with farmer's tans, hair bleached by the sun and heat. Smelling of hard work and cheap cologne from Kmart.

But we all went away. Settled. Letting us believe that the steady rythm of childhoods summers would come again, if only we worked hard enough. It’s easy to see that now, waiting for Nod’s glinted rope. The smell of the highway, of tar and gravel and exhaust is right there, waiting for real life travelers to make its use. After the fourth, all of us will take this road, two north and one south. One back to school, the others to jobs that pay the real-world bills.

But we are back here, remembering watching the sun set and talking about superficial things. But all of us secretly waiting, trying to remember, and looking for Nod’s glinted rope.

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night
  Sailed off in a wooden shoe—
Sailed on a river of crystal light,
  Into a sea of dew.
“Where are you going, and what do you wish?”
  The old moon asked the three.
“We have come to fish for the herring fish
  That live in this beautiful sea;
  Nets of silver and gold have we!”
                    Said Wynken,
                    Blynken,
                    And Nod.

http://www.compassrose.org/uptown/wynken-blynken-nod-eugene-field.html

Vivid Violet #6

2007-06-23T05:03:00.000-07:00

Negative Spaces

Don't worry.
I'll stop.
I'll help you.

I'd been checking my e-mail when my son's lego tower had toppled.

"Daddy" he'd said. "When you gonna finish lookin' your 'puter..?"

"Soon" I'd said, for the umpteenth time. "Soon."

So he rebuilt his tower, this time the design both higher and even less structually conventional than its predecessor. His construction teetered... It swayed... And collapsed in a multi-coloured rain of plastic bricks. Its creator began to wail. "Daaddeeee..."

"Don't worry." I'd said to him.
"I'll stop." I said.
"I'll help you."

And with that, with those eight simple, everyday syllables, my life started to unravel.

It started with a tic. My off-hand would flip on its wrist, and the fingers pinch together convulsively - just for a split second. As if they were catching a fly. It didn't happen often - only if I was stressed, or tired. If I thought anything of it, it can't have been much, I don't remember worrying over it. Then there was what happened on the phone. I doodle while I talk, but I mean, everybody doodles.

This was something else. When I surfaced after a fifteen-minute conversation with some insurance guy over a niggle on payments, I found my left hand had sketched a thumbnail picture of a winding, wooded road, at what looked like dawn or maybe dusk, skewed on a slight slant off to the left, with a single figure standing in silhouette almost straddling the white line. There was a well-chewed HB-soft pencil clutched between my fingers, an unfinished line still under the point. Almost as if it noticed me looking, the hand put the pencil back down on the pad. I flexed it experimentally, the wrist ached slightly. I sat down, suddenly exhausted.

I picked up the sketch and squinted: it looked familliar somehow but I couldn't place it. "I'll stop." I said out of the blue. "I'll help you."

It got worse from then on. The doodling. I woke up with a hangover on the sofa after a dinner party my wife threw, only to find the road scrawled all over the cushions in smudged biro. I got a strange call from my Mother on her sixtieth asking me about the little scene she'd found inside her birthday card. I could have sworn I'd dashed off 'Happy Birthday Mom xxx' just like every year before. The final straw came in the Summer. It was our custom to sleep nude when the weather got too humid to bear and that night my wife awoke to find me, still fast asleep, drawing the road on her back with her eyeliner pencil.

She packed me off to a shrink after that. The same one that's just woken me up. Dr. Brunel.

He's clutching a handful of papers; he looks pleased with himself: Cheshire cat grin and one-hundred watt eyes. He snaps his fingers in front of my nose again, just for good luck. "Wake up Daniel." He says, "You're awake."

My hand hurts, and there's an indent on my index finger matching a groove on my thumb. What has he had me up to..?

First he shows me a slightly better defined version of the sketches I've grown used to over the last few months. You can see the leaves on the trees, and that the figure is a woman: close-cropped hair, flaring like a halo about her blurred face.

"You drew like a machine." Brunel says excitedly " - Like an automaton, you're the best example of automatic writing I've ever met..!"

"Great, do I get a discount..?" I ask, rubbing my wrist.

"And look here - I'll bet you've never seen this before. I asked you to zoom while you were under."

He passes me another sheet of A4 - this one's a close up on the woman's face. Jutting out stark and harsh from the paper in charcoal hardpointing. She'd be pretty I guess, if she weren't screaming. I've done her gums well, and her teeth gleam like pearls. The tongue rears out of her mouth like a snake, I can almost imagine it hissing.

Brunel's been playing with me like I was some kind of organic video-recorder - the next sheet is the same full view, but dated and timed: gaps left in the crosshatching tracing digital letters and numerals.

11:sept:1989 03:11 am

"That date mean anything to you Daniel..?" Brunel asks expectantly.

I shake my head, "I'd have been at university I suppose." I say, "Freshman year." I hate it when Doctors use your first name. What are we... Bosom buddies..? Will he be coming to my kid's birthday party..? Will it stop him looking at me like I'm some species of bug..? Or taking my money..? A whole lotta 'nos' queuing up to answer those rhetoricals.

"So neither the date - nor the picture itself - mean anything to you..?"

"I kinda remember the picture, but that's it - I couldn't tell you where it is, or if I've been there."

He hands me the last picture, this one printed on slick photgraphic paper, still smelling of ink:

And then I know.

Brunel's saying something about extreme stress, and pictures getting imprinted as negatives on the synapses of the brain, but it doesn't matter.

I know.

The trees flash by - lit strobe-light bright by the headlights of my car. I'm fucking off my head - laughing, punching the horn, shaking my head like a wounded bear; joke-shop eyeballs jiggling like marbles in my skull - the cat's eyes blur by under the hood - fireflies weaving across the sweating tarmac like lines on an oscilloscope: neon-bright pixels leaking off a damaged fluorescent screen. I see her far too late of course. I'm not sure I even recognize her as different from the telegraph poles flanking the road. I only brake after I feel the impact. Something flies up over the roof like a giant white bird. The car slows. My arms are wood, my neck a metal ratchet as it cranks round on my shoulders. I cannot get my hands off the wheel. I see a slumpen mass on the asphalt behind me, lit up a bloody red by the brake lights. The car still doesn't come to a halt. I shout through the open window:

"Don't worry."
"I'll stop."
"I'll help you."

But my foot slips off the brake and her body winks out into the murk. My eyes not leaving the mirror I flail like a child at the sea-side, my feet hunting for the right pedal to tread. The car moves further away on its tyres. The gradient of the hill slopes away. Nothing to do with me. Then I hit the gas by mistake. The car lurches and speeds up. Everything seems too hard. I can't get my hands off the wheel. Can't concentrate. Can't get my hands off the wheel.

"Don't worry."
"I'll stop."
"I'll help you."

But it's only a whisper this time. The car just won't stop.

The doodling stops after that. But I start to wake up at odd times in the night with my car keys clutched in my hand - squeezing them hard enough to leave welts on my palm.

On September the first I wake up at two am in the morning - in my car. The engine idling softly, exhaust pluming out into the night air. I can't seem to get my hands off the wheel.

On the eleventh I drink a whole thermos of coffee and stay up late with the kids at my side, watching old cartoons and scoffing popcorn. My wife goes to bed at one-thirty, even though I beg, literally beg, for her to stay up with me.

It's half-past two now and the children are asleep on the couch, out like little lights. I catch myself nodding. I cat-

- The trees flash by in a strobe-light blur; the asphalt rasps under the tyres like the low, grating yowl of a cat in pain. I hit the brakes but my foot slips off the pedal, leaving blinks of red in the mirror. The car does not slow. It's too late anyway, I'm reaching the crest of the hill.

I see her framed under the trees, clear as day. But when the car hits her this time, she doesn't fly away.

The hood crumples up around her hips like a wave hitting a breakwater, and I dive through the exploding windscreen like a lover into her waiting arms.

She holds me down on the warm road. She's a human-shaped hole in the universe. I see galaxies whirl in her breast and stars flare in her belly. It hurts when she puts her fingers in me.

"Don't worry." She says.
"I'll stop." She says.
"I'll help you."

TKO #6, Group #2 / Results of TKO #5

2007-06-21T09:36:00.000-07:00

I'm sorry I didn't close TKO #5 and post this last night but I am very sick.

TKO #6, Group 2

Be inspired by this photograph. Write.

Due Sunday 4pm PST

Results of TKO #5

Musical Mum
Odd Orchid
Thrift Tulip

are all removed due to inactivity. No vote this week (again).

Classic Carnation #5

2007-06-20T23:33:00.000-07:00

He didn't look like a genius, he looked more like my ex-boyfriend. Maybe that's what made him catch my eye initially. That or the fact that he looked like Jason Mraz: about 5'10", dark eyes, and a sideways trucker hat. Whatever the case, I recognized his face when we watched the security video.

A slow night. About par for the course on a Monday night. Fifteen minutes until close and with two customers in store, Phil, the cleaning guy, walks in. He's a nice man and says his "hello"s and "how are you"s to us all as he walks to the back room to prepare all of his cleaning supplies. I was helping a woman with a tear-stained face find The Notebook when I heard Phil from across the store.

"WHAT THE FUCK? WHO DOES THIS? SERIOUSLY, WHAT THE..."

"I'm so sorry about that ma'am. That's our cleaning man, sometimes he forgets we have customers. Here it is, is there anything else I can help you find?" Her face turned bright red like she was fighting back more tears. She shook her head no in reply, thanked me for my assistance, and walked away mumbling to herself. I turned in the direction of Phil's yelling when I saw him angrily marching toward me.

"You have got to come and see this. Have you been in the men's bathroom?"

"Not quite. Kinda off limits for me." I smiled, but he was in no mood.

"Go into the men's bathroom."

"I can't." I felt awkward having this conversation even with no customers around.

"Oh, I beg to differ. No one is going in there right now." He motioned for me to follow him and without much left to do for the evening, I did. We were still a good fifty feet from the bathroom when I began to notice what had happened. "Watch your step!" He warned as he took careful steps around what looked like muddy footprints.

"Ugh, I think I'm good. I can smell it from here."

"Oh no, wait until you see it." And he opened the door.

The rush of air from out the door ravaged a full assault on my nostrils and continued to my insides all the way down to my stomach. I peeked my head in and sure enough, there it was in the middle of the handicapped stall, like brownie batter in your swimming pool. "AWW GROSS!!" I yelled and ran off coughing, Phil laughing behind me.

Thanks to a slow evening, we finished closing relatively quickly and while Phil was finishing cleaning, my manager suggested watching the security video tapes. Unable to pinpoint the exact time the incident occurred, we rewound the tape until the footprints he'd left disappeared. We watched gray-scaled men scurry backwards in and then immediately back out of the bathroom while giggling about the events of the evening. "Stop stop stop!" I uttered as my manager hit pause.

"Too bad he's so cute." Ani said.

"No way! I saw this guy tonight! I helped him find Hitch and he made some campy joke about needing relationship advice. I wonder if that was before or after all this. I mean, he didn't smell. Oh well. Guess we should put him on the alert list."

"What would it say? 'Attention Employees: Be on the lookout for a customer who uses corny pick up lines. He's about 5'10", dark hair and eyes, last seen wearing a hat with mesh backing. Recently defecated in the handicapped stall in the men's restroom. If seen, please place an out of order sign on bathroom door. Thanks, Mgmt'?"

We laughed for the rest of the night, and despite his inappropriate behavior I couldn't help feeling sorry for the guy. And although the line was cheesy, I couldn't seem to get him out of my mind.

Sociable Sunflower #5

2007-06-20T23:01:00.000-07:00

He certainly didn’t look like a genius, he looked more like Charlie Chaplin on cocaine. Short. Black hair. Thick mustache. Used out.

But I wasn’t bothered by how Simon looked. All that mattered was that he had blow, and I was desperate. Ever since the last dirty bomb went off downtown, access to cocaine, hell access to anything contraband, had been stripped down.

You’d think the black market would sustain itself better than the national economy, but it’s wrong. Everyone’s been so high on fear lately that they don’t need drugs. And since Patriot Act IV went into effect, people have been deathly afraid of getting caught. Five years in jail minimum, no matter how much blow you got or who you know.

We stood in the back of the pitch-black alley, just me and Simon. Must’ve been getting close to 1 a.m. I could smell prostitutes, maybe a few homeless drunks, in the cool air.

While Simon struck me as a washed out poor excuse for a dealer, I still had respect for the guy. Reminded me of my high school principal, who actually sold me a hit or two back when I was sophomore. They both had balls and they wouldn’t let higher powers scare them from what they wanted to do.

“You got the cash?” Simon inquired.

I opened my wallet and promptly threw down my money. “150,000 yen,” I said. “It’s all there. Go ahead and count it.”

He counted slowly, then nodded. “We’re done here,” he said. “And don’t recommend me to your pals. I don’t have much left. Once I’m out, I’m out. The supply’s drained.”

I stuffed the small ivory-colored bag into my pants pocket. I stepped out from the alley, looking left and right to make sure no one had seen me. I couldn’t afford to be caught. Everything’s grim enough, prison would just be too much. It’d likely kill me.

The neon glow of the Masquerade strip club caught my eyes as I walked. It sobered me up and reminded me of my responsibilities. People to protect, democracy to enforce. I walked back the same way I had originally come down.

I stopped just before my patrol car and looked through the windshield. Empty. My partner Jermaine must’ve still been inside the strip club “checking out a lead.” That’s what we called it whenever we were somewhere we shouldn’t be.

He must’ve been in there for an hour. Too long.

I headed to the tinted double doors of the club and stopped in the entrance. The overweight bouncer looked at me and then looked toward the back door. I took his signal and headed to the back, barely noticing the dancers. As I began to push the back door open, Jermaine came through.

He was smiling wily. “Did you get your fill?” I asked. “I could ask you the same thing,” he replied. We walked straight out of the club and back toward the lonely car. “Maybe we should get some food,” Jermaine said. “I have a feeling we’ve been off the clock a little too long,” I replied.

A short pause.

“Remember, we have a job to do,” I said starkly. “We’re Seattle’s finest.”

Jermaine stared at me for a moment. Then he laughed and I followed his lead.

We stood on the street, laughing, cursing at the clouded sky. We were kings of nothing important and that’s the way we liked it.

Defiant Daisy #5

2007-06-20T19:40:00.000-07:00

He didn't look like a genius; he looked more like someone who was somewhat lost. He moved with calculated hesitation, but his cocky stride belied the aloof attitude that he tried so hard to convey as he walked into the bar. He gazed around as if he had never been there before, even though he had come in on every shift I had worked that week.
As if he were on a track, he came up and sat on the first stool he saw, next to a lonely and bored looking man. “Vodka rocks,” he said, with the same bored tone that he had used the nights before. As I poured his drink, he went through the same motions – pulled a Treo out of his pocket, glanced at it, shook his head in disgust, and turned it off; took a big swig from the glass and sighed heavily. His mark was a man who could only be described as average and who possessed infinitely more disinterest than Jack could ever feign. He didn’t take the bait.
A cloud of annoyance passed through Jack’s faded blue eyes. He looked the man up and down, as if he could somehow gauge what would grab his attention from his worn suit and loosened tie. After a few more minutes of silence (and a few more swigs of vodka), he made his move. “Hard day?” Oh, please. You would think that a seasoned hustler would have more in his arsenal than pickup lines you’d find in Maxim.
The mark glanced over at Jack, and looked him up and down, as if judging whether or not a response was merited. After a lengthy pause, he sighed, said, “Sure”, and took another swig from his scotch.
Jack was obviously ruffled but did his best to hide it. Like a spoiled teenage girl, he did not know how to react to being ignored. Should he try again? Maybe with another fail-safe line from his arsenal? What if he moved down the bar, found another mark? No, no, this one’s too small and quiet – everyone had seen him get rejected the first time. His only option was to cling to what was clearly a sinking ship. And so, there he sat, like a deer in the headlights – trapped in a situation that he knew he couldn’t win.
I pretended to wipe down the bar and refill the ice as I continued to watch Jack’s chances unravel as quickly as the moments ticked by. He started to look more and more anxious. The mark, who continued playing up his disinterest and nursing his scotch, caught my eye and winked. He was a regular, and a fairly friendly guy. Generally kept to himself, tipped pretty well - the kind of customer you really want on a weekday happy hour like this one.
He finished his scotch, laid down his tip, and turned to Jack. “You play?”, he asked, gesturing at the pool table.
Now Jack looked disoriented. Either fate had smiled on him by laying completely easy prey in his lap, or something was seriously wrong.
He took a swig of his vodka to buy more time, looked over at his mark, and said, “Well, I used to. Sometimes.”
After a few moments of earth-shattering silence passed, Jack finally broke his disinterested silence. “You?” he asked, trying with all his might to maintain a semblance of indifference that had long since been lost.
The mark smiled, shot me a knowing look, said, “Maybe another time”, and strode out of the bar.
As the doors swung shut, Jack, without missing a beat, slid down the bar to another lonely businessman, and started again: “Vodka rocks.”

Magical Merrigold #5

2007-06-20T16:58:00.001-07:00

He didn’t look like a genius, he looked more like the dull jock type. Strong jaw line, broad shoulders, sandy styled hair - baseball hero build, not math wizz kid. Regardless, I still found myself drawn to him. From the moment he walked into my classroom, I was fascinated. He is the type of boy I would have daydreamed about when I was in the 10th grade.

What was this beauty doing in my Advanced Calculus class?

A couple of class periods passed and it became evident, that he was bright. He was quick in his calculations and imaginative with his problem solving style. As one of the more personable students in class I looked foward to seeing him each day. Slowly he dissolved from the boy I daydreamed about in highschool, into the man I dreamt about now.

Although I did say I was initially drawn to him, I swear I never had any intentions of pursuing that attraction. I can’t explain how/what/why it happened; I was naïve to the whole process. The next thing I knew we were in love. I hate the thought of him seducing me, or I seduced him, I like to think that it was some sort of serendipitous plan guided by the angels.

Thus far we’ve been successful at keeping our secret. This makes me glad, but at the same time it kills me. I want to shout on a mountaintop, "I’ve finally found the man I want to spend me life with!" I want us to be one of those PDA couples at the movie theatre and bring him home for thanksgiving dinner. Sadly, we have been deemed taboo. We can't share the same luxuries as every other couple.

So, we wait. For the semester to end, for the 18th birthday, for the next secret loving making rendezvous. Why must we hide? Why must we wait? How can anyone tell me this is wrong, when nothing in my life has ever felt so right?

Pleasant Plumeria #5

2007-06-20T16:50:00.000-07:00

He didn't look like a genius, he looked more like a troll doll. Okay, granted, his hair didn't stand on end in a day-glo pouf, but from the fat little nose to the widely spaced eyes to the round belly, the kid was a dead ringer for a Russ troll.

To be fair, I guess I'm not sure exactly what a "genius" looks like. I mean, there are plenty of stereotypes out there about the image of the smart kid--in fact, the last really intelligent student I taught was as stereotypical as one could ask for. He was short, thin, and Asian, with thick glasses even at the age of four. He wore striped polo shirts and mini-docker pants, and all he wanted to talk about was space, dinosaurs, or the imaginary nation he had just created. Andy LOOKED like a genius, and he lived up to that expectation.

Ryan, though, Ryan looked like the end result of his parents' genes battling each other for supremacy. His mother's Chinese heritage won out in the eyes and the dark, silky hair, but his father's American influence was obvious in his goofy freckles and big potbelly. Some children of mixed ethnicities seem to be blessed with the most attractive and exotic features of each. Taya's African-American and German backgrounds combined to make her a caramel skinned, blue eyed beaty. Khye's Korean and African-American backgrounds mixed to create a child with smooth, warm skin and mysterious almond eyes. But not Ryan.

Like I said, he definitely didn't look genius-esque, and at first it didn't bother me. Who cares how a four year-old looks? He's four, he's supposed to grow into his quirks. But after people kept telling me how brilliant he was, it started to chafe. The kid barely spoke in class, he refused to answer questions at circle, he wouldn't eat lunch...this is not how a genius behaves. I finally got downright annoyed when this alleged prodigy conked another student in the face with a block because she stepped on his toe. I pulled him aside to try and badger some sort of logic out of him, and the response I received? His shrill screech inches from my face, and a conk on the head of my own.

I was done. Where was the brilliance? Where were the endearingly clever questions and fantastic stories? All I had gotten out of this child was a mushrooming sense of annoyance and a pounding headache.

Gritting my teeth and holding my head, I stared at him. His wide, inky dark eyes stared back at me, stoic after his outburst. For the first time in my teaching career, my frustration completely boiled over and I felt hot, angry tears come to my eyes. I was at a loss as to how to handle this little miscreant, this "genius" who was terrorizing my classroom. I stared at him and bit back my tears and stared some more. I figured we were at a stalemate until I managed to pull myself together and craft some sort of disciplinary action. That's when he did something that shocked me even more than a chunk of wood to the noggin.

His little face crumpled, he burst into tears, and he threw his arms around my neck. When he spoke, I finally understood what everyone had been saying for so long.

"I'm sorry Miss Marie, I'm sorry! I didn't mean it I just felt the mad go from my belly to my hand and it came out at you but I didn't mean it! I love you a lot and I don't want you to hate me anymore!"

The perceptiveness of this small person astounded me. All of the skepticism I'd harbored towards him, all of the second guessing and negative thoughts--he'd felt all of it. As much as I thought I had kept my opinions to myself, I had been transparent to him. He wanted to be good, but faced with a new authority figure who treated him like he was an asshole, he responded in kind.

He didn't look like a genius, but he taught me more about expectations and their ramifications than any psychology or communications class ever had. He didn't look like a teacher, either, but then, I probably didn't look much like a preschool student myself.

Pensive Peyote #5

2007-06-20T15:25:00.000-07:00

He didn't look like a genius, he looked more like the same nameless face I pass on the street every single day. You know the type…the dark, perfectly gelled hair and overly tanned skin. The “I want to be so Prada, but I’m not even close” reputation, and the perfectly positioned aviator sunglasses with their platinum plated frames. Ugh, I hate this city more and more every day. Not only is there a toxic feeling to the mere utterance of the phrase “L.A.” there’s also the Hollywood sleazes that tend to interrupt my nice little cynical day.

Somehow at the age of 27 I ended up in the hell of hells. Commonly referred to as “hell-A” by those of us who recognize the place for what it is, I was sent here by an easily excitable mother who believed that my full-ride theater scholarship to some nameless east coast liberal arts school meant that I was ready for the big time.

“Why spend money to supposedly develop the talent when you already have enough for their recognition?”

Great reasoning. So good in fact that aside from an appearance as an extra on a few soap operas, I have managed to create an artform out of responding to audition calls. I thought that acting was supposed to be my artform, but apparently I’m more of the auditioning kind of artistic genius. Oh, and the appearing as a fucking extra on only the worst television genre on the planet kind of artistic genius. That too.

Whatever. I have talent and I know it. That’s all that really matters. I’m pretty sure that Jodie Foster and Julia Roberts weren’t judged for the lame gigs they did in the beginning in order to get by. For some reason the most wretched city in the world is also one of the most expensive to live in. It must be the Hollywood “experience” that drives the real estate prices up. This audition is the turning point and even boy wonder over there in his overly priced suit and sunglasses can’t throw me off my game. In fact, mocking his ridiculous attire and demeanor might do me some good…

She didn’t look like a genius, she looked more like the band groupies running around the underground music scene. You know the type…the platinum blonde hair and orange “spray on tan” skin. The “I’ve been to Phil Spector’s house this many times, teehee” girl sporting the overly large sunglasses with the thick fake diamond-studded frames. Yeah, guess what? He’s on trial for murder you idiot! His victim was another girl just like you…too bad it wasn’t you. Maybe I should move back east to New York or something. At least then I could find some serious artists.

I thought L.A. would be the start of it all. I wasn’t interested in the mongoloid summer action movies that tend to spawn a dozen stupid sequels, prequels, trilogies, whatever. I wanted to make serious art. Something that really moves people and makes them think. But no, I’m stuck in the Hollywood hills with poodle-skirt toting dipshits like that one over there. What is she thinking with that? Doesn’t she realize the 50s were over, oh, about 50 years ago?

Whatever. I’m a serious artist. She’s a fashion accessory. She should really consider just auditioning for billboard ads and magazine ads…they don’t require talking. Or feeling. Or acting. Does she know what it feels like to really feel the art? To really understand what the characters are feeling…thinking? I highly doubt it. Maybe I should consider Broadway. Maybe theatre in the way it should be experienced. The greatest artistic geniuses find their starts there; maybe that’s where I’ll find mine…

“Cooper?”

“Yes?”

“Angelina?”

“Yes?”

“You two are next. This will be the physician assisted-suicide scene. The doctor will be coming in to administer the lethal dose of drugs but first he will reveal to the patient that he is actually her father and he’s so sorry for what he’s about to do. Angelina, you will obviously play the patient and Cooper, you’ll be the doctor. Okay?”

“Okay” they said in unison.

Too bad I don’t actually have lethal drugs.

Ugh, does that mean he has to touch me in this scene? Gross.

“Hi! As you’ve heard I’m Angelina…so…how long have you been an actor?”

“I’m obviously Cooper…I’ve been around a few years…you?”

“Oh, the same…off and on appearances…soap operas mostly, you know? Looking for my big break!”

“Yeah…me too…know what you mean.”

…

Hopefully this scene is over soon. He’s just as much of a tool in the verbal form as he is in the physical form. And he claims to be an actor…hah! I’ll never turn into this guy.

My god, what a ditz! She’s about as loud as her damn poodle skirt…and as obnoxious. What an actress she must be. I’ll never turn into that.

“Okay you two! Lets go!”

Wow, what a couple of schmucks I have here…as soon as I end this scene I’m getting them both out of here! And what the hell are they wearing?!?

Simple Sagebrush #5

2007-06-19T07:32:00.000-07:00

"He didn't look like a genius, he looked more like the quiet, thoughtful friend we all turn to with our questions."

"They're mostly full of bull. Listen, I know you're watching this wirecast because you expect to meet the man these reviewers have been raving about. 'The first public interview ever! Meet the Genius behind these words we all know by heart!' Advertisers- they make it sound like I'm about to give birth or grow a second head, all on intercontinental wire. Is that why you're tuning in?

"Or perhaps you're hoping for some revelation of a deep dark secret that will forever discredit me. A double life, or, Gods forbid, an opposite-sex attraction. That's not what you're going to get. You're also not going to be getting an impassioned declaration of disagreement or agreement with - well - insert your favorite social issue here. Still interested?

"The wire writers started calling me 'genius' five years ago - and through no fault of my own, may I point out. I despise the term. Too overblown, too self-important for my line of work. By calling me a 'genius' you're asking me to fulfill your expectations, to be everything you expect a genius to be. I don't 'save relationships' 'change lives' or 'speak to the soul of a generation.' Those are all words that have been crammed onto dust jackets and into introductions by overenthusiastic editors and mistaken intellectual suitors.

"The man you are all calling is genius is truly nothing more than a shell you're pouring your own hopes, dreams, and expectations into. You call me a genius because you think these ideas are mine, and you think they are better than yours. That these ideas haven't been hashed and rehashed a thousand time by academics, drunks, and thousands of people just like you.

"Don't get me wrong. I believe everything I wrote in those books. You've studied them, maybe made your own notes in the margins, even taken the class. What you've all missed, though, is the point. You think that one critically-proclaimed 'genius' is going to give you the answers about life, love, and philosophy you've been looking for.

"Fine. Here's the big revelation. I don't know. I'm as clueless as you. You may very well have the idea that proves me wrong - and you're probably right. So quit listening to me. Quit calling me a 'genius.' The only idea I've been espousing this entire time is that you need to start thinking for yourselves.

"The label of 'genius' is nothing more than your way of convincing yourselves it's OK, it's 'justifiable' to find yourself somehow inferior. Of course I don't 'look like a genius.' No more than you. Quit talking yourself down, using this word to tell yourself I'm somehow better. The simple truth is, you need to shut the hell up. Look inside and meet the genius you are.

"I look forward to being personally introduced."

TKO #5, Group #1 / Results of TKO #4

2007-06-17T18:49:00.000-07:00

TKO #5

[Story Starter]

Begin your post with the following:

He didn't look like a genius, he looked more like...

Due Wednesday at midnight

Note: two players will be removed as a result of TKO #5

Results of TKO #4

The following players are removed by default for not posting in response to TKO #4. No vote is necessary this TKO.

Deft Daffodil
Humble Honeysuckle
Lucky Lavender

Loud Lily #4

2007-06-17T15:16:00.000-07:00

Considering the situation, and because Irma had been working for them for ten years already, the airline company decided to fly her first class to her home in Dallas as a gesture of support.

Under normal circumstances, Irma might have been worried that she was underdressed. All the other first-class patrons were wearing cocktail dresses or business suits. Then again, under normal circumstances, Irma wouldn’t even be in first-class to begin with. Besides which, any potential fear of feeling out of place dissipated when the lady with the large lime-green bag, bright red hair and blue nail polish took the seat next to her.

That was thirty minutes ago, before takeoff. Before the lady with the green bag had started talking.

Theresa, Irma had learned, was on her way back to Macon Georgia after a lengthy stay with her business executive son in Los Angeles. The bag had been a gift from her six-year-old granddaughter. For the first thirty minutes Theresa had avoided asking Irma any questions, perfectly content to rattle on about her son’s ritzy LA life. Irma was slightly annoyed and refused to make eye contact, but felt that it might be possible to survive the trip so long as her seatmate wasn’t interested in finding out about her life. And then a bomb fell out of Theresa’s mouth.

“So,” Theresa sighed, “business or pleasure?”

Irma wasn’t sure how to answer the question. Her first instinct had been to say business, but of course, it wasn’t official. She wasn’t being paid. After thirty seconds of silence, during which Theresa gave a small cough to remind Irma of her presence, Irma replied, “Both”, followed after a short pause by “and neither.”

“Don’t worry sweetie,” Theresa said, patting Irma’s forearm, “I know exactly what you mean.”

Irma doubted this fact, but was grateful for the break in conversation, and continued staring forward in the hope that the lady would understand that she wasn’t interested in carrying on the conversation.

After fifteen minutes of silence Beth, one of Irma’s co-workers and close friends, took the opportunity to approach her with a bottle of champagne.

“It’s just a little gift from me and the other girls”, Beth said, holding it out for Irma to see.

Irma peered around the side of Beth to see the other flight attendants standing in the wait station staring at her.

“Thank you,” Irma said, taking the bottle.

“If there’s anything else I can do for you-“

“Actually,” Irma began, handing the bottle back to Beth, “I’d like to get some of this now if you don’t mind.”

“I’ll be right back.”

Beth disappeared into the wait station and drew the curtain closed.

Theresa, who had been listening to the exchange while reading her magazine asked, “How is it that you know the other flight attendants?”

Irma, still looking at the closed curtain, responded, “I work with them.”

A small sigh of understanding escaped Theresa’s mouth.

Beth returned with the bottle and a glass full of champagne. She handed Irma the glass and set the bottle in a container on the side of the seat.

“You okay?”

This was a question Irma was already sick of answering and would become increasingly infuriated with over the next several months, which is why she tried so hard to deflect it.

“Yeah, how much longer?”

“A little under an hour left,” Beth replied before adding, “weather allowing of course.”

The mention of the weather was an inside joke between the group of flight attendants. Not a very funny one, but something that helped them remember what they did and how they were special. Irma only nodded as a response.

Beth grabbed Irma’s shoulder and whispered, exactly loud enough for Theresa to hear, “I’m really sorry about David.”

Immediately Irma regretted not laughing at the weather comment. She hadn’t wanted to discuss this with anyone, not at least until she was home. And now Beth had let it out, had practically yelled her secret for the whole plane to hear. She wanted to hit Beth, but the small part of her that knew it had been intended as a kind gesture took control. So instead she mumbled, “Thanks”.

Irma had expected Theresa to explode with questions the second Beth walked away. When she hadn’t, Beth took a small sip of champagne. If she had been paying attention, she would’ve noticed that Theresa had pulled her lime-green bag out from under the seat and set it on her lap. If she had looked over, she would’ve seen Theresa staring at a wallet size photo she held between her thumb and forefinger, a photo of a red-haired teenage girl in a cap and gown.

Instead she took another sip of champagne.

“Husband or son?”

The question had been so unexpected that Irma almost dropped her glass. This time she did look to her left and she did see the bag in Theresa’s lap, but not the photo. Theresa was looking out the window.

“First-born”, Irma replied to the back of Theresa’s head. She waited ten seconds for a response, or even a sign of life. When none came, she returned to her position and took another sip of champagne.

Theresa didn’t speak again until the end of the flight, when they had arrived in Dallas. Irma was getting off the plane. Theresa, presumably taking the same plane to Atlanta, remained seated.

Irma had retrieved her suitcase, stuck what was left of the champagne inside, and begun walking when she felt a hand tightly grip her wrist.

Irma’s first instinct had been that she had violated some policy and was being apprehended. Perhaps she wasn’t allowed to take the champagne. But then she heard the southern accent.

“Redecorate”, Theresa had said.

“I’m sorry?”

“Redecorate”, Theresa repeated. “After the funeral. It helps.”

Irma nodded.

“And write down what you eat each today, because you’ll forget to eat anything at all.”

“I will”, Irma said, for the first time making eye contact with this lady who, up until thirty seconds ago, had seemed so alien to her.

Theresa, satisfied that she had been heard, looked away and released her grip. Five blue fingernails disappeared from view.

Years later Irma’s husband would remember how, all through David’s funeral, Irma kept looking at her wrist, as if she were checking the time.

Loyal Lilac #4

2007-06-17T15:01:00.001-07:00

It was 8am and already I was having one of “those” days. Those days where everything goes wrong and you feel like at any moment, something tiny could push you over the edge into a screaming fit of rage or uncontrollable tears.

I had already changed twice. First, I spilled coffee all over my white blouse, and then after changing, my egg and cheese slipped off the muffin and went all over my pants. I’m such a klutz.

But things were looking up. The guy in seat 2A was cute. His blue eyes glistened as he squinted from all the sunlight pouring into the cabin. He brushed his brown hair out of his eyes as he opened his Wall Street Journal. I melted.

“If I have to wait on him,” I thought, “this seventeen hour flight might not feel so long.”

It wasn’t my usual route. I was based in LA, but the only international flights I worked were to Asia. And now, here I was, exhausted and miserable, doing a favor for a friend and flying LAX to Sydney.

At least I got the first class cabin. I’d been flying for only seven years, so I was almost always stuck back in coach.

He was young. I couldn’t stop looking over at him. I figured he wasn’t older than 35.

No ring. I always check. I’m 31 and still single. A young, handsome man flying first class to Australia . . . I HAD to check. Not that anything would ever happen.

I began serving drinks.

“Orange juice or champagne?” I offered our first class passengers. “Juice or champagne?” I forced a smile.

I got to him.

“Juice or champagne, sir?” He looked up and shook his head. Not even a verbal response. I tried to hide my disappointment.

“How about you, sir?” I offered the older man seated beside him.

“Champagne.”

I handed him a glass and turned to walk away.

“This champagne is disgusting!” He screamed.

I quickly turned back around. We were always told to keep our first class passengers happy no matter what.

“I’m sorry sir, is there a problem?” I asked in my sweetest voice.

“This champagne has gone bad. Here, you try it.” He handed me the glass.

“That’s alright, sir, I’ll take your word and get you a new glass.”

“No!” He yelled. “You MUST try the champagne, I had to try it, now you do, too.”

I was turning bright red because of how loud he was yelling. Other passengers were turning to stare.

So I did what I had to do, I took a sip of the champagne. Right there. On the job. In the first class cabin of United Airlines, flight 839.

The cute guy in 2A was James. After the guy next to him made such a scene with the champagne, we ended up talking. Here we are, two years later, in seats 2A and 2B on that same United flight, to Sydney, for our honeymoon.