Start writing a story that…
Step 1: starts with this dialogue: I don't want to leave
Step 2: add a scene that takes place: in a coffee shop
Step 3: add this word: church
Step 4: add this word: pencil
Step 5: include dialogue that begins with: We have to go home
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"I don't want to leave," Jeremy says in his high-pitched six-year-old whine and pulls on my black skirt to keep me from moving.
I look at him, my eyebrow raised, trying to understand his reasoning. Around us are relatives, in their finest somber clothes, sitting shiva.
"Why don't you want to leave?" I ask him.
"They have donuts."
"I'll take you to the coffee shop nearby. They have donuts."
We take our coats and my purse and head for the door. I say goodbye to the few relatives in our path and we get outside with little fuss. I take Jeremy's hand and we walk the five blocks to the town center where a small coffee shop sits at the center of a series of tiny, local stores. Inside, I order a chocolate donut and milk for Jeremy and a coffee for myself. We sit at a booth near the window from which I can see dusk settling outside.
Jeremy jams half the donut in his mouth then looks at me.
"Is Uncle Raymond going to hell?" he asks, crumbs of chocolate falling from his wide open mouth and onto his shirt.
"What? No. Why?"
"I told Rebecca he died and she asked me if he went to church because she said if he didn't then he'll go to hell now that he's dead." He takes another bite of donut and chews it. "I don't want Uncle Raymond to go to hell."
"I'm sure he won't," I say, sipping my coffee. I try to recall when Rebecca's mother, Susan, may have mentioned church or religion, but I can't think of a time when we had any conversation about religion. It worries me, not to know.
Jeremy finishes his donut and grabs a napkin.
"Can I have a pencil?" he asks.
I dig in my purse and find a tiny pencil left over from a summer golf game. He takes it, laughs at its small size, and begins to draw on the napkin. Large swirls are formed into clouds and stick-figured people stand among them with large masses on their backs.
"What are you drawing?" I ask.
"Heaven," he says. "Cause I think Uncle Raymond should go there."
I drink my coffee and stare at his vision of heaven, full of clouds with stick-figure angels frolicking among them. I try to feel relief that Jeremy is no longer fearful that my brother will spend an eternity in hell, but I feel no better. I see the gravesite where we each took up the shovel and scooped dirt onto the lowered coffin. I imagine my brother's cold, injured body lying beneath the dirt, neither in hell nor in heaven. Just there, in the dirt, for eternity.
"We have to go home," I say.
Saturday, November 14, 2015
Thursday, August 20, 2015
Day 43
Start writing a story that…
Step 1: begins with this sentence: She gave him a book…
Step 2: include this sentence: She hid the letter
--------------------------------
She gave him a book on their third date. An obscure Russian novel, unreadable by many accounts, that Lana had barely slogged through herself 10 years prior while on a mission to read everything in her college library. She didn't share its views nor care if Adam found meaning in its pages, but she wanted to know if he would read it for her, even after they went to bed together, which she already knew they would do that night.
They agreed to meet for coffee two days later. She arrived first and chose a small table on the patio where she could watch the pedestrians flow in and out of the little neighborhood shops. After ordering her espresso, she took a deep breath and took out a letter from her pocket. It was from her brother, who believed in living off-the-grid, and only sent her letters in the mail with no return address and never from the same postal code. The letters themselves were a jumble of generalities about his health and that of his dog, but with no actual details that could trace the letter's contents back to him. He also wrote complaints about the government and accused her of turning a blind eye to the dark realities so evident around her. She read a few lines, then skimmed down through the tiny cursive text to the bottom of the third page where she saw his usual closing: "When you wake up and realize your mistakes, send a letter to the parrot queen. She'll know how to reach me."
"Everything okay?"
Startled, Lana looked up from her letter and saw Adam standing beside the table and the waiter holding out the chair opposite her. She quickly smiled.
"Yes!" she said. She hid the letter back in her pocket and stood up to hug him. When they sat back down, she saw that he held the Russian novel in his hands.
Step 1: begins with this sentence: She gave him a book…
Step 2: include this sentence: She hid the letter
--------------------------------
She gave him a book on their third date. An obscure Russian novel, unreadable by many accounts, that Lana had barely slogged through herself 10 years prior while on a mission to read everything in her college library. She didn't share its views nor care if Adam found meaning in its pages, but she wanted to know if he would read it for her, even after they went to bed together, which she already knew they would do that night.
They agreed to meet for coffee two days later. She arrived first and chose a small table on the patio where she could watch the pedestrians flow in and out of the little neighborhood shops. After ordering her espresso, she took a deep breath and took out a letter from her pocket. It was from her brother, who believed in living off-the-grid, and only sent her letters in the mail with no return address and never from the same postal code. The letters themselves were a jumble of generalities about his health and that of his dog, but with no actual details that could trace the letter's contents back to him. He also wrote complaints about the government and accused her of turning a blind eye to the dark realities so evident around her. She read a few lines, then skimmed down through the tiny cursive text to the bottom of the third page where she saw his usual closing: "When you wake up and realize your mistakes, send a letter to the parrot queen. She'll know how to reach me."
"Everything okay?"
Startled, Lana looked up from her letter and saw Adam standing beside the table and the waiter holding out the chair opposite her. She quickly smiled.
"Yes!" she said. She hid the letter back in her pocket and stood up to hug him. When they sat back down, she saw that he held the Russian novel in his hands.
Tuesday, August 18, 2015
Day 42
Start writing a story that…
Step 1: begins with this sentence: He put on his hat
Step 2: add a scene that takes place in a big city
-----------------------------------------------
He put on his hat, a gray fedora with a pigeon feather sticking out of the band, and stepped into the dark city street. He began to make his way up the block, tightening the belt of his overcoat, which he wore despite the heavy summer heat. Several cabs drove past him, but he made no move to flag them down. Lenny had a mystery to solve, and he felt the walk was just what he needed to focus his mind.
After two blocks, he came to Ritchie's Pizzeria, a favorite when he was on a case. He stepped inside and ordered two cheese slices and a root beer.
"Hey, Lenny!" said Ritchie as he slid the slices onto a paper plate. "Another case today?"
"Yeah," Lenny said. "Tough one."
"You'll get it!"
Lenny paid for the slices and soda and sat at a table beside the window. He took out a notebook and began writing some observations as he took bites of the pizza. With no Dr. Watson or other assistant to write about the details of his work, it was all on him to keep a clear record. Looking around the restaurant, he saw Ritchie working alone at the counter while Virgil cooked in the back. At a table near the counter sat a man and woman in their early 30s. They were sharing a large green pepper and olive pizza while typing on their respective phones. Lenny watched as the woman refilled her glass from the pitcher of soda, then offered to refill the man's glass, but he should his head. She put the pitcher back down and resumed looking at her phone while she drank.
Lenny wrote in his notebook:
Man and woman. Phones. Intense.
Potential 1: Having affairs?
Potential 2: Laundering money?
Potential 3: Secret identities?
Lenny recognized the potential for future business. He stood up to throw away his plate and walked an extra wide loop to the trashcans so that he could go past their table. As he did, he slid his card in front of them. "Leonard Martin, Private Eye." They briefly looked up from their phones, confused. He tipped his fedora at them.
"Just give a call," he said, and headed back out onto the city streets.
Step 1: begins with this sentence: He put on his hat
Step 2: add a scene that takes place in a big city
-----------------------------------------------
He put on his hat, a gray fedora with a pigeon feather sticking out of the band, and stepped into the dark city street. He began to make his way up the block, tightening the belt of his overcoat, which he wore despite the heavy summer heat. Several cabs drove past him, but he made no move to flag them down. Lenny had a mystery to solve, and he felt the walk was just what he needed to focus his mind.
After two blocks, he came to Ritchie's Pizzeria, a favorite when he was on a case. He stepped inside and ordered two cheese slices and a root beer.
"Hey, Lenny!" said Ritchie as he slid the slices onto a paper plate. "Another case today?"
"Yeah," Lenny said. "Tough one."
"You'll get it!"
Lenny paid for the slices and soda and sat at a table beside the window. He took out a notebook and began writing some observations as he took bites of the pizza. With no Dr. Watson or other assistant to write about the details of his work, it was all on him to keep a clear record. Looking around the restaurant, he saw Ritchie working alone at the counter while Virgil cooked in the back. At a table near the counter sat a man and woman in their early 30s. They were sharing a large green pepper and olive pizza while typing on their respective phones. Lenny watched as the woman refilled her glass from the pitcher of soda, then offered to refill the man's glass, but he should his head. She put the pitcher back down and resumed looking at her phone while she drank.
Lenny wrote in his notebook:
Man and woman. Phones. Intense.
Potential 1: Having affairs?
Potential 2: Laundering money?
Potential 3: Secret identities?
Lenny recognized the potential for future business. He stood up to throw away his plate and walked an extra wide loop to the trashcans so that he could go past their table. As he did, he slid his card in front of them. "Leonard Martin, Private Eye." They briefly looked up from their phones, confused. He tipped his fedora at them.
"Just give a call," he said, and headed back out onto the city streets.
Monday, August 17, 2015
Day 41
Start writing a story that…
Step 1: takes place in an invented country
Step 2: includes this sentence: Then, he visited a fortune teller
Step 3: starts with this dialogue: "Why are you so late?"
-----------------------------------------
Carla's flight had been uneventful, though somehow off-putting in ways she couldn't enumerate in her first email home to her parents. She sensed, rather than knew, that she was the only American on the plane to Murlinia, and she assumed that everyone else had the same thought: why was she there?
The man sitting beside her had been pleasant and tried to engage her in conversation. When he realized she didn't speak his language, he shifted to English, though his look told her it was incumbent on her to have learned Murlinian as she was traveling there. He chatted about his children, who were anxious for his safe return. Before he left, his wife had had a terrible dream in which he died in a terrible car accident while in New York on business. Then, he had visited a fortune teller, and she also saw his death, but in a mugging. He said felt fairly secure now that he was off of New York soil and headed back home, but how does one really know? Carla had no answer for him, and so they continued the rest of the flight in silence.
Walking into the airport terminal, Carla felt her foreignness radiate from her body like a shiny force field that both attracted attention and pushed people a certain distance away from wherever she stood. She wandered among the gates until she finally understood from the drawings on the signs where to go to meet her ride.
Outside stood a row of orange cars that had the appearance of taxis, and beyond them a row of black official cars with drivers in uniforms holding signs. The sign furthest to the left read "Carla Bickford" and she made her way toward it.
"Why are you so late?" the driver said, grabbing her single bag and shoving it into the trunk. He made no move to open the door for her, so she began to open the passenger side door.
"In the back!" he said as he opened the driver side door and slid inside.
She climbed into the rear seat and sat diagonally from him. The car peeled out from the curb as she struggled to buckle the seatbelt.
Step 1: takes place in an invented country
Step 2: includes this sentence: Then, he visited a fortune teller
Step 3: starts with this dialogue: "Why are you so late?"
-----------------------------------------
Carla's flight had been uneventful, though somehow off-putting in ways she couldn't enumerate in her first email home to her parents. She sensed, rather than knew, that she was the only American on the plane to Murlinia, and she assumed that everyone else had the same thought: why was she there?
The man sitting beside her had been pleasant and tried to engage her in conversation. When he realized she didn't speak his language, he shifted to English, though his look told her it was incumbent on her to have learned Murlinian as she was traveling there. He chatted about his children, who were anxious for his safe return. Before he left, his wife had had a terrible dream in which he died in a terrible car accident while in New York on business. Then, he had visited a fortune teller, and she also saw his death, but in a mugging. He said felt fairly secure now that he was off of New York soil and headed back home, but how does one really know? Carla had no answer for him, and so they continued the rest of the flight in silence.
Walking into the airport terminal, Carla felt her foreignness radiate from her body like a shiny force field that both attracted attention and pushed people a certain distance away from wherever she stood. She wandered among the gates until she finally understood from the drawings on the signs where to go to meet her ride.
Outside stood a row of orange cars that had the appearance of taxis, and beyond them a row of black official cars with drivers in uniforms holding signs. The sign furthest to the left read "Carla Bickford" and she made her way toward it.
"Why are you so late?" the driver said, grabbing her single bag and shoving it into the trunk. He made no move to open the door for her, so she began to open the passenger side door.
"In the back!" he said as he opened the driver side door and slid inside.
She climbed into the rear seat and sat diagonally from him. The car peeled out from the curb as she struggled to buckle the seatbelt.
Saturday, August 8, 2015
Day 40
There it sat on the cream carpet at the bottom of the stairs, its black eyes fixed on hers and its whiskers frozen. Then its tail twitched, and she watched as Mrs. Fluffbottom emerged from behind the couch, causing the mouse to jump a foot in the air and then zig-zag into the kitchen. From the stairs landing where she stood, Jemma could no longer see the cat or the mouse, but she heard thumping and high-pitched squeaking at short intervals. Upstairs, the newborn, home only two days, began his call, a chirpy "eh eh" that sounded like he was trying to reach something just out of his grasp but really meant that he was hungry. Then came the stomping sounds of the four-year-old coming down the stairs.
"Mommy, what's the noise?" Mia said, blinking her eyes against the light and tugging at her pajama shirt, now curled up above her belly.
"Just the cat," Jemma said.
"Is Mrs. Fluffbottom okay?"
"Oh, yes, she's fine. Go back up to bed." Jemma tried to turn Mia back toward the upstairs. She felt rooted in her spot, not wanting to engage in the battle playing out below nor to leave her vantage point above the fray and expose the upstairs to the panicked flight of the mouse.
"Can I check on her?" Mia said.
"No, back to bed." Jemma lifted her and took her up the four steps to the upstairs hall. She set her down in the bedroom doorway, then closed the childproofing gate at the top of the stairs.
"Goodnight," Jemma said and hopped back down to her spot on the landing. Sounds continued to come from the kitchen below where she couldn't survey the action. She could still see Mia standing beyond the gate, eyeing her with the distrust of a toddler who has learned that parents keep secrets.
Then came the simultaneous wail of the baby upstairs and the yowl of Mrs. Fluffbottom below. Jemma's feet sprinted into action before her brain was conscious of the direction they had chosen. In two large bounds she was through the gate and inside the children's bedroom. In the crib, Jacob flailed his arms and cried between short gulps of air. Jemma felt around the crib until her hand landed on the pacifier, lost between the folds of the small blanket. She placed it back in Jacob's mouth and swaddled him in the blanket again, fighting against his angry arms. He sucked on the pacifier briefly then knocked it out before his arms were close at his sides again. Jemma placed the pacifier in once more, but she could see his face growing red. There was no stemming the tide. She felt her heavy breasts respond to his cries and begin to release drops into the small pads tucked inside her bra.
"Stay here!" she said to Mia, who still stood in the doorway.
Jemma ran down to the landing and surveyed the floor below. The squeaking had grown louder and the thumping more frequent. She moved down the remaining four steps, pausing at each one, waiting for the sounds to change. Before touching down on the carpet below the last step, she peeked around the corner. The cat, her tail slicing side to side like a sword, sat at the entrance to the pantry. Her right paw darted beneath the half-open accordion door, generating a thumping sound each time she rattle it. Loud squeaking came from just behind the door, and then Jemma noticed the light streaks of red in the carpet where Mrs. Fluffbottom's paw had rubbed as it plunged in and out of the space underneath. Jemma's stomach turned as her hands began to shake, her fingers suddenly cold as if plunged into ice water. Then she heard Mia's cry behind her.
"What's wrong with Mrs. Fluffbottom?"
"Mommy, what's the noise?" Mia said, blinking her eyes against the light and tugging at her pajama shirt, now curled up above her belly.
"Just the cat," Jemma said.
"Is Mrs. Fluffbottom okay?"
"Oh, yes, she's fine. Go back up to bed." Jemma tried to turn Mia back toward the upstairs. She felt rooted in her spot, not wanting to engage in the battle playing out below nor to leave her vantage point above the fray and expose the upstairs to the panicked flight of the mouse.
"Can I check on her?" Mia said.
"No, back to bed." Jemma lifted her and took her up the four steps to the upstairs hall. She set her down in the bedroom doorway, then closed the childproofing gate at the top of the stairs.
"Goodnight," Jemma said and hopped back down to her spot on the landing. Sounds continued to come from the kitchen below where she couldn't survey the action. She could still see Mia standing beyond the gate, eyeing her with the distrust of a toddler who has learned that parents keep secrets.
Then came the simultaneous wail of the baby upstairs and the yowl of Mrs. Fluffbottom below. Jemma's feet sprinted into action before her brain was conscious of the direction they had chosen. In two large bounds she was through the gate and inside the children's bedroom. In the crib, Jacob flailed his arms and cried between short gulps of air. Jemma felt around the crib until her hand landed on the pacifier, lost between the folds of the small blanket. She placed it back in Jacob's mouth and swaddled him in the blanket again, fighting against his angry arms. He sucked on the pacifier briefly then knocked it out before his arms were close at his sides again. Jemma placed the pacifier in once more, but she could see his face growing red. There was no stemming the tide. She felt her heavy breasts respond to his cries and begin to release drops into the small pads tucked inside her bra.
"Stay here!" she said to Mia, who still stood in the doorway.
Jemma ran down to the landing and surveyed the floor below. The squeaking had grown louder and the thumping more frequent. She moved down the remaining four steps, pausing at each one, waiting for the sounds to change. Before touching down on the carpet below the last step, she peeked around the corner. The cat, her tail slicing side to side like a sword, sat at the entrance to the pantry. Her right paw darted beneath the half-open accordion door, generating a thumping sound each time she rattle it. Loud squeaking came from just behind the door, and then Jemma noticed the light streaks of red in the carpet where Mrs. Fluffbottom's paw had rubbed as it plunged in and out of the space underneath. Jemma's stomach turned as her hands began to shake, her fingers suddenly cold as if plunged into ice water. Then she heard Mia's cry behind her.
"What's wrong with Mrs. Fluffbottom?"
Tuesday, August 4, 2015
Day 39
The lipstick tube was black and reflective, like the hood of a Corvette or a patent leather handbag, and Maura had to have it. It was only $6.99 at Rite Aid and had nothing in common with the expensive items it brought to mind, but when Maura saw it on the shelf, it called out to her. She knew if she were to pull this lipstick tube out of her purse and reapply it at a party, it would add to her entire look. No one could say she didn't belong.
She looked around her on all sides and quickly pocketed the lipstick. Then she began walking down the makeup aisle, examining assorted blushes and eye shadows. When she reached the back of the store, she turned into the next aisle and, pausing to show interest in one item or another every few feet, made her way back to the front of the store. Just before she reached the counter, she grabbed two packages of spearmint gum and put them in front of the cashier, a young kid about her own age with dark red hair and freckles so thick they lay in patches across his nose.
“Will that be all?” the red-headed cashier said. Maura looked at the gum on the counter then back at the cashier, noting the name tag pinned to the left-side pocket of his white collared shirt.
“That’s it, Dave,” she said, smiling. He scanned the gum on the register and placed it into a small plastic bag that he took from behind the counter. Then he paused.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“No, like I said, that’s it.”
“You sure?”
Dave looked over his shoulder at a large mirror hanging along a wall that jutted out into the photo processing area. A short set of stairs led up to a small door that stood just beyond where the mirror ended. Dave turned back to Maura.
“The store is set up with mirrors everywhere,” he said quietly. “That one up there is a one-way mirror to the security room. My manager is up there. He probably saw you.” He said the last part with his voice so low Maura wasn’t sure she heard him correctly.
“Saw what?” she said, smiling again. She put her hand on her chest so that she could feel her rapid breaths push against her ribcage.
"He's had someone arrested before."
"For buying gum?"
"For stealing."
Maura bit her lower lip as her excitement drained. If the police were called, there was no guarantee she'd be released with only a warning again. Slowly, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the lipstick, placing it on the counter. She watched as Dave rang it up, his fingers rubbing against the shiny black tube. Now it looked lifeless and dull. It wasn't what she wanted.
She looked around her on all sides and quickly pocketed the lipstick. Then she began walking down the makeup aisle, examining assorted blushes and eye shadows. When she reached the back of the store, she turned into the next aisle and, pausing to show interest in one item or another every few feet, made her way back to the front of the store. Just before she reached the counter, she grabbed two packages of spearmint gum and put them in front of the cashier, a young kid about her own age with dark red hair and freckles so thick they lay in patches across his nose.
“Will that be all?” the red-headed cashier said. Maura looked at the gum on the counter then back at the cashier, noting the name tag pinned to the left-side pocket of his white collared shirt.
“That’s it, Dave,” she said, smiling. He scanned the gum on the register and placed it into a small plastic bag that he took from behind the counter. Then he paused.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“No, like I said, that’s it.”
“You sure?”
Dave looked over his shoulder at a large mirror hanging along a wall that jutted out into the photo processing area. A short set of stairs led up to a small door that stood just beyond where the mirror ended. Dave turned back to Maura.
“The store is set up with mirrors everywhere,” he said quietly. “That one up there is a one-way mirror to the security room. My manager is up there. He probably saw you.” He said the last part with his voice so low Maura wasn’t sure she heard him correctly.
“Saw what?” she said, smiling again. She put her hand on her chest so that she could feel her rapid breaths push against her ribcage.
"He's had someone arrested before."
"For buying gum?"
"For stealing."
Maura bit her lower lip as her excitement drained. If the police were called, there was no guarantee she'd be released with only a warning again. Slowly, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the lipstick, placing it on the counter. She watched as Dave rang it up, his fingers rubbing against the shiny black tube. Now it looked lifeless and dull. It wasn't what she wanted.
Yep, Still Here
I ran into a friend at work yesterday—a fellow writer in the off hours—who knew about my blog and asked me how how it was going. I told him that I hadn't done anything on it recently.
"What happened?" he asked.
"Life happened," I said.
He looked at me and shook his head. Not in sympathy, of course. No, he was showing his disappointment. And I completely, unequivocally deserved it.
Not that I haven't done any writing. In fact, I took one of the freewrites I started here and fleshed it out into a full story, which I then submitted to a journal. (Fingers crossed...) But, happy as I am to have accomplished that, I'm also aware that I have not done anything even close to daily writing. And that was the big goal.
So here I am again. I've decided to follow the advice of one of my many writing books and made a chart with my daily writing goals. I'm starting small—500 words per day. And until I decide which story to prepare for submission next, those 500 words may as well be freewriting.
Side note: I thought a lot about how to resume numbering my entries because of the gap in time since I last wrote. Do I continue numbering where I left off? (But that implies continuous writing.) Do I skip numbers for the days that I didn't write? (That would be so annoying to keep track of. And does that imply I've done MORE writing than I have because the number is higher? And what about the days that I wrote, but not in the blog?) It made my head spin. Of course then I realized that I shouldn't be wasting my time thinking about how to number these entries. It's just another way to give in to the procrastination. And with that, my decision was made. I will resume the count where I left off! (If you ever wanted to know how my brain worked, that's a small, scary peek into the abyss. You're welcome.)
"What happened?" he asked.
"Life happened," I said.
He looked at me and shook his head. Not in sympathy, of course. No, he was showing his disappointment. And I completely, unequivocally deserved it.
Not that I haven't done any writing. In fact, I took one of the freewrites I started here and fleshed it out into a full story, which I then submitted to a journal. (Fingers crossed...) But, happy as I am to have accomplished that, I'm also aware that I have not done anything even close to daily writing. And that was the big goal.
So here I am again. I've decided to follow the advice of one of my many writing books and made a chart with my daily writing goals. I'm starting small—500 words per day. And until I decide which story to prepare for submission next, those 500 words may as well be freewriting.
Side note: I thought a lot about how to resume numbering my entries because of the gap in time since I last wrote. Do I continue numbering where I left off? (But that implies continuous writing.) Do I skip numbers for the days that I didn't write? (That would be so annoying to keep track of. And does that imply I've done MORE writing than I have because the number is higher? And what about the days that I wrote, but not in the blog?) It made my head spin. Of course then I realized that I shouldn't be wasting my time thinking about how to number these entries. It's just another way to give in to the procrastination. And with that, my decision was made. I will resume the count where I left off! (If you ever wanted to know how my brain worked, that's a small, scary peek into the abyss. You're welcome.)
Thursday, June 25, 2015
Day 38
On Monday, Rachel started her diet. She had finally weighed herself on the scale that had been a gift from her mother after Rachel had given birth to Silas.
"It tells you your body fat," her mother had said. "Not just your weight."
The scale had sat at the back of the linen closet for three months while Rachel immersed herself in motherhood. Silas was a good sleeper, but not a great eater, and she struggled with getting him to latch on during nursing. He improved gradually, but at times it was still a battle that ended in sore nipples and crying fits from both mother and child.
"The nursing was a miracle for me," her mother had said while watching Rachel attempt to feed Silas.
"All of the baby weight just melted right off."
Monday marked the final week of Rachel's maternity leave. She knew she had not lost all of her pregnancy weight, but she was back to wearing her maternity clothes from the second trimester, and that seemed to her like progress. The numbers on the scale did not speak to progress, though. They were large, unwieldy numbers and they blinked mercilessly on the display. After weighing herself, Rachel stood before the mirror and imagined her first day back at the office. She pictured the smiles that would falter when her coworkers saw her for the first time and noticed the puffiness of her cheeks and the bulge of her belly. "You look great!" they would say, but she would know that she didn't.
Rachel ate half of her usual breakfast of eggs and toast, then skipped lunch altogether. She felt energized by late afternoon, and strangely satisfied with the hollowness in her stomach.
"Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels!" she cooed at Silas as she changed his diaper. She didn't remember which celebrity had said that, but it felt entirely true. With each twinge of hunger, she felt better and better.
"It tells you your body fat," her mother had said. "Not just your weight."
The scale had sat at the back of the linen closet for three months while Rachel immersed herself in motherhood. Silas was a good sleeper, but not a great eater, and she struggled with getting him to latch on during nursing. He improved gradually, but at times it was still a battle that ended in sore nipples and crying fits from both mother and child.
"The nursing was a miracle for me," her mother had said while watching Rachel attempt to feed Silas.
"All of the baby weight just melted right off."
Monday marked the final week of Rachel's maternity leave. She knew she had not lost all of her pregnancy weight, but she was back to wearing her maternity clothes from the second trimester, and that seemed to her like progress. The numbers on the scale did not speak to progress, though. They were large, unwieldy numbers and they blinked mercilessly on the display. After weighing herself, Rachel stood before the mirror and imagined her first day back at the office. She pictured the smiles that would falter when her coworkers saw her for the first time and noticed the puffiness of her cheeks and the bulge of her belly. "You look great!" they would say, but she would know that she didn't.
Rachel ate half of her usual breakfast of eggs and toast, then skipped lunch altogether. She felt energized by late afternoon, and strangely satisfied with the hollowness in her stomach.
"Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels!" she cooed at Silas as she changed his diaper. She didn't remember which celebrity had said that, but it felt entirely true. With each twinge of hunger, she felt better and better.
Day 37
I will always be their for you. All my love, Frank
Delia read the note on the card, smiled, and thanked her husband. She then unwrapped the present, which was a gift certificate to a spa. She smiled again and gave him a kiss before heading into the kitchen. It was a thoughtful gift. Though she knew she would never use it—he should have understood by now that she didn’t like the idea of strangers touching her—she believed his heart was in the right place. She gave him credit for a good idea as she began to place the dinner dishes into the dishwasher.
And it was only a simple misspelling. The fact that she cherished books and language meant that she held proper grammar in a higher regard than others. Perhaps it was too high. She couldn’t expect everyone to keep to the same standard. Of course he had written the card—and bought the gift—in an attempt to rekindle their marriage, so it would seem that he should put extra effort into such details. But, no matter. She had known for a long time that this was not his strong suit. Would it be right to fault him now for something she had overlooked during their five-year marriage?
Frank entered the kitchen with dirty plates and stacked them beside the sink. Delia rinsed them and placed them into the dishwasher. As she finished wiping down the counter, she could hear him step closer. He wrapped his arms around her waist and attempted to kiss her neck, but she pulled away.
"Frank," she said. "We need to talk about the card."
Delia read the note on the card, smiled, and thanked her husband. She then unwrapped the present, which was a gift certificate to a spa. She smiled again and gave him a kiss before heading into the kitchen. It was a thoughtful gift. Though she knew she would never use it—he should have understood by now that she didn’t like the idea of strangers touching her—she believed his heart was in the right place. She gave him credit for a good idea as she began to place the dinner dishes into the dishwasher.
And it was only a simple misspelling. The fact that she cherished books and language meant that she held proper grammar in a higher regard than others. Perhaps it was too high. She couldn’t expect everyone to keep to the same standard. Of course he had written the card—and bought the gift—in an attempt to rekindle their marriage, so it would seem that he should put extra effort into such details. But, no matter. She had known for a long time that this was not his strong suit. Would it be right to fault him now for something she had overlooked during their five-year marriage?
Frank entered the kitchen with dirty plates and stacked them beside the sink. Delia rinsed them and placed them into the dishwasher. As she finished wiping down the counter, she could hear him step closer. He wrapped his arms around her waist and attempted to kiss her neck, but she pulled away.
"Frank," she said. "We need to talk about the card."
Tuesday, June 23, 2015
Day 36
[This is a continuation of Day 35. I've reprinted yesterday's paragraphs to make it easier for reading (and writing). And I may have edited them a bit...]
---------------------------------------------------
When your mother is missing in another dimension and your father is slowly losing his mind to grief, you start to think differently about the rules you've been following your entire life. Like stealing. What if stealing something, even if you know it's wrong, could be the clue to finding your mother? If you're like me, you take a deep breath, make a plan, and grab what you need. In this case, a key card that will open the door to a room with a computer that may have all of the answers.
On Monday after school, my friend Laura and I go to my mom's company and I sneak into the hidden drawer of her desk to get the key card. Then we go down the hallway to look for the hidden room we know is there. We try to appear inconspicuous—we talk to each other and look like we knew where we are going. It helps that I have visited the place a bunch of times with my mom before she disappeared. And then I kept visiting after she was gone to talk with some of her closest friends and try to find out something, anything about what had what happened. All in all, most people are used to seeing me around the place.
The building where my mom works contains one of six labs at the center of her company's experimental division. They mostly do research on new medicines for diseases like cancer and MS, but there is also a secret team working on seriously amazing things that they aren't allowed to talk about. Except my mother broke protocol and told me and my dad about it, because that's how our family rolls. We love solving puzzles, and the kinds of things my mom was working on are the biggest puzzles in the universe. Like time travel. And moving across dimensions. It sounds crazy, I know, but my mom is so smart that if anyone can figure it out, she can. And I think she did. But I'm the only one.
Everyone else thinks that she ran off somewhere or that something bad happened to her. At least that's what they say. When I tell them I think her experiments somehow shot her into another dimension and that she has no way to get back, they look disappointed or confused. My dad says I'm trying to shield myself from the truth because it's too painful to bear. I tell him that he's given up too quickly.
And that's why Laura and I are searching the hallway now. We pass some doors to conference rooms and bathrooms, then turn left where I remember my mom going in the past. She didn't let me follow her there, so that's why I figure it's the best place to try. At the end of that hallway we arrive at frosted glass doors. We can't see or hear anything on the other side, but there's a light on. Laura nudges me and points to a key pass reader on the wall to the right of the door. We look around, but no one has come down the hallway. I pull the key pass out of my pocket and swipe it in front of the reader. The reader makes an annoying buzzing sound and red text flashes across the display. It says, "Card Invalid."
"That's not good," Laura says, looking up and down the hallway to see if anyone has heard the buzz.
"I'll try it again," I say, and swipe the card against the reader a second time. I get the same buzzing, same text display.
"We should go," Laura says.
Her voice is tense and she is starting to back away from the door. But I can't just give up when this could mean a break in finding out what happened to my mom.
"Third time's the charm!" I say, and swipe the card again.
New text flashes on the display: "Invalid attempts exceeded." And suddenly there's a loud, endless siren that echoes all around us.
"Run!" I yell, and we book it down the hall, hoping no one notices where we came from.
---------------------------------------------------
When your mother is missing in another dimension and your father is slowly losing his mind to grief, you start to think differently about the rules you've been following your entire life. Like stealing. What if stealing something, even if you know it's wrong, could be the clue to finding your mother? If you're like me, you take a deep breath, make a plan, and grab what you need. In this case, a key card that will open the door to a room with a computer that may have all of the answers.
On Monday after school, my friend Laura and I go to my mom's company and I sneak into the hidden drawer of her desk to get the key card. Then we go down the hallway to look for the hidden room we know is there. We try to appear inconspicuous—we talk to each other and look like we knew where we are going. It helps that I have visited the place a bunch of times with my mom before she disappeared. And then I kept visiting after she was gone to talk with some of her closest friends and try to find out something, anything about what had what happened. All in all, most people are used to seeing me around the place.
The building where my mom works contains one of six labs at the center of her company's experimental division. They mostly do research on new medicines for diseases like cancer and MS, but there is also a secret team working on seriously amazing things that they aren't allowed to talk about. Except my mother broke protocol and told me and my dad about it, because that's how our family rolls. We love solving puzzles, and the kinds of things my mom was working on are the biggest puzzles in the universe. Like time travel. And moving across dimensions. It sounds crazy, I know, but my mom is so smart that if anyone can figure it out, she can. And I think she did. But I'm the only one.
Everyone else thinks that she ran off somewhere or that something bad happened to her. At least that's what they say. When I tell them I think her experiments somehow shot her into another dimension and that she has no way to get back, they look disappointed or confused. My dad says I'm trying to shield myself from the truth because it's too painful to bear. I tell him that he's given up too quickly.
And that's why Laura and I are searching the hallway now. We pass some doors to conference rooms and bathrooms, then turn left where I remember my mom going in the past. She didn't let me follow her there, so that's why I figure it's the best place to try. At the end of that hallway we arrive at frosted glass doors. We can't see or hear anything on the other side, but there's a light on. Laura nudges me and points to a key pass reader on the wall to the right of the door. We look around, but no one has come down the hallway. I pull the key pass out of my pocket and swipe it in front of the reader. The reader makes an annoying buzzing sound and red text flashes across the display. It says, "Card Invalid."
"That's not good," Laura says, looking up and down the hallway to see if anyone has heard the buzz.
"I'll try it again," I say, and swipe the card against the reader a second time. I get the same buzzing, same text display.
"We should go," Laura says.
Her voice is tense and she is starting to back away from the door. But I can't just give up when this could mean a break in finding out what happened to my mom.
"Third time's the charm!" I say, and swipe the card again.
New text flashes on the display: "Invalid attempts exceeded." And suddenly there's a loud, endless siren that echoes all around us.
"Run!" I yell, and we book it down the hall, hoping no one notices where we came from.
Monday, June 22, 2015
Day 35
[Short one today because I am trying to get more sleep. More tomorrow!]
Start writing a story that…
Step 1: has a character who steals something important
Step 2: add this word: puzzle
----------------------------------------------------------
When your mother is missing in another dimension and your father is slowly losing his mind to grief, you start to think differently about the rules you've been following your entire life. Like stealing. What if stealing something, even if you know it's wrong, could be the clue to finding your mother? If you're like me, you take a deep breath, make a plan, and grab what you need. In this case, a key card that will open a door to a computer that may have all of the answers.
So there we were, my friend Laura and I, holding the stolen key card and trying to look inconspicuous in the hallways of my mother's company. It helped that I had visited many times before she disappeared and many times after to try to find out something, anything about had what happened, so most people were used to seeing me around. The building where my mom works is one of six labs at the center of her company's experimental division. They mostly research new medicines for diseases like cancer and MS, but there is also a secret team working on seriously amazing things that they aren't allowed to talk about. Except my mother broke protocol and told me and my dad about it, because that's how our family rolls. We love solving puzzles, and the kinds of things my mom works on are the biggest puzzles in the universe. Like time travel. And traveling across dimensions. It sounds crazy, I know, but my mom is so smart that if anyone can figure it out, she can. And she did.
Start writing a story that…
Step 1: has a character who steals something important
Step 2: add this word: puzzle
----------------------------------------------------------
When your mother is missing in another dimension and your father is slowly losing his mind to grief, you start to think differently about the rules you've been following your entire life. Like stealing. What if stealing something, even if you know it's wrong, could be the clue to finding your mother? If you're like me, you take a deep breath, make a plan, and grab what you need. In this case, a key card that will open a door to a computer that may have all of the answers.
So there we were, my friend Laura and I, holding the stolen key card and trying to look inconspicuous in the hallways of my mother's company. It helped that I had visited many times before she disappeared and many times after to try to find out something, anything about had what happened, so most people were used to seeing me around. The building where my mom works is one of six labs at the center of her company's experimental division. They mostly research new medicines for diseases like cancer and MS, but there is also a secret team working on seriously amazing things that they aren't allowed to talk about. Except my mother broke protocol and told me and my dad about it, because that's how our family rolls. We love solving puzzles, and the kinds of things my mom works on are the biggest puzzles in the universe. Like time travel. And traveling across dimensions. It sounds crazy, I know, but my mom is so smart that if anyone can figure it out, she can. And she did.
Sunday, June 21, 2015
Day 34
At one o'clock in the afternoon, Derrick started up the lawnmower at Gina Goldberg's house and began to push it back and forth across the expansive front yard. During a typical landscaping job, Derrick liked to get started right after breakfast so that he could beat the heat, but this one was different. He was being paid by Mr. Goldberg to mow the lawn, but he was also being paid by Jeremy Eckerd to spy on Gina.
Jeremy and Gina were both in Derrick's math class. They had been dating for five months, and Derrick had seen firsthand the enormous drama in their relationship. They mostly fought over which parties to attend and what happened at those parties—he drank too much, she flirted too much, they went home with the wrong people. As far as he was concerned, they were both self-absorbed rich kids who deserved each other. So he wasn't above earning a few extra bucks off their chaos.
Jeremy had told Derrick that he suspected Gina was cheating on him with one of the lacrosse players. Derrick's job was to be at Gina's house in the middle of the afternoon; Jeremy would be at summer school then, so he figured Gina might take advantage of his absence.
Derrick pushed the lawnmower out of the straight path he was on and instead went around the hedge toward the back fence, where he could stand on his toes and peek over to survey the land. From his quick glance, he could see Gina lying on a lawn chair beside the pool. She wore sunglasses and a bikini, and the sun bouncing off the water shined in waves across her legs. He took a second glance, then began to push the mower back toward the other side of the lawn. As he did, he saw a car pull up and park along the curb. Lowering his baseball cap so as not to be recognized, he continued to mow as he watched the car. Three people got out, and walked toward the other end of the house where the gate to the yard was. Not surprisingly, they took no notice of the guy in shorts and ratty t-shirt mowing the lawn. Derrick, however, recognized Shayna, Eric, and Michail. Eric and Michail were on the lacrosse team. Bingo.
Derrick didn't break stride as the new arrivals disappeared around the corner of the house. He spent the next five minutes mowing; he figured they would settle into their false sense of security. Then he turned off the motor and, picking up the hedge clippers, headed toward the fence where he could take another peek. The hedges near the fence were tall—nearly six feet—and trimmed to make them rounded at the bottom and come to a point at the top. Derrick thought they looked like soft-serve ice cream after it had been licked all around and the layers no longer showed. He stood beside the first hedge, trimming and listening. There were hardly any branches sticking out, so he pantomimed the trimming when there was nothing left to cut. From the pool he heard splashing and then laughter. One of the girls was yelling "Michail!" as if admonishing him and one of the guys, presumably Eric, was countering her with a congratulatory "Dude!" Derrick took a quick peek and saw Michail doing a cannonball from the far side of the pool, splashing the girls in their lawn chairs. Shayna, like Gina, was wearing a bikini. But while Gina's bikini top resembled a blue bra that mostly covered her and only revealed the pale tops of her breasts, Shayna's top was comprised of two red triangles connected by strings, which revealed glimpses of her breasts from all sides. Derrick took a second, longer glance.
Jeremy and Gina were both in Derrick's math class. They had been dating for five months, and Derrick had seen firsthand the enormous drama in their relationship. They mostly fought over which parties to attend and what happened at those parties—he drank too much, she flirted too much, they went home with the wrong people. As far as he was concerned, they were both self-absorbed rich kids who deserved each other. So he wasn't above earning a few extra bucks off their chaos.
Jeremy had told Derrick that he suspected Gina was cheating on him with one of the lacrosse players. Derrick's job was to be at Gina's house in the middle of the afternoon; Jeremy would be at summer school then, so he figured Gina might take advantage of his absence.
Derrick pushed the lawnmower out of the straight path he was on and instead went around the hedge toward the back fence, where he could stand on his toes and peek over to survey the land. From his quick glance, he could see Gina lying on a lawn chair beside the pool. She wore sunglasses and a bikini, and the sun bouncing off the water shined in waves across her legs. He took a second glance, then began to push the mower back toward the other side of the lawn. As he did, he saw a car pull up and park along the curb. Lowering his baseball cap so as not to be recognized, he continued to mow as he watched the car. Three people got out, and walked toward the other end of the house where the gate to the yard was. Not surprisingly, they took no notice of the guy in shorts and ratty t-shirt mowing the lawn. Derrick, however, recognized Shayna, Eric, and Michail. Eric and Michail were on the lacrosse team. Bingo.
Derrick didn't break stride as the new arrivals disappeared around the corner of the house. He spent the next five minutes mowing; he figured they would settle into their false sense of security. Then he turned off the motor and, picking up the hedge clippers, headed toward the fence where he could take another peek. The hedges near the fence were tall—nearly six feet—and trimmed to make them rounded at the bottom and come to a point at the top. Derrick thought they looked like soft-serve ice cream after it had been licked all around and the layers no longer showed. He stood beside the first hedge, trimming and listening. There were hardly any branches sticking out, so he pantomimed the trimming when there was nothing left to cut. From the pool he heard splashing and then laughter. One of the girls was yelling "Michail!" as if admonishing him and one of the guys, presumably Eric, was countering her with a congratulatory "Dude!" Derrick took a quick peek and saw Michail doing a cannonball from the far side of the pool, splashing the girls in their lawn chairs. Shayna, like Gina, was wearing a bikini. But while Gina's bikini top resembled a blue bra that mostly covered her and only revealed the pale tops of her breasts, Shayna's top was comprised of two red triangles connected by strings, which revealed glimpses of her breasts from all sides. Derrick took a second, longer glance.
Day 33
Start writing a story that...
Step 1: includes the words: garlic portrait belgian
Step 2: include a dialogue that begins with: I'm gonna live forever.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
"Yard sale 10-2. Only serious buyers wanted." Lizzie read the sign along School Street while out biking, and was intrigued enough to stop. She couldn't decide if it was a joke or terrible advertising, but she felt compelled to check the time. It was 1:15, so she turned down School Street and headed for the sale. Actually, it's brilliant advertising, she thought.
The road turned at the bottom of a hill, and at the turn, just barely visible, was a small driveway with items arranged along its length. Lizzie parked her bicycle along the curb and approached the driveway. The items appeared to be arranged by type. The first group was kitchen items, where she saw a garlic press, a Belgian waffle maker, and a large stack of mismatched plates and bowls. Although she had often thought of getting a waffle maker, the idea of carrying this one home while riding on her bicycle was enough to make her lose interest.
The next section contained art supplies—paints, blank canvases, brushes, etc.—followed by actual paintings. Lizzie walked alongside the paintings, trying to picture what any of them might look like in her living room, where the walls had long been empty and in need of color. The first few paintings of fruit didn't interest her, but then she saw a portrait that drew her eye. It featured a woman sitting on a floral couch. The woman wore a red dress, modest at the top and hanging to her calves. She had long brown hair tied loosely in a ponytail, which hung over one shoulder. And she was smiling, that unmistakable smile that belonged to Lizzie's mother.
"I'm gonna live forever..." a voice sang.
Lizzie was drawn out of her shock long enough to look around to see who was singing.
"I'm gonna learn how to fly... Fame!" the voice sang.
And then Lizzie saw him: a man working in the garage that stood just beyond the driveway. He was wearing earbuds and was moving boxes from one side to the other. She walked toward him until she stood just outside the garage.
"Excuse me," she said.
He didn't hear her, but continued moving the boxes.
"Excuse me!" she said, louder.
At that he turned, and seeing her, popped out the earbuds.
"Hey, sorry," he said." Did you want to buy something?"
"That painting," she said. "Do you know anything about it?"
She led him to the painting of the woman on the couch.
"Oh, yeah," he said. "My dad painted that. Pretty good, right?"
Lizzie stared at the face in the painting: the blue eyes, the sharp nose, that smile.
"Do you know who it's a painting of?" she asked.
"Yeah, of course," the man said. "It's my mom."
Step 1: includes the words: garlic portrait belgian
Step 2: include a dialogue that begins with: I'm gonna live forever.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
"Yard sale 10-2. Only serious buyers wanted." Lizzie read the sign along School Street while out biking, and was intrigued enough to stop. She couldn't decide if it was a joke or terrible advertising, but she felt compelled to check the time. It was 1:15, so she turned down School Street and headed for the sale. Actually, it's brilliant advertising, she thought.
The road turned at the bottom of a hill, and at the turn, just barely visible, was a small driveway with items arranged along its length. Lizzie parked her bicycle along the curb and approached the driveway. The items appeared to be arranged by type. The first group was kitchen items, where she saw a garlic press, a Belgian waffle maker, and a large stack of mismatched plates and bowls. Although she had often thought of getting a waffle maker, the idea of carrying this one home while riding on her bicycle was enough to make her lose interest.
The next section contained art supplies—paints, blank canvases, brushes, etc.—followed by actual paintings. Lizzie walked alongside the paintings, trying to picture what any of them might look like in her living room, where the walls had long been empty and in need of color. The first few paintings of fruit didn't interest her, but then she saw a portrait that drew her eye. It featured a woman sitting on a floral couch. The woman wore a red dress, modest at the top and hanging to her calves. She had long brown hair tied loosely in a ponytail, which hung over one shoulder. And she was smiling, that unmistakable smile that belonged to Lizzie's mother.
"I'm gonna live forever..." a voice sang.
Lizzie was drawn out of her shock long enough to look around to see who was singing.
"I'm gonna learn how to fly... Fame!" the voice sang.
And then Lizzie saw him: a man working in the garage that stood just beyond the driveway. He was wearing earbuds and was moving boxes from one side to the other. She walked toward him until she stood just outside the garage.
"Excuse me," she said.
He didn't hear her, but continued moving the boxes.
"Excuse me!" she said, louder.
At that he turned, and seeing her, popped out the earbuds.
"Hey, sorry," he said." Did you want to buy something?"
"That painting," she said. "Do you know anything about it?"
She led him to the painting of the woman on the couch.
"Oh, yeah," he said. "My dad painted that. Pretty good, right?"
Lizzie stared at the face in the painting: the blue eyes, the sharp nose, that smile.
"Do you know who it's a painting of?" she asked.
"Yeah, of course," the man said. "It's my mom."
Friday, June 19, 2015
Day 32
The new freshman class settled into the seats before him, pencils or keyboards at the ready. Gerald sat in a chair at the front of the room, to the right side where he could watch them enter and choose their seat. Some had clearly heard about him, and he could tell where his reputation had preceded him. The pretty girls in the first row, wearing short skirts or cleavage baring t-shirts or both, whispered to each other, no doubt about the girls who came before them and had earned As from some harmless flirtation with an attractive older professor. Of course he was fully aware that though the girls looked the same year after year, he was aging rather ungracefully thanks to his habits and interests. He sometimes wondered how long it would be before his charm was not enough to balance out his waning sexual appeal.
The boys who had congregated behind the girls, clearly fraternity pledges, had likely heard about him, too. There were those rousing nights of drinking that their predecessors had enjoyed with the crazy English professor. He would quote Yeats and Joyce with a pint glass in his hand, shouting loudly and spilling beer all over the table. They called him "Profs" and laughed with him and at him, but with an understanding that he was a man of importance in their world. At least for a few months.
Once the class contained each of its 40 students, it was time for Gerald to begin his lecture, an introduction that was so familiar to him that he hardly had to think about it as he recited the words. Instead he scanned their faces. The pretty girls and fraternity boys were a staple, and he knew what that could become if he chose to indulge. But the last three years had grown dull for him, even with flirtations and drinks. His behavior had, unsurprisingly, alienated him from his colleagues, and only the liberality of the department chair, who had had his own youthful indiscretions, kept him employed at the college. That and the consistently high marks that some students inevitably gave him after earning their As through smiles and drunken binges.
His new interest had become the students who did not know him and had no interest in him, but who desired the stories and language and skills that the class promised. It was an introductory English class that was required for all freshman who did not place out of it through AP exams or other placement tests. This left him mostly either with students who had no high academic drive and no particular interest in literature or writing, or those who had a general interest in succeeding, and perhaps even loved to read, but had no real spark that identified them as someone who, like him, did not feel alive until he or she understood how to commune with Orwell, Lawrence, and Kipling. If Gerald stayed on autopilot through all of the lessons, as he could so easily do with his years of material, they would never notice. But, occasionally, there was someone unexpected—a student who, through lack of means or opportunity, could not place out of the class, and yet who held a deep regard and passion for words and stories. As Gerald began to feel increasingly mired in the redundancy and pointlessness of his teaching, and as the emptiness of his hours outside of class became more oppressive, he discovered that these rare students were his salvation. He had only found two such students in the last six semesters, but he wanted to, no needed to, find another one who could enrich and transform his life, if only for a few months.
The boys who had congregated behind the girls, clearly fraternity pledges, had likely heard about him, too. There were those rousing nights of drinking that their predecessors had enjoyed with the crazy English professor. He would quote Yeats and Joyce with a pint glass in his hand, shouting loudly and spilling beer all over the table. They called him "Profs" and laughed with him and at him, but with an understanding that he was a man of importance in their world. At least for a few months.
Once the class contained each of its 40 students, it was time for Gerald to begin his lecture, an introduction that was so familiar to him that he hardly had to think about it as he recited the words. Instead he scanned their faces. The pretty girls and fraternity boys were a staple, and he knew what that could become if he chose to indulge. But the last three years had grown dull for him, even with flirtations and drinks. His behavior had, unsurprisingly, alienated him from his colleagues, and only the liberality of the department chair, who had had his own youthful indiscretions, kept him employed at the college. That and the consistently high marks that some students inevitably gave him after earning their As through smiles and drunken binges.
His new interest had become the students who did not know him and had no interest in him, but who desired the stories and language and skills that the class promised. It was an introductory English class that was required for all freshman who did not place out of it through AP exams or other placement tests. This left him mostly either with students who had no high academic drive and no particular interest in literature or writing, or those who had a general interest in succeeding, and perhaps even loved to read, but had no real spark that identified them as someone who, like him, did not feel alive until he or she understood how to commune with Orwell, Lawrence, and Kipling. If Gerald stayed on autopilot through all of the lessons, as he could so easily do with his years of material, they would never notice. But, occasionally, there was someone unexpected—a student who, through lack of means or opportunity, could not place out of the class, and yet who held a deep regard and passion for words and stories. As Gerald began to feel increasingly mired in the redundancy and pointlessness of his teaching, and as the emptiness of his hours outside of class became more oppressive, he discovered that these rare students were his salvation. He had only found two such students in the last six semesters, but he wanted to, no needed to, find another one who could enrich and transform his life, if only for a few months.
One Month – Woot! Woot!
In some ways I feel silly celebrating the fact that I've been doing something for just one month that I've been talking about doing for most of my life. After all, a month is a drop in the bucket. But I've also learned, perhaps late in life, that it's important to celebrate all of the victories, no matter how small. Because if we only focus on the major life-level accomplishments, we may lose steam before we ever get there. And then we start to feel pretty shitty about everything. And I'm tired of feeling shitty.
So for today, I will appreciate that I managed to write some amount of original fiction EVERY DAY for 31 days. Holy cow, right?!
But this also raises a question: what's next? Part of me is anxious to keep the blog going because I hate to stop now that I've committed an entire month to it. But another part of me knows that I need to shift my daily writing towards something that I can publish. After all, the blog was just a way to get into the daily writing habit and to help me get my creative mojo back. It was never meant to replace serious writing efforts, which I would not put online since they're meant for submissions.
What do I do?
Perhaps, while I start organizing my ideas for the serious writing effort, I will keep up with DWD to make sure that I am still writing daily. But when I am ready to start something for real, I will skip some days on the blog. Either way, I am making a promise to myself—in front of any witnesses who are reading this—that I will continue to write daily in one place or another.
Plus, I'll continue to celebrate. Perhaps with a well-deserved nap. Or a gin & tonic. Or a nap followed by a gin & tonic. The possibilities are endless.
So for today, I will appreciate that I managed to write some amount of original fiction EVERY DAY for 31 days. Holy cow, right?!
But this also raises a question: what's next? Part of me is anxious to keep the blog going because I hate to stop now that I've committed an entire month to it. But another part of me knows that I need to shift my daily writing towards something that I can publish. After all, the blog was just a way to get into the daily writing habit and to help me get my creative mojo back. It was never meant to replace serious writing efforts, which I would not put online since they're meant for submissions.
What do I do?
Perhaps, while I start organizing my ideas for the serious writing effort, I will keep up with DWD to make sure that I am still writing daily. But when I am ready to start something for real, I will skip some days on the blog. Either way, I am making a promise to myself—in front of any witnesses who are reading this—that I will continue to write daily in one place or another.
Plus, I'll continue to celebrate. Perhaps with a well-deserved nap. Or a gin & tonic. Or a nap followed by a gin & tonic. The possibilities are endless.
Day 31
The chirping crickets, though initially comforting because they reminded Stacy of childhood summers, had begun to feel relentless and feverish with their incessant calls, growing louder and faster as more and more joined in the chorus. She clamped the pillow over her ears and rolled over in her sleeping bag to try to find a better position, but that seemed impossible in the small tent she had setup in the backyard of her late mother's home. She had never wanted to camp in the yard as a child. Even when her friends returned from family camping trips and described the cookouts, hikes, biking, rafting, and every other form of excitement, the idea of sleeping outside with the mosquitos and wildlife and irritating plants was enough to keep her home.
But here she was, tossing and turning in a tiny tent surrounded by overgrown grass, probably full of ticks. But although she was miserable, the alternative—sleeping inside the house—was a much more frightening and uncomfortable option.
Stacy had arrived at the house that afternoon after meeting with her mother's lawyer. The house and everything within it had become hers when her mother passed away, and the lawyer had readily handed her the key and wished her luck. Dave, Stacy's boyfriend of two years, had accompanied her to the house, expressing his support and willingness to do whatever she needed. But that was before they had seen the inside.
The first thing they noticed when they opened the door was the smell—a mixture of urine, kitty litter, mold, and something Stacy couldn't quite identify. It swept over them like a wave, pushing them backwards through the doorway. A few minutes later, when they had recovered enough to pinch their noses shut and look inside again, they saw that it was more than a rotten smell they would have to deal with. Piles and piles of trash lay inches from the doorway and continued in every visible direction. Newspapers, clothing, boxes of cereal, bags of cat food, and more were all stacked in floor-to-ceiling piles that hovered over the visitors. Just to the right of the doorway appeared to be the only way to enter deeper into the house—a small tunnel that led into darkness.
"Do you think it's safe to go through that?" Stacy asked, trying to look as deep into the tunnel as she could without stepping closer.
"What? No!" Dave said, his voice high-pitched and nasally as he continued to pinch his nose shut. "That looks completely unsafe and horrible."
"But then how will I know what's inside?" she said.
Dave shrugged, not unsympathetically. They returned to their car, parked in the driveway, to breathe fresh air and consider their options.
"I have to work in the morning," Dave said. "I can't stay here tonight. But neither should you."
They argued for a bit, but eventually the plan was hatched for Stacy to camp out in the yard. Neither was entirely happy with the solution, but it seemed the only way for Stacy to stay with the house, which she insisted on doing, while Dave left in their only car for the three-hour drive back to their apartment. They went out for a fast-food dinner, then found an outdoor store where they bought Stacy a basic tent, sleeping bag, and provisions for the night. Then after everything had been setup, Dave reluctantly left, and Stacy began tossing and turning as she tried to sleep.
In the morning, a tired Stacy folded up the tent and sleeping bag, ate a bowl of dry granola, and put on working gloves as headed toward the house. She wrapped a scarf around her face to try to block the smell and pushed open the front door.
But here she was, tossing and turning in a tiny tent surrounded by overgrown grass, probably full of ticks. But although she was miserable, the alternative—sleeping inside the house—was a much more frightening and uncomfortable option.
Stacy had arrived at the house that afternoon after meeting with her mother's lawyer. The house and everything within it had become hers when her mother passed away, and the lawyer had readily handed her the key and wished her luck. Dave, Stacy's boyfriend of two years, had accompanied her to the house, expressing his support and willingness to do whatever she needed. But that was before they had seen the inside.
The first thing they noticed when they opened the door was the smell—a mixture of urine, kitty litter, mold, and something Stacy couldn't quite identify. It swept over them like a wave, pushing them backwards through the doorway. A few minutes later, when they had recovered enough to pinch their noses shut and look inside again, they saw that it was more than a rotten smell they would have to deal with. Piles and piles of trash lay inches from the doorway and continued in every visible direction. Newspapers, clothing, boxes of cereal, bags of cat food, and more were all stacked in floor-to-ceiling piles that hovered over the visitors. Just to the right of the doorway appeared to be the only way to enter deeper into the house—a small tunnel that led into darkness.
"Do you think it's safe to go through that?" Stacy asked, trying to look as deep into the tunnel as she could without stepping closer.
"What? No!" Dave said, his voice high-pitched and nasally as he continued to pinch his nose shut. "That looks completely unsafe and horrible."
"But then how will I know what's inside?" she said.
Dave shrugged, not unsympathetically. They returned to their car, parked in the driveway, to breathe fresh air and consider their options.
"I have to work in the morning," Dave said. "I can't stay here tonight. But neither should you."
They argued for a bit, but eventually the plan was hatched for Stacy to camp out in the yard. Neither was entirely happy with the solution, but it seemed the only way for Stacy to stay with the house, which she insisted on doing, while Dave left in their only car for the three-hour drive back to their apartment. They went out for a fast-food dinner, then found an outdoor store where they bought Stacy a basic tent, sleeping bag, and provisions for the night. Then after everything had been setup, Dave reluctantly left, and Stacy began tossing and turning as she tried to sleep.
In the morning, a tired Stacy folded up the tent and sleeping bag, ate a bowl of dry granola, and put on working gloves as headed toward the house. She wrapped a scarf around her face to try to block the smell and pushed open the front door.
Wednesday, June 17, 2015
Day 30
[Okay, here we go again with the story from Day 29. Of course, I'm still sleep deprived, so perhaps everyone should just keep any expectations in check...]
When she had saved enough money from her paycheck, Julie's mother took her clothes shopping. They went to Johnston's department store, a large family-owned business that carried everything from pots and pans to pajamas and formal dresses. At 11, Julie wasn't particularly into fashion, but she understood that clothes from Johnston's were not something one admitted to wearing. The girls in her class had started wearing shirts with sparkly slogans or shorts with words emblazoned on the behind from H&M or Abercrombie Kids. Julie was sure that there was nothing like that at Johnston's, but she planned to look.
Julie's mother kept the list of items that they needed. It was spring and Julie had outgrown all of her shorts and a number of t-shirts, many of which she had had since she was eight. They went directly to the girls' clothing section and began to look through the circular racks. As she flipped through the clothes, Julie remembered how she had loved hiding inside the racks when she was younger. She would sit in the middle of the rack, surrounded by clothes she considered to be beautiful, and pretend that she was inside her own walk-in closet. Her favorite items had been the dresses, which reached the floor and cocooned her inside billowy cloth beneath the racks. Communion dresses were the puffiest, but prom season brought out the most sparkly and glamorous dresses that were even more amazing than the dinner party dresses in the women's section that her mother liked to look through. Sometimes her mother would hold onto a dress for a little while, but eventually she would put it back, saying that it was too shiny or too long or too fancy for her needs.
They always had more success shopping for Julie, at least when she was younger and liked everything on the racks. The cat shirts. The unicorn shirts. The striped skirts with matching belts and socks of every color. They would wind their way through the racks, loading up the cart. After they had accumulated several items, they visited the changing rooms, where Julie would try on each outfit and twirl before the double mirrors that showed her how things looked from every angle. They would then return some items, but more were soon added and the process began all over again. After they had exhausted all options from the racks, including the ever-present "clearance" rack, Julie's mother would go through everything in the cart and add up the price tags to get the total. Sometimes she would reach the bottom of the cart and, looking satisfied, say, "Okay, let's go check out," and Julie would follow her to the registers knowing that they would bring home everything she had picked out.
Other times, her mother would slow down as she went through the pile and a frown would creep onto her face. She would shake her head, almost imperceptibly, as she continued to add items to the total. When she finished, she would stare at the clothes a while, and Julie knew she was doing calculations in her head. Soon, she would give Julie the decision. "We need to put back three shirts," she might say, or "Put back the $25 dollar dress or get rid of two pairs of pants."
The first few times that Julie's mother told her to put things back, Julie whined and complained and begged to be able to keep everything. Her mother explained quietly that it was too expensive and they would have to choose what to keep. But Julie did not want to put anything back, and continued to whine. The louder her tantrum got, the quieter her mother became, until eventually she took every single item and put it back without a word, then led a screaming Julie out the door.
That was when Julie was seven. Since then, she had learned to be more measured in her requests, or to avoid them altogether. She never knew the day's budget, so she waited until her mother announced the verdict for the cart, and made her decision as instructed. And as she got older and grew less fond of her choices at Johnston's, the pile in the cart grew smaller and smaller and there were fewer decisions to be made. A few times her mother even put some items for herself in the cart, though after she did the calculations, she suddenly decided that the fit wasn't quite as she wanted, and the items went back. But Julie kept nearly everything.
On this latest trip, Julie scanned each rack for anything that resembled the clothes the popular girls wore. She wanted leggings that she could wear with a cute, cropped t-shirt, or a dress that a magazine might describe as "fun and flirty." But all she saw were baggy shorts, t-shirts with unfamiliar logos, and dresses that screamed "embarrassing." Her mother, working her way through nearby racks, would call to her and hold up a potential item, but nothing appealed to Julie.
"I'm going to go check the women's section," her mother said after Julie gave the 10th "no" to an item she had suggested.
After her mother walked away, Julie approached the final rack. She noticed right away that something was different. There was a sign affixed to the cross-bar at the top, which read, "New from Name Brand Store. Slight irregularities means big savings for you!" Johnston's had brought in department store castoffs before, but only one or two items at a time. Julie had never seen an entire rack so tightly packed with potential.
When she had saved enough money from her paycheck, Julie's mother took her clothes shopping. They went to Johnston's department store, a large family-owned business that carried everything from pots and pans to pajamas and formal dresses. At 11, Julie wasn't particularly into fashion, but she understood that clothes from Johnston's were not something one admitted to wearing. The girls in her class had started wearing shirts with sparkly slogans or shorts with words emblazoned on the behind from H&M or Abercrombie Kids. Julie was sure that there was nothing like that at Johnston's, but she planned to look.
Julie's mother kept the list of items that they needed. It was spring and Julie had outgrown all of her shorts and a number of t-shirts, many of which she had had since she was eight. They went directly to the girls' clothing section and began to look through the circular racks. As she flipped through the clothes, Julie remembered how she had loved hiding inside the racks when she was younger. She would sit in the middle of the rack, surrounded by clothes she considered to be beautiful, and pretend that she was inside her own walk-in closet. Her favorite items had been the dresses, which reached the floor and cocooned her inside billowy cloth beneath the racks. Communion dresses were the puffiest, but prom season brought out the most sparkly and glamorous dresses that were even more amazing than the dinner party dresses in the women's section that her mother liked to look through. Sometimes her mother would hold onto a dress for a little while, but eventually she would put it back, saying that it was too shiny or too long or too fancy for her needs.
They always had more success shopping for Julie, at least when she was younger and liked everything on the racks. The cat shirts. The unicorn shirts. The striped skirts with matching belts and socks of every color. They would wind their way through the racks, loading up the cart. After they had accumulated several items, they visited the changing rooms, where Julie would try on each outfit and twirl before the double mirrors that showed her how things looked from every angle. They would then return some items, but more were soon added and the process began all over again. After they had exhausted all options from the racks, including the ever-present "clearance" rack, Julie's mother would go through everything in the cart and add up the price tags to get the total. Sometimes she would reach the bottom of the cart and, looking satisfied, say, "Okay, let's go check out," and Julie would follow her to the registers knowing that they would bring home everything she had picked out.
Other times, her mother would slow down as she went through the pile and a frown would creep onto her face. She would shake her head, almost imperceptibly, as she continued to add items to the total. When she finished, she would stare at the clothes a while, and Julie knew she was doing calculations in her head. Soon, she would give Julie the decision. "We need to put back three shirts," she might say, or "Put back the $25 dollar dress or get rid of two pairs of pants."
The first few times that Julie's mother told her to put things back, Julie whined and complained and begged to be able to keep everything. Her mother explained quietly that it was too expensive and they would have to choose what to keep. But Julie did not want to put anything back, and continued to whine. The louder her tantrum got, the quieter her mother became, until eventually she took every single item and put it back without a word, then led a screaming Julie out the door.
That was when Julie was seven. Since then, she had learned to be more measured in her requests, or to avoid them altogether. She never knew the day's budget, so she waited until her mother announced the verdict for the cart, and made her decision as instructed. And as she got older and grew less fond of her choices at Johnston's, the pile in the cart grew smaller and smaller and there were fewer decisions to be made. A few times her mother even put some items for herself in the cart, though after she did the calculations, she suddenly decided that the fit wasn't quite as she wanted, and the items went back. But Julie kept nearly everything.
On this latest trip, Julie scanned each rack for anything that resembled the clothes the popular girls wore. She wanted leggings that she could wear with a cute, cropped t-shirt, or a dress that a magazine might describe as "fun and flirty." But all she saw were baggy shorts, t-shirts with unfamiliar logos, and dresses that screamed "embarrassing." Her mother, working her way through nearby racks, would call to her and hold up a potential item, but nothing appealed to Julie.
"I'm going to go check the women's section," her mother said after Julie gave the 10th "no" to an item she had suggested.
After her mother walked away, Julie approached the final rack. She noticed right away that something was different. There was a sign affixed to the cross-bar at the top, which read, "New from Name Brand Store. Slight irregularities means big savings for you!" Johnston's had brought in department store castoffs before, but only one or two items at a time. Julie had never seen an entire rack so tightly packed with potential.
Day 29
When she had saved enough money from her paycheck, Julie's mother took her clothes shopping. They went to Johnston's department store, a large family-owned business that carried everything from pots and pans to pajamas and formal dresses. At 10, Julie wasn't particularly into fashion, but she understood that clothes from Johnston's were not something one admitted to wearing. The girls in her class had started wearing shirts with sparkly slogans or shorts with words emblazoned on the behind from H&M or Abercrombie Kids. Julie was sure that there was nothing like that at Johnston's, but she had a plan to look.
Julie's mother kept the list of items that they needed. It was spring and Julie had outgrown all of her shorts and a number of t-shirts, many of which she had had since she was seven. They went directly to the girls' clothing section and began to look through the circular racks. As she flipped through the clothes, Julie remembered how she had loved hiding inside the racks when she was younger. While sitting at the center of the racks, surrounded by clothes she had considered to be beautiful, she would pretend that each item was actually from her own closet, and that she was sitting at the center of her walk-in closet.
[This entry will be super short, because it is now 1:00 am and I am feeling far from coherent due to lack of sleep. My goal with this blog was to make sure I was doing some writing every day, even if it was brief, and this certainly qualifies. If any of the above makes sense to me after I've gotten my five hours of sleep tonight, I will continue the story that I had in mind. But since I've now fallen asleep at least four times while writing this explanation, I will sign off for tonight!]
Julie's mother kept the list of items that they needed. It was spring and Julie had outgrown all of her shorts and a number of t-shirts, many of which she had had since she was seven. They went directly to the girls' clothing section and began to look through the circular racks. As she flipped through the clothes, Julie remembered how she had loved hiding inside the racks when she was younger. While sitting at the center of the racks, surrounded by clothes she had considered to be beautiful, she would pretend that each item was actually from her own closet, and that she was sitting at the center of her walk-in closet.
[This entry will be super short, because it is now 1:00 am and I am feeling far from coherent due to lack of sleep. My goal with this blog was to make sure I was doing some writing every day, even if it was brief, and this certainly qualifies. If any of the above makes sense to me after I've gotten my five hours of sleep tonight, I will continue the story that I had in mind. But since I've now fallen asleep at least four times while writing this explanation, I will sign off for tonight!]
Monday, June 15, 2015
Day 28
Start writing a story that…
Step 1: takes place in an island
Step 2: include a dialogue that begins with: You broke it!
Step 3: add a character who travels by boat
-------------------------------------------------------
They arrived on the island by helicopter. As it touched down in the grassy clearing 50 yards from the palatial estate, they were instructed to lower their heads and run past the rotors to a stone walkway, where they would await further instructions. Mabel clutched her purse and stumbled out after the other two interns, who descended first and charged toward the walkway. As she began running after them, Mabel felt her heel catch in some mud, and she was forced to stop to try to yank it out. Four hearty tugs later and she was free, limping toward the walkway where the others were waiting.
"You broke it!" Amy said, pointing at Mabel's heel.
"I'll be fine," Mabel said, brushing the dirt off of what remained of her shoe.
"You look like shit," Carly said.
Mabel ignored her. A little soft ground and some bitchy competition was not going to keep her from the professional opportunity of a lifetime. They all stood silently. Waiting.
Mabel took in her surroundings. She didn't do it out of boredom or interest in the beauty that was around her, although, had she looked at it objectively, she would have noticed the spectacular view that the stone walkway afforded them. To their right where the helicopter landed, lay a field of wild grasses and flowers, brightly lit by the early afternoon sun. Mabel scanned it for poison ivy or other potential irritants. Good to be prepared.
To their left stood the famous 30-room estate where Gladys Isaacson spent her summers. The building had three floors and a large entrance framed by Grecian columns. The entire facade was painted a dazzling white that not only shone in the sun, but glowed so brightly that Mabel could not look at it without her sunglasses. She counted the windows as best she could, trying to make an educated guess about the interior layout.
In the distance, a motor could be heard and the three young women turned toward the sound. It was coming from the bay directly across from them. At first they could only see small whitecaps crashing against the rocks many yards below. But then a boat came into view. It seemed small at first, but as it approached it became evident that this was Gladys Isaacson's yacht, and standing at the bow, with her short white hair barely moving in the pummeling wind, stood Gladys Isaacson herself.
Step 1: takes place in an island
Step 2: include a dialogue that begins with: You broke it!
Step 3: add a character who travels by boat
-------------------------------------------------------
They arrived on the island by helicopter. As it touched down in the grassy clearing 50 yards from the palatial estate, they were instructed to lower their heads and run past the rotors to a stone walkway, where they would await further instructions. Mabel clutched her purse and stumbled out after the other two interns, who descended first and charged toward the walkway. As she began running after them, Mabel felt her heel catch in some mud, and she was forced to stop to try to yank it out. Four hearty tugs later and she was free, limping toward the walkway where the others were waiting.
"You broke it!" Amy said, pointing at Mabel's heel.
"I'll be fine," Mabel said, brushing the dirt off of what remained of her shoe.
"You look like shit," Carly said.
Mabel ignored her. A little soft ground and some bitchy competition was not going to keep her from the professional opportunity of a lifetime. They all stood silently. Waiting.
Mabel took in her surroundings. She didn't do it out of boredom or interest in the beauty that was around her, although, had she looked at it objectively, she would have noticed the spectacular view that the stone walkway afforded them. To their right where the helicopter landed, lay a field of wild grasses and flowers, brightly lit by the early afternoon sun. Mabel scanned it for poison ivy or other potential irritants. Good to be prepared.
To their left stood the famous 30-room estate where Gladys Isaacson spent her summers. The building had three floors and a large entrance framed by Grecian columns. The entire facade was painted a dazzling white that not only shone in the sun, but glowed so brightly that Mabel could not look at it without her sunglasses. She counted the windows as best she could, trying to make an educated guess about the interior layout.
In the distance, a motor could be heard and the three young women turned toward the sound. It was coming from the bay directly across from them. At first they could only see small whitecaps crashing against the rocks many yards below. But then a boat came into view. It seemed small at first, but as it approached it became evident that this was Gladys Isaacson's yacht, and standing at the bow, with her short white hair barely moving in the pummeling wind, stood Gladys Isaacson herself.
Sunday, June 14, 2015
Day 27
Start writing a story that…
Step 1: begins with this sentence: He found a photo in the mailbox
Step 2: include dialogue that begins with: Who took this photo?
Step 3: add a character who has a plan
-------------------------------------------------
He found a photo in the mailbox inside of a brand-new interoffice envelope that had only his name on it and no previous names scratched out. He started opening the envelope as he walked back to his cubicle, unwrapping the string to see what new paperwork required his attention. But instead of papers, all he saw was the photo. There was nothing remarkable about it at first glance, just a picture of an office door along a white wall, just like the doors in his office building. There was no name tag outside the door, nor any other identifying characteristics.
He sat down and placed the photo on his desk beside his keyboard and stared at it. He picked it up to check the back, but there was nothing written there, either. Putting it back down, face up, he returned to the envelope and the clean, black print that spelled out "Jason Brueger" on the first recipient line. He didn't recognize the handwriting and there were no other markings.
"Who took this photo?" someone asked behind him.
He turned to see Leslie standing in the cube entrance, papers and a pen in her hands.
"I don't know," he said. "It just showed up in my mailbox."
"Really?" she said. "How weird! What is it?"
"Some door," he said. "I'm not really sure. Can I help you with something?"
"I just need you to sign off on this P.O.," she said, handing him one of her papers and the pen. "Can I see it? The photo?"
He handed her the picture in exchange for the paper. He signed it quickly, pushing it right back into her hands and reaching for the photo.
"Oh, thanks," she said. "Let me know if you figure out what that's all about."
She walked away. He thought he saw her frown at his rudeness, and he felt some guilt. He couldn't really say why he felt so protective of the photo, except that it had arrived in his mailbox with his name on the envelope. Surrounded by open offices and shared spaces and team-building meetings and policies, he liked the idea of having something that was entirely his own.
That afternoon, he plowed through the work he had been avoiding to get a jump on his "to do" list. He had a plan to start searching for the door. There was no way of knowing if someone was pranking him with a picture of some storage closet or if he was being pulled into office intrigue worthy of Edward Snowden, but he had to find out.
By 3:30, he decided that he had completed enough work to satisfy anyone who needed something from him that day. He grabbed papers and a pen so that he could appear to be on work-related business and set out to investigate each door in the six-story building. He began on the sixth floor where the administrative teams, including accounting, were housed. As he walked past the cubicle farms to the walls that had actual offices with doors, he kept his head down and tried to give the appearance of being late. He nodded toward familiar faces, but kept moving. More than two hours later, after winding through many hallways and all six floors, he had found no doors that were as nondescript as the one in the photo. They each had had nametags to the side, and many had photos or other decorations affixed to them. Most also had floor-length windows to one side or the other, an extension of the "all space is shared" spirit that meant even offices with doors were on display at all times.
By the time he got back to his desk, it was nearing 6:00 and time for him to leave. He tucked the photo into his backpack before heading out for the night, intending to study it more closely that evening. He planned to begin a new search the next day.
Saturday, June 13, 2015
Day 26
Start writing a story that...
Step 1: has a character who wears a costume
Step 2: include a dialogue that begins with: Have you heard anything?
-------------------------------------------------------
Ben gave his five-minute presentation in front of 300 young hopefuls and 50 other company representatives then stepped into the adjoining room for the meet-and-greet session. Although he had drafted the speech himself, the significant edits made by everyone up the chain from his supervisor to his supervisor's supervisor to the company vice presidents and CEO made the words no longer feel like his own. Now, standing in front of those eager faces who looked upon him as a model of future success and who crowded around him to ask well-thought-out questions to try to be noticed by him, he felt like a fraud. He was a man in a costume suit playing the role of a company executive, and soon he would return to his hotel room and change back to the insignificant man he truly was.
He refused the resumes they tried to hand him, as he was instructed to do, and encouraged them to stop by the company's booth in the convention center to fill out an application for the few available positions. He was curt with them, not because he was bothered by their eagerness, in fact he sympathized with their plight, but he had learned after many such conventions that kindness only lessened him in their eyes and they felt more empowered to hound him in the restaurants and meeting rooms where he tried to make his own connections toward future job moves.
"Have you heard anything?" someone asked on his left. "About Harvatech?"
Ben excused himself from the job hopefuls and turned to see Steve, now looking at him with anxious eyes.
"No," he said.
"Massive restructure," Steve said, voice lowered. "Big layoffs."
"That's too bad," Ben said. "Though they were always more show than substance."
"No, it's more than too bad," Steve said. "They're going to flood the markets. You think it's tough keeping your job out of the grubby hands of these maggots fresh out of the ivy leagues? Try all the young, but now experienced, dipshits that are going to be job hunting when Harvatech goes down."
Steve shook his head and swore at no one in particular.
"Now what do we do?" he continued. "I make sure to recommend only the barely passable college assholes, but how do we handle this?"
"What do you mean barely passable?"
"What do you mean what do I mean?" Steve said. "The hires we do. The guys who are good enough not to screw everything up, but not so good that they can compete with us."
"You do that?" Ben asked.
"What the hell are you talking about?" Steve said, his voice rising. "Of course. Don't you? You're a fucking idiot, if you don't."
"I guess I must have thought it, at some point," Ben said, his costume suit feeling heavier and itchier. "But I never actually did that."
"It boggles the mind, Ben. Really. How have you kept your job this long?"
Steve gave a disgusted shake of his head.
"Anyway, I gotta run," he said. "The COO scheduled a call at 2:00, and I'll be damned if they leave me out again just because of this stupid recruitment song and dance. I'll see you at the bar tonight."
Ben watched Steve punch numbers on his cell phone on his way out the door. He stayed there, to the side, and scratched his neck beneath the collar of his shirt. But then he heard voices behind him, calling for his attention. With a final desperate scratch, he turned around brusquely to face the six young hopefuls vying for his attention.
Step 1: has a character who wears a costume
Step 2: include a dialogue that begins with: Have you heard anything?
-------------------------------------------------------
Ben gave his five-minute presentation in front of 300 young hopefuls and 50 other company representatives then stepped into the adjoining room for the meet-and-greet session. Although he had drafted the speech himself, the significant edits made by everyone up the chain from his supervisor to his supervisor's supervisor to the company vice presidents and CEO made the words no longer feel like his own. Now, standing in front of those eager faces who looked upon him as a model of future success and who crowded around him to ask well-thought-out questions to try to be noticed by him, he felt like a fraud. He was a man in a costume suit playing the role of a company executive, and soon he would return to his hotel room and change back to the insignificant man he truly was.
He refused the resumes they tried to hand him, as he was instructed to do, and encouraged them to stop by the company's booth in the convention center to fill out an application for the few available positions. He was curt with them, not because he was bothered by their eagerness, in fact he sympathized with their plight, but he had learned after many such conventions that kindness only lessened him in their eyes and they felt more empowered to hound him in the restaurants and meeting rooms where he tried to make his own connections toward future job moves.
"Have you heard anything?" someone asked on his left. "About Harvatech?"
Ben excused himself from the job hopefuls and turned to see Steve, now looking at him with anxious eyes.
"No," he said.
"Massive restructure," Steve said, voice lowered. "Big layoffs."
"That's too bad," Ben said. "Though they were always more show than substance."
"No, it's more than too bad," Steve said. "They're going to flood the markets. You think it's tough keeping your job out of the grubby hands of these maggots fresh out of the ivy leagues? Try all the young, but now experienced, dipshits that are going to be job hunting when Harvatech goes down."
Steve shook his head and swore at no one in particular.
"Now what do we do?" he continued. "I make sure to recommend only the barely passable college assholes, but how do we handle this?"
"What do you mean barely passable?"
"What do you mean what do I mean?" Steve said. "The hires we do. The guys who are good enough not to screw everything up, but not so good that they can compete with us."
"You do that?" Ben asked.
"What the hell are you talking about?" Steve said, his voice rising. "Of course. Don't you? You're a fucking idiot, if you don't."
"I guess I must have thought it, at some point," Ben said, his costume suit feeling heavier and itchier. "But I never actually did that."
"It boggles the mind, Ben. Really. How have you kept your job this long?"
Steve gave a disgusted shake of his head.
"Anyway, I gotta run," he said. "The COO scheduled a call at 2:00, and I'll be damned if they leave me out again just because of this stupid recruitment song and dance. I'll see you at the bar tonight."
Ben watched Steve punch numbers on his cell phone on his way out the door. He stayed there, to the side, and scratched his neck beneath the collar of his shirt. But then he heard voices behind him, calling for his attention. With a final desperate scratch, he turned around brusquely to face the six young hopefuls vying for his attention.
Day 25
Start writing a story that...
Step 1: includes the words: armchair prisoner wristband
Step 2: add this word: kerchief
Step 3: add this word: fame
Step 4: add a character who is very hungry
-------------------------------------------------------------
Abby sat in an overstuffed, corduroy armchair surrounded by her roommate Emma's coworkers, a gaggle of interns and social media experts in miniskirts and chunky heels. Like Abby, they wore tight pink wristbands to show they had the right to drink alcohol at this bar where Emma's band was about to play. Unlike Abby, they were at an age where it was still a new pleasure to be allowed to drink at a bar.
Abby sipped her beer and checked her watch. There was still half an hour to go until the band's 10:00 set, but she was already feeling exhausted from the week. She wondered if it was really her job, which was mentally demanding but not physically difficult, or her depression about her fast-approaching 30th birthday that was making her feel so tired. She watched Emma's friends laughing and talking, but made no effort to interact with them. Any other day, she would have gone home already. Actually, any other day she never would have come out in the first place. But that kind of behavior was exactly what had caused a recent fight with Emma, who had accused Abby of being a terrible friend and roommate, which made her feel all kinds of guilt. And so here she sat, a prisoner in a hipster bar, waiting for a band she hated to perform. She nursed her beer for the next half hour and finally allowed herself a second beer when The Knobby Knees took the stage.
The melancholy moan with which Emma started the band's signature song, "Cry Like Elvis," catapulted through the crowd. The band stood behind Emma, ensconced in a blue light, poised to begin playing when she reached her deep, guttural cry of agony. At that moment, the drums kicked in, followed closely by the guitar and keyboard and bass. The wave of sound flooded the room, and everyone began cheering and swaying to the music.
Abby stayed in her seat, trying to take in the scene on the stage. There was Emma in a flowy dress, her short hair tied up by a red and white checkered kerchief and her lips blood red. The rest of the band was made up of guys wearing tight, button-up cowboy or flannel shirts, jeans, and Chuck Taylors. Emma's voice, now high-pitched and jagged, jutted above their twangy sound. Abby recalled a conversation they had had about what Emma wanted for the band. It was hard for Emma to define the type of fame they sought. They wanted to be noticed and well-regarded, but they feared some hard-to-define level of popularity that would push them from cool to sellout.
Emma's coworkers cheered loudest. Abby tried to remember what it was like to have just stepped into adulthood like they had. That time when your life briefly feels like it is entirely your own, before your experiences at work and in the broader world lose their novelty and become the norm. Sometimes she still wished for that time and those experiences, she hungered for them, but it was becoming more and more clear that she had no choice but to move forward. After all, what kind of nearly-30-year-old still lives with a roommate and gets pushed into spending her Friday night watching ridiculous bands she wouldn't otherwise tolerate?
As Emma shifted from screeching above the din to singing a more melodic song, Abby felt her own shift. Within a month, she would be moving out of the apartment she shared with Emma and would begin living on her own for the very first time. Within three months, she would accept a new job where she could imagine a future for herself. And, although she would stay in touch with Emma, this would be the last time she would see The Knobby Knees perform.
Step 1: includes the words: armchair prisoner wristband
Step 2: add this word: kerchief
Step 3: add this word: fame
Step 4: add a character who is very hungry
-------------------------------------------------------------
Abby sat in an overstuffed, corduroy armchair surrounded by her roommate Emma's coworkers, a gaggle of interns and social media experts in miniskirts and chunky heels. Like Abby, they wore tight pink wristbands to show they had the right to drink alcohol at this bar where Emma's band was about to play. Unlike Abby, they were at an age where it was still a new pleasure to be allowed to drink at a bar.
Abby sipped her beer and checked her watch. There was still half an hour to go until the band's 10:00 set, but she was already feeling exhausted from the week. She wondered if it was really her job, which was mentally demanding but not physically difficult, or her depression about her fast-approaching 30th birthday that was making her feel so tired. She watched Emma's friends laughing and talking, but made no effort to interact with them. Any other day, she would have gone home already. Actually, any other day she never would have come out in the first place. But that kind of behavior was exactly what had caused a recent fight with Emma, who had accused Abby of being a terrible friend and roommate, which made her feel all kinds of guilt. And so here she sat, a prisoner in a hipster bar, waiting for a band she hated to perform. She nursed her beer for the next half hour and finally allowed herself a second beer when The Knobby Knees took the stage.
The melancholy moan with which Emma started the band's signature song, "Cry Like Elvis," catapulted through the crowd. The band stood behind Emma, ensconced in a blue light, poised to begin playing when she reached her deep, guttural cry of agony. At that moment, the drums kicked in, followed closely by the guitar and keyboard and bass. The wave of sound flooded the room, and everyone began cheering and swaying to the music.
Abby stayed in her seat, trying to take in the scene on the stage. There was Emma in a flowy dress, her short hair tied up by a red and white checkered kerchief and her lips blood red. The rest of the band was made up of guys wearing tight, button-up cowboy or flannel shirts, jeans, and Chuck Taylors. Emma's voice, now high-pitched and jagged, jutted above their twangy sound. Abby recalled a conversation they had had about what Emma wanted for the band. It was hard for Emma to define the type of fame they sought. They wanted to be noticed and well-regarded, but they feared some hard-to-define level of popularity that would push them from cool to sellout.
Emma's coworkers cheered loudest. Abby tried to remember what it was like to have just stepped into adulthood like they had. That time when your life briefly feels like it is entirely your own, before your experiences at work and in the broader world lose their novelty and become the norm. Sometimes she still wished for that time and those experiences, she hungered for them, but it was becoming more and more clear that she had no choice but to move forward. After all, what kind of nearly-30-year-old still lives with a roommate and gets pushed into spending her Friday night watching ridiculous bands she wouldn't otherwise tolerate?
As Emma shifted from screeching above the din to singing a more melodic song, Abby felt her own shift. Within a month, she would be moving out of the apartment she shared with Emma and would begin living on her own for the very first time. Within three months, she would accept a new job where she could imagine a future for herself. And, although she would stay in touch with Emma, this would be the last time she would see The Knobby Knees perform.
Thursday, June 11, 2015
Day 24
In a DWD first, today's post will be a continuation of an earlier post. (I received a complaint about lack of narrative closure.) I can't say that this continuation provides much closure, but it does move things along...
And now, a continuation of Day 23 (including an update to the last paragraph):
------------------------------------------------------------------
There he sat, on a blue, plastic chair in the open space behind the secretary's desk. His knees were tucked up against his chest and his arms stretched around his legs, with only his sneakers sticking out from the edge of the chair. His hair lay matted and stuck to his forehead and his face looked smeared, either with sweat or tears. There was a rip in his yellow t-shirt and the left sleeve showed splatters of red. Was that blood? she wondered. Barbara rushed toward Julien to check that he was okay.
Leaning down beside the chair, she analyzed every inch of him as she'd learned to do over the last six years—face, head, neck, arms, hands, fingers, chest, and legs—mentally checking off each body part as it passed her inspection. She found only a small scrape on his left knee and an unknown bruise on his right bicep, but no gashes or cuts.
"Where are you bleeding?" she asked gently. She looked at his face, waiting, but he sat still, staring at the floor beyond his chair.
"Mrs. Gorley?" said the secretary behind her.
"Just a minute," Barbara said without looking back. "Julien, sweetie, where are you bleeding?"
Julien tilted his head toward her. His eyes were moist and the smears on his face appeared freshly wet. He shrugged.
She couldn't read his expression, though she thought she knew them all by now. Was he angry? Afraid?
"Mrs. Gorley?" the secretary repeated.
Barbara stayed crouched beside Julien, but turned to face the secretary.
"Principal Evers would like to speak to you," the secretary said, and indicated the closed door to her right. "Julien can stay here. I'll keep an eye on him."
Barbara nodded and turned toward Julien.
"We'll get this all figured out," she said and rubbed his arms with her hands, as if trying to warm him after a day out in the cold. "I'll be right back."
Barbara kissed his forehead, tasting a mix of sweat, sunscreen, and the baby sweetness that still emanated from him, and then walked into the principal's office.
Principal Evers stood up as Barbara entered and ushered her into the chair across from his desk before returning to his seat. His office was small but bright, with one small window looking out over the fifth grade garden. He offered a sympathetic, slight smile before he spoke, but Barbara didn't know if she should return it. Her eyes fell on his tie, which was decorated with basketballs, footballs, soccer balls, and baseballs, and she found herself mesmerized by it.
"Julien is a wonderful boy," Principal Evers said. "We've really enjoyed watching him grow and mature this year. But, today was not one of our better days."
Barbara stared at the tie as she listened. Principal Evers spoke in a sing-song voice, emphasizing certain words with pauses or an increase in volume, and she began to feel like a young student herself, now in trouble at the principal's office.
"Do you know that he brought a picture to school today?" he asked.
"Yes," Barbara said.
"Oh, so you saw that?"
"Yes," she said. "I helped him research it."
"You did?" he said, and his face grew more serious. "You didn't find it problematic?"
Barbara counted four basketballs beneath the windsor knot.
"No," she said. "Was it?"
"Quite a bit," he said.
Barbara watched as his forehead wrinkled. He appeared confused or, perhaps, concerned that she hadn't immediately recognized the issue with Julien's picture. She waited, uncertain what else to say about her lack of understanding.
"First of all," he said, "it was a very rude interpretation of Ms. Jenkins. The children were asked to bring in homemade items that celebrated her birthday, but Julien's picture did everything but celebrate her. A big gray hippopotamus is not a celebration of any person, Mrs. Gorley, particularly someone like Ms. Jenkins who has worked so hard to get healthier this year."
Barbara's cheeks burned as she pictured Ms. Jenkins looking at the hippopotamus and thinking it was meant to be a literal interpretation of her.
"Oh, that's not at all how he meant it," she said.
"Secondly," Mr. Evers continued, "Although we try to teach our children to be respectful, it can be challenging. When Julien's classmates saw the picture, they of course understood its meaning, and began to laugh about it. Lonnie Thompson, as I understand it, teased Julien about the rude picture. Julien insisted that he meant something else with it, but at that point the damage had been done. And that, of course, led to the fight."
Barbara's cheeks burned as she pictured Ms. Jenkins looking at the hippopotamus and thinking it was meant to be a literal interpretation of her.
"Oh, that's not at all how he meant it," she said.
"Secondly," Mr. Evers continued, "Although we try to teach our children to be respectful, it can be challenging. When Julien's classmates saw the picture, they of course understood its meaning, and began to laugh about it. Lonnie Thompson, as I understand it, teased Julien about the rude picture. Julien insisted that he meant something else with it, but at that point the damage had been done. And that, of course, led to the fight."
Day 23
Start writing a story that…
Step 1: has a character who has to make a gift
--------------------------------------------------------
Barbara watched as Julien sketched a hippopotamus and colored it in. His chubby six-year-old fingers gripped the colored pencils, first brown and then black, with white-knuckle tightness. In dark red he proudly wrote "Happy Birthday, Ms. Jenkins" above the hippo. He insisted on writing the words himself, but asked his mother to spell them for him and remind him how to make the "r" and the "y."
The class moms had asked each student in Ms. Jenkins's class to make a birthday gift for her. An email was sent to the parents with instructions that each gift should be handmade and must represent what Ms. Jenkins means to that student. When Barbara picked Julien up from his after-school program, she told him about their project for the night and asked him what he'd like to do. Julien said he wanted to draw a hippo for Ms. Jenkins. He said it was because she liked swimming and because she had a beautiful brown winter coat that made him think of the hippos he had seen on TV. After dinner, Barbara and Julien looked at some pictures of hippos online, and then Julien went to work on his own creation.
The next day, Julien insisted on carrying the picture in his hands instead of putting it in his backpack. Barbara drove him to the school and then kissed his shaggy brown hair before releasing him to the wilds of the hallways.
At 1:00, she received a call from the school. There had been an incident, an altercation between Julien and another boy in his classroom. She was to come to the school immediately to discuss the situation and pick up her son.
Barbara sped the entire way back. She arrived at the school anxious and disheveled, and rang the outside bell in quick, determined bursts to let them know she needed to be let inside. Once she was buzzed in, she hurried into the school office.
There he sat, on a blue, plastic chair in the open space behind the secretary's desk. His hair lay matted and stuck to his forehead. There was a rip in his t-shirt and, was that blood on his sleeve, she wondered? Barbara rushed toward Julien to check that he was okay.
Step 1: has a character who has to make a gift
--------------------------------------------------------
Barbara watched as Julien sketched a hippopotamus and colored it in. His chubby six-year-old fingers gripped the colored pencils, first brown and then black, with white-knuckle tightness. In dark red he proudly wrote "Happy Birthday, Ms. Jenkins" above the hippo. He insisted on writing the words himself, but asked his mother to spell them for him and remind him how to make the "r" and the "y."
The class moms had asked each student in Ms. Jenkins's class to make a birthday gift for her. An email was sent to the parents with instructions that each gift should be handmade and must represent what Ms. Jenkins means to that student. When Barbara picked Julien up from his after-school program, she told him about their project for the night and asked him what he'd like to do. Julien said he wanted to draw a hippo for Ms. Jenkins. He said it was because she liked swimming and because she had a beautiful brown winter coat that made him think of the hippos he had seen on TV. After dinner, Barbara and Julien looked at some pictures of hippos online, and then Julien went to work on his own creation.
The next day, Julien insisted on carrying the picture in his hands instead of putting it in his backpack. Barbara drove him to the school and then kissed his shaggy brown hair before releasing him to the wilds of the hallways.
At 1:00, she received a call from the school. There had been an incident, an altercation between Julien and another boy in his classroom. She was to come to the school immediately to discuss the situation and pick up her son.
Barbara sped the entire way back. She arrived at the school anxious and disheveled, and rang the outside bell in quick, determined bursts to let them know she needed to be let inside. Once she was buzzed in, she hurried into the school office.
There he sat, on a blue, plastic chair in the open space behind the secretary's desk. His hair lay matted and stuck to his forehead. There was a rip in his t-shirt and, was that blood on his sleeve, she wondered? Barbara rushed toward Julien to check that he was okay.
Wednesday, June 10, 2015
Day 22
Start writing a story that...
Step 1: begins with the sentence: It's not funny
--------------------------------------------------------
Step 1: begins with the sentence: It's not funny
--------------------------------------------------------
"It's not funny," Julie said as her friends burst into laughter. "It looks like I peed my pants!"
The group of four girls stared at Julie's white shorts, wet from the log flume ride. Although they had all been on it, only Julie walked off with the embarrassment of a wet behind.
"Are you sure it was the ride?" Micah said. "The rest of us are fine."
Julie pretended to strangle Micah as the rest of the girls laughed.
"Okay, I'm hungry," Becca said, cuing a stop to the laughter. "Let's get fried dough."
The girls began to make their way through the Saturday crowds. They wore short shorts and graphic t-shirts, and smelled of sunscreen and citrus gum. At 17, they walked knowing they would be noticed, though they never let on. On the way to the food stands, they saw two teen boys watching them from the coaster line. They also saw a 16-year-old stare after them from the old-fashioned car line where he appeared to be stuck with his family. They kept walking without a hint of acknowledgement, but when they arrived at the fried dough line, each observer was discussed and assessed for potential followup. The teen boys in the coaster line and the boy with his family did not make the cut, but Cassie brought up the older boy they had passed in the hot dog line.
He appeared to be 19 or 20 and had longish brown hair two inches past his shoulders. He wore jean shorts and a black t-shirt, with a flannel tied around his waist. Micah was sure that she saw small hoop earrings and Becca remarked, approvingly, that he seemed clean despite his grungy apparel.
Tuesday, June 9, 2015
Day 21
Start writing a story that...
Step 1: has a character who takes a journey through time
Step 2: includes this sentence: They parted before...
Step 3: include this sentence: She had to choose
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Rebecca crouched behind a large maple as she watched the campers and their parents flow through the entrance and disperse among the wooden cabins. Twin ten-year-old girls ran squealing down the path as their father lumbered beneath the weight of two large trunks. In the distance, Rebecca could hear the clatter of pots being used to prepare the welcome lunch.
Then she saw them. They came through the entrance carrying a pale pink trunk and two bags of other needed items. It was her parents, and behind them, she could see her 11-year-old self. Her hair, a thick ponytail of golden blonde, bounced as she walked and glowed brighter each time it reflected the sun. She could see that her younger self wore her beloved jelly shoes and hoop earrings, and Rebecca reached instinctively toward her earlobes, now closed off.
She watched her parents and her younger self approach the cabin. They parted before they went inside. Rebecca's father went toward the mess hall to hang out with other parents while young Rebecca and her mom went inside to unpack.
Once they were out of sight, Rebecca checked her watch and saw that she had 36 hours and 25 minutes left to complete her task. There were so many ways to approach it, though. And each option had consequences. She didn't know how she should proceed and felt mired in her indecision. Except she knew she couldn't dawdle forever. She had to choose. After all, it wasn't only her own future that would be affected. Whether she liked it or not, the fate of the entire world rested with her and her 11-year-old self.
Step 1: has a character who takes a journey through time
Step 2: includes this sentence: They parted before...
Step 3: include this sentence: She had to choose
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Rebecca crouched behind a large maple as she watched the campers and their parents flow through the entrance and disperse among the wooden cabins. Twin ten-year-old girls ran squealing down the path as their father lumbered beneath the weight of two large trunks. In the distance, Rebecca could hear the clatter of pots being used to prepare the welcome lunch.
Then she saw them. They came through the entrance carrying a pale pink trunk and two bags of other needed items. It was her parents, and behind them, she could see her 11-year-old self. Her hair, a thick ponytail of golden blonde, bounced as she walked and glowed brighter each time it reflected the sun. She could see that her younger self wore her beloved jelly shoes and hoop earrings, and Rebecca reached instinctively toward her earlobes, now closed off.
She watched her parents and her younger self approach the cabin. They parted before they went inside. Rebecca's father went toward the mess hall to hang out with other parents while young Rebecca and her mom went inside to unpack.
Once they were out of sight, Rebecca checked her watch and saw that she had 36 hours and 25 minutes left to complete her task. There were so many ways to approach it, though. And each option had consequences. She didn't know how she should proceed and felt mired in her indecision. Except she knew she couldn't dawdle forever. She had to choose. After all, it wasn't only her own future that would be affected. Whether she liked it or not, the fate of the entire world rested with her and her 11-year-old self.
Sunday, June 7, 2015
Day 20
David Benovitz first spied the tree while staring out of the fourth-floor conference room window during the stand-up meeting that had been moved from its usual second-floor location. That day they squeezed 15 team members into a room intended for six, and David found himself wedged between Eric Brewster and the left-hand wall and facing toward the east window. As each team member gave his or her update and everyone jumped into discussions of issues, David watched the tree's leaves ripple on branches that swayed in the biting fall wind. Two long branches hung so low to the ground that he saw squirrels jump straight to them without first going up the trunk. Above these branches were several large knots, followed by shorter branches for several feet. After that the tree grew more long branches that continued beyond where David could see from his spot in the room. His gaze stayed on the shorter branches, which resembled the rungs of a rope ladder that hung from the tree house in his best friend's yard growing up.
"David? David!"
He felt a nudge in his side from Eric and realized that it was his turn to speak. He looked back toward his colleagues and explained where he was in the current QA cycle, leaving out details that he knew would generate questions he would have to answer.
The next day's meeting was back in the second-floor conference room. David took his usual seat, which faced north. The window across from him overlooked the immense parking lot that was shared by the various tech companies in the building, and a highway loomed in the distance where the glint of the sun striking passing cars looked like flashlights communicating in Morse code. S.O.S. S.O.S., he imagined they were were saying.
During lunch, David begged off from the usual Friday walk to a nearby hot dog stand and circled the building to find the tree. It was not near any of the paved walking paths, so he stepped over the chain to cross the lawn. Leaves flew off the trees around him, but few lay on the manicured green where he passed.
The tree was larger than he had expected. Though he could tell from the window the trunk was wide, standing next to it he saw that it was more than twice his arm span. The low branches hung at shoulder height, and looking up he could not judge how tall the tree was other than that it towered above its neighbors. He reached out and moved his hand along a low branch, feeling the bumps and jagged pieces protruding from the bark. A gust of wind blew a handful of leaves from the middle branches, and they circled above him before landing across the expanse of lawn. He half expected a laser to vaporize them on contact with the grass, but they settle quietly as red and yellow dots along the green background.
David zipped up his jacket against the wind, but did not go inside. He wanted more time with the tree. He looked down at his feet, at the dull brown loafers he wore with his khaki pants and polo shirt that was his daily uniform. He wiggled his toes and felt them press against the stiff insides of the shoes. Then he looked to his left and his right across the lawn, but saw no one. He dared not look into the east-facing windows of the slate gray building behind him.
David put his hand on the tree trunk to steady himself as he nudged off one loafer, then the other. He then took hold of a low-hanging branch and began to climb.
"David? David!"
He felt a nudge in his side from Eric and realized that it was his turn to speak. He looked back toward his colleagues and explained where he was in the current QA cycle, leaving out details that he knew would generate questions he would have to answer.
The next day's meeting was back in the second-floor conference room. David took his usual seat, which faced north. The window across from him overlooked the immense parking lot that was shared by the various tech companies in the building, and a highway loomed in the distance where the glint of the sun striking passing cars looked like flashlights communicating in Morse code. S.O.S. S.O.S., he imagined they were were saying.
During lunch, David begged off from the usual Friday walk to a nearby hot dog stand and circled the building to find the tree. It was not near any of the paved walking paths, so he stepped over the chain to cross the lawn. Leaves flew off the trees around him, but few lay on the manicured green where he passed.
The tree was larger than he had expected. Though he could tell from the window the trunk was wide, standing next to it he saw that it was more than twice his arm span. The low branches hung at shoulder height, and looking up he could not judge how tall the tree was other than that it towered above its neighbors. He reached out and moved his hand along a low branch, feeling the bumps and jagged pieces protruding from the bark. A gust of wind blew a handful of leaves from the middle branches, and they circled above him before landing across the expanse of lawn. He half expected a laser to vaporize them on contact with the grass, but they settle quietly as red and yellow dots along the green background.
David zipped up his jacket against the wind, but did not go inside. He wanted more time with the tree. He looked down at his feet, at the dull brown loafers he wore with his khaki pants and polo shirt that was his daily uniform. He wiggled his toes and felt them press against the stiff insides of the shoes. Then he looked to his left and his right across the lawn, but saw no one. He dared not look into the east-facing windows of the slate gray building behind him.
David put his hand on the tree trunk to steady himself as he nudged off one loafer, then the other. He then took hold of a low-hanging branch and began to climb.
Saturday, June 6, 2015
Day 19
The five boys in suits sat in the Bickford's booth, two on each side and one in a chair at an end, staring at their cups of coffee. They were 16 and 17, all looking too big or too small for the suit their parents had found in their older brothers' or fathers' closets. The waitress came by to refill their cups ask if they planned to order food.
"I'm hungry," said Seth. "You guys hungry?"
"Kind of," said Eddie. He looked around the group. "You think it's appropriate?"
"We're not supposed to starve just because someone died," Marc said and grabbed the menu from the middle of the tablee.
"I know," said Eddie. "It's just weird, that's all."
"I can come back," said the waitress.
"No, let's order now," said Seth. "My dad said he'd pick me up by 6:00."
They each ordered a burger or sandwich with fries and sodas. The waitress collected the menus and the boys were left with each other again.
"Do you think they'll cancel practice?" Chris said.
"Dude! Seriously?" The reproaches were quick and the kicks under the table swift.
"Ow!" Chris said. "He was our coach. It's a fair question!"
"We should talk about our memories of him or something," Eddie said.
The boys looked at each other then looked down at their cups or across the room at the windows.
"They sort of already did all that at the wake," said Marc, pouring two creamers into his already light coffee. Everyone watched as he stirred the ripple of white into his cup. Outside a car alarm sounded and the boys shuffled in their seats, loosening their ties and tugging at legs of their khakis.
Jason, who had been sitting silently, spoke with his head still hung low. "I want to know why none of the adults will talk about what happened to him," he said.
"I'm hungry," said Seth. "You guys hungry?"
"Kind of," said Eddie. He looked around the group. "You think it's appropriate?"
"We're not supposed to starve just because someone died," Marc said and grabbed the menu from the middle of the tablee.
"I know," said Eddie. "It's just weird, that's all."
"I can come back," said the waitress.
"No, let's order now," said Seth. "My dad said he'd pick me up by 6:00."
They each ordered a burger or sandwich with fries and sodas. The waitress collected the menus and the boys were left with each other again.
"Do you think they'll cancel practice?" Chris said.
"Dude! Seriously?" The reproaches were quick and the kicks under the table swift.
"Ow!" Chris said. "He was our coach. It's a fair question!"
"We should talk about our memories of him or something," Eddie said.
The boys looked at each other then looked down at their cups or across the room at the windows.
"They sort of already did all that at the wake," said Marc, pouring two creamers into his already light coffee. Everyone watched as he stirred the ripple of white into his cup. Outside a car alarm sounded and the boys shuffled in their seats, loosening their ties and tugging at legs of their khakis.
Jason, who had been sitting silently, spoke with his head still hung low. "I want to know why none of the adults will talk about what happened to him," he said.
Friday, June 5, 2015
Day 18
Start writing a story that...
Step 1: has a character who dies from poisoning
Step 2: Add this word: zombie
Step 3: add this word: roof
---------------------------------------------
Helga lay on the carpet, feeling the satisfying scratchiness on her calves and thighs. It wasn't as bad as she expected, dying from the poison of a zombie infection. Granted, she had only been bitten 20 minutes ago, so it would likely feel worse before all was said and done. But it wasn't nearly as bad as she had feared, and there was a certain comfort that came from the knowledge that one wasn't going away forever.
Having not been religious in her lifetime, she had assumed that once you die, you're gone. You're worm food. There is no looking down from heaven or haunting a mansion or getting reincarnated as a yak or future D-list celebrity. When you die, there's nothing left but a body in the ground, or ashes scattered over that beach in Cape Cod that you loved because that was the summer you fit into a size 6 bikini.
But this new situation, created by the zombie virus that was spreading down the East Coast, meant that she, as a recently attacked living human, would soon continue her life, or rather, her death, as a zombie.
She heard footsteps on the roof just then, a slow lumbering shtooop shtooop, directly above. No need to be scared, she thought. Just another zombie like me. And just like that, these creatures that she had learned to fear became a comfort. Creepy, but a comfort. After all, she had nothing left to fear from them. Once her transformation was complete—she wasn't sure how long that would take, but she assumed she'd know when it was done—she would join her fellow zombies in the hunt for human brains. Which didn't appeal to her yet, but she guessed it might taste like the unbreaded calamari.
Thursday, June 4, 2015
Day 17
Tabitha Jenkins arrived at the bed and breakfast at 6:02 pm, apologized to the woman at the registration desk for being late, and asked if she would still be able to use her reservation.
"Of course, honey!" said the woman behind the counter. She typed Tabitha's credit card information into the computer and rang for someone to carry her bags.
"Oh, it's just the one," Tabitha said. But the woman clucked her tongue at her and told the young man, likely a college student, to take Tabitha's bag to Room #6.
"You're on vacation, honey," the woman said. "Don't let me catch doing anything else!"
Tabitha followed the young man up a narrow flight of circular stairs to the second floor. The bed and breakfast was in an old Vermont home, which seemed too small from the outside to have the six bedrooms and 4 bathrooms that it advertised. Tabitha had been suspect at first when she saw it on the travel site, but the pictures online made the rooms seems tiny and simple, not like the falsely advertised grandiose rooms that ultimately turned out to have been photographed with fish-eye lenses and extensively photoshopped. She trusted the honesty of the photos, and the stoic feel of the rooms appealed to her.
At the top of the stairs, they entered a narrow hallway covered in orange and brown rugs along its entire length.
"They put down the rugs because the floors are so creaky," the young man said, anticipating the question that he must have heard many times. "The guests kept waking each other up going to the bathrooms."
They walked past Room #4 on the left and Room #5 on the right. The young man stopped outside of Room #6 and put down the bag. He handed her the key and pointed to the room at the far end.
"That's the shared bathroom for this floor," he said. "There's no one staying in #5 this weekend, so you're just sharing it with #4 until Monday. Enjoy!"
Tabitha watched him make his way back down the hallway and disappear down the stairs. She looked down at the key in her hand and felt its weight as she turned it over. It was old-fashioned and rounded, not flat like the key to her house. She looked at the lock and saw the round opening with a slot underneath, just right for the key in her hand. For a moment she felt like the heroine in a gothic novel, tempted by a locked door that shouldn't be opened. She imagined for a moment what might be behind such a door were it not the bedroom of a bed and breakfast. Then she heard footsteps on the circular stairs and, not wanting to be caught daydreaming in the hallway, unlocked the door and stepped inside with her bag, shutting the door behind her.
The room looked exactly as advertised. A small bed stood with its headboard along the wall on the left. A cream-colored quilt with a leaf pattern covered the bed, and a single matching pillow lay centered at the head. Along the right wall stood a low dresser with three drawers, on top of which stood a small TV set. A single window with lace curtains was centered on the wall opposite the door where she stood.
Tabitha left her bag by the door and went to look outside the window. She saw that she was facing the backyard, which was nearly as spartan as the room. She could see a deck holding a single large metal table with six matching chairs, and to the left of that stood a pile of cut wood. Beyond the table and the wood pile was a large green lawn which ended at a thick batch of trees that may have led to a forest or to another home. It was hard to tell from where she stood.
Tabitha stepped back from the window and lay down on the bed. She lay still, breathing in the air of the small, clean room. She felt herself relax into the quilt and she spread her fingers out wide, as if floating.
"Of course, honey!" said the woman behind the counter. She typed Tabitha's credit card information into the computer and rang for someone to carry her bags.
"Oh, it's just the one," Tabitha said. But the woman clucked her tongue at her and told the young man, likely a college student, to take Tabitha's bag to Room #6.
"You're on vacation, honey," the woman said. "Don't let me catch doing anything else!"
Tabitha followed the young man up a narrow flight of circular stairs to the second floor. The bed and breakfast was in an old Vermont home, which seemed too small from the outside to have the six bedrooms and 4 bathrooms that it advertised. Tabitha had been suspect at first when she saw it on the travel site, but the pictures online made the rooms seems tiny and simple, not like the falsely advertised grandiose rooms that ultimately turned out to have been photographed with fish-eye lenses and extensively photoshopped. She trusted the honesty of the photos, and the stoic feel of the rooms appealed to her.
At the top of the stairs, they entered a narrow hallway covered in orange and brown rugs along its entire length.
"They put down the rugs because the floors are so creaky," the young man said, anticipating the question that he must have heard many times. "The guests kept waking each other up going to the bathrooms."
They walked past Room #4 on the left and Room #5 on the right. The young man stopped outside of Room #6 and put down the bag. He handed her the key and pointed to the room at the far end.
"That's the shared bathroom for this floor," he said. "There's no one staying in #5 this weekend, so you're just sharing it with #4 until Monday. Enjoy!"
Tabitha watched him make his way back down the hallway and disappear down the stairs. She looked down at the key in her hand and felt its weight as she turned it over. It was old-fashioned and rounded, not flat like the key to her house. She looked at the lock and saw the round opening with a slot underneath, just right for the key in her hand. For a moment she felt like the heroine in a gothic novel, tempted by a locked door that shouldn't be opened. She imagined for a moment what might be behind such a door were it not the bedroom of a bed and breakfast. Then she heard footsteps on the circular stairs and, not wanting to be caught daydreaming in the hallway, unlocked the door and stepped inside with her bag, shutting the door behind her.
The room looked exactly as advertised. A small bed stood with its headboard along the wall on the left. A cream-colored quilt with a leaf pattern covered the bed, and a single matching pillow lay centered at the head. Along the right wall stood a low dresser with three drawers, on top of which stood a small TV set. A single window with lace curtains was centered on the wall opposite the door where she stood.
Tabitha left her bag by the door and went to look outside the window. She saw that she was facing the backyard, which was nearly as spartan as the room. She could see a deck holding a single large metal table with six matching chairs, and to the left of that stood a pile of cut wood. Beyond the table and the wood pile was a large green lawn which ended at a thick batch of trees that may have led to a forest or to another home. It was hard to tell from where she stood.
Tabitha stepped back from the window and lay down on the bed. She lay still, breathing in the air of the small, clean room. She felt herself relax into the quilt and she spread her fingers out wide, as if floating.
Wednesday, June 3, 2015
Day 16
Start writing a story that...
Step 1: begins with this sentence: Someone was walking behind her
Step 2: add a character who wants to have a dog
Step 3: add a character who is based on a famous character from a novel you have read
---------------------------------------------------------
Someone was walking behind her as she left the bar. Sara could hear the footsteps, almost in time to hers, like a small army of two marching along the sidewalk. But while her high heels clicked along the concrete, the sound emanating behind her was the tapping of a man's shoes.
This was one of those times she wished she had a dog. Not that she would have been able to bring it to the reading tonight, of course, but if she raced home away from whoever was closing in behind her, at least there would be someone there to protect her when she arrived. Except big dogs scared her, so she'd probably wind up with something smaller, like a pug or chihuahua, in which case she would feel no more secure with them than if she were alone.
Sara picked up her pace as she headed toward the T stop, but her ears kept focus on the sound behind her. Whoever it was picked up their pace, too, but was not getting any closer. I should turn around, she thought. But as she prepared herself to turn, her breath grew shallow and she felt a sharp pain in her chest from the panic, and so she kept moving forward, listening to but not looking at whoever was there.
"Excuse me," said a voice behind her. Sara kept walking because she sensed the voice came from her would-be assailant, except that the voice didn't sound at all threatening. I'm sure Ted Bundy didn't sound threatening at first, either, she thought and picked up her pace again.
"Miss, please!" the voice called again. "I beg of you, please stop for a moment."
Not only did the voice not sound threatening, it sounded...British. And not that British men couldn't be threatening—there was Jack the Ripper, of course—but Sara was curious now and since the fear had subsided a bit, she decided that she would look. With a deep breath, she stopped walking and turned around.
The man behind her stopped as soon as she turned, and Sara couldn't help but stare. He was about 6'1" with dark brown hair and a kind face. What was most noticeable about him, though, was that he wore Regency Era clothes. He reminded her of someone...
"Thank you," he said, leaning over to catch his breath.
"Who are you?" Sara said. "Why are you following me?"
"Well, the 'who' part is easy," the man said as he stood back up. "I am Fitzwilliam Darcy. The explanation of why I'm following you is more complicated."
Step 1: begins with this sentence: Someone was walking behind her
Step 2: add a character who wants to have a dog
Step 3: add a character who is based on a famous character from a novel you have read
---------------------------------------------------------
Someone was walking behind her as she left the bar. Sara could hear the footsteps, almost in time to hers, like a small army of two marching along the sidewalk. But while her high heels clicked along the concrete, the sound emanating behind her was the tapping of a man's shoes.
This was one of those times she wished she had a dog. Not that she would have been able to bring it to the reading tonight, of course, but if she raced home away from whoever was closing in behind her, at least there would be someone there to protect her when she arrived. Except big dogs scared her, so she'd probably wind up with something smaller, like a pug or chihuahua, in which case she would feel no more secure with them than if she were alone.
Sara picked up her pace as she headed toward the T stop, but her ears kept focus on the sound behind her. Whoever it was picked up their pace, too, but was not getting any closer. I should turn around, she thought. But as she prepared herself to turn, her breath grew shallow and she felt a sharp pain in her chest from the panic, and so she kept moving forward, listening to but not looking at whoever was there.
"Excuse me," said a voice behind her. Sara kept walking because she sensed the voice came from her would-be assailant, except that the voice didn't sound at all threatening. I'm sure Ted Bundy didn't sound threatening at first, either, she thought and picked up her pace again.
"Miss, please!" the voice called again. "I beg of you, please stop for a moment."
Not only did the voice not sound threatening, it sounded...British. And not that British men couldn't be threatening—there was Jack the Ripper, of course—but Sara was curious now and since the fear had subsided a bit, she decided that she would look. With a deep breath, she stopped walking and turned around.
The man behind her stopped as soon as she turned, and Sara couldn't help but stare. He was about 6'1" with dark brown hair and a kind face. What was most noticeable about him, though, was that he wore Regency Era clothes. He reminded her of someone...
"Thank you," he said, leaning over to catch his breath.
"Who are you?" Sara said. "Why are you following me?"
"Well, the 'who' part is easy," the man said as he stood back up. "I am Fitzwilliam Darcy. The explanation of why I'm following you is more complicated."
Tuesday, June 2, 2015
Day 15
Start writing a story that...
Step 1: includes the words: drugstore faraway memory
Step 2: add a character who wants to break a relationship
Step 3: include this sentence: The lock didn't work.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
She stood behind the drugstore register and fiddled with the display of lighter keychains. Clink, clink. They clattered against each other as she put one on each finger and wiggled them around. Faraway, a siren could be heard and she wished that it were a fire engine coming to evacuate the store so that she could go home. But the hum of the air conditioner and the buzzing of the fluorescent lights were soon once again the only sounds in the room. She stared through the glass front doors at the gleaming summer day outside, bringing up a memory of last summer when she wasn't stuck working. Swimming, playing tennis, reading on the grass. She couldn't conceive of anything better than summer vacation, and yet here she stood, waiting for someone to need tampons or cigarettes.
The door jingled and a young guy walked in. He stopped to looked around at first, and she recognized him as someone who had graduated the previous year. He saw her at the counter and nodded in recognition, then disappeared down one of the aisles for about five minutes. When he returned and approached her counter, he was carrying a spiral notebook and a large box of condoms. He placed these, along with a candy bar he grabbed from beneath the counter, in front of her.
She felt herself blush as she took the box to scan it. She wasn't embarrassed by the idea of sex, though she hadn't had it yet. But something about selling condoms to a kid you may have once known was really uncomfortable. She couldn't bring herself to ask him the required first question, "Did you find everything you needed?"
"How's it going?" he asked.
"Fine."
"That's good."
She finished ringing up the items and put them in a small bag for him.
"That'll be $32.45."
"Man, that's expensive," he said and handed her two $20 bills. "The things we do for love."
"Are you still with Rainy Erickson?" she asked.
"Sort of. Kind of hard when you're at different colleges, you know?"
She nodded, trying to look like she did know, while she counted out the change.
"We've started talking about taking a break."
She handed him the change and the bag. He took them and they both briefly stared at the condom box sticking out of the top.
"We probably won't break up until we go back to school, though. Not a lot to do around here."
She nodded again. He started heading toward the doors, then turned around.
"There's going to be a party later at Steven Derry's house. You know him?"
"Yeah," she said, though she'd never met Steven.
"How late are you working today?"
"Til 6:00."
"You should swing by then."
"Okay."
He left then, and she resumed fiddling with the keychains. She played out different scenarios in her head about whether she would have a drink or what she should do if someone wanted to make out with her. What else did college kids do at parties? Maybe she should make out with someone so she wouldn't be such a loser by the time she got to college.
The door jingled again and a woman in her 40s stepped into the store. She headed straight for the counter and asked for a box of menthols. All of the cigarettes were now locked up behind the counter, and so the key had to be pulled from beneath the register. She found the key as the woman sighed her disappointment about how long things were taking, and tried to open up the cabinet. The lock didn't work.
Step 1: includes the words: drugstore faraway memory
Step 2: add a character who wants to break a relationship
Step 3: include this sentence: The lock didn't work.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
She stood behind the drugstore register and fiddled with the display of lighter keychains. Clink, clink. They clattered against each other as she put one on each finger and wiggled them around. Faraway, a siren could be heard and she wished that it were a fire engine coming to evacuate the store so that she could go home. But the hum of the air conditioner and the buzzing of the fluorescent lights were soon once again the only sounds in the room. She stared through the glass front doors at the gleaming summer day outside, bringing up a memory of last summer when she wasn't stuck working. Swimming, playing tennis, reading on the grass. She couldn't conceive of anything better than summer vacation, and yet here she stood, waiting for someone to need tampons or cigarettes.
The door jingled and a young guy walked in. He stopped to looked around at first, and she recognized him as someone who had graduated the previous year. He saw her at the counter and nodded in recognition, then disappeared down one of the aisles for about five minutes. When he returned and approached her counter, he was carrying a spiral notebook and a large box of condoms. He placed these, along with a candy bar he grabbed from beneath the counter, in front of her.
She felt herself blush as she took the box to scan it. She wasn't embarrassed by the idea of sex, though she hadn't had it yet. But something about selling condoms to a kid you may have once known was really uncomfortable. She couldn't bring herself to ask him the required first question, "Did you find everything you needed?"
"How's it going?" he asked.
"Fine."
"That's good."
She finished ringing up the items and put them in a small bag for him.
"That'll be $32.45."
"Man, that's expensive," he said and handed her two $20 bills. "The things we do for love."
"Are you still with Rainy Erickson?" she asked.
"Sort of. Kind of hard when you're at different colleges, you know?"
She nodded, trying to look like she did know, while she counted out the change.
"We've started talking about taking a break."
She handed him the change and the bag. He took them and they both briefly stared at the condom box sticking out of the top.
"We probably won't break up until we go back to school, though. Not a lot to do around here."
She nodded again. He started heading toward the doors, then turned around.
"There's going to be a party later at Steven Derry's house. You know him?"
"Yeah," she said, though she'd never met Steven.
"How late are you working today?"
"Til 6:00."
"You should swing by then."
"Okay."
He left then, and she resumed fiddling with the keychains. She played out different scenarios in her head about whether she would have a drink or what she should do if someone wanted to make out with her. What else did college kids do at parties? Maybe she should make out with someone so she wouldn't be such a loser by the time she got to college.
The door jingled again and a woman in her 40s stepped into the store. She headed straight for the counter and asked for a box of menthols. All of the cigarettes were now locked up behind the counter, and so the key had to be pulled from beneath the register. She found the key as the woman sighed her disappointment about how long things were taking, and tried to open up the cabinet. The lock didn't work.
Day 14
Harris and Melody were charging across Parker Street through the spring evening downpour, feeling cold rivulets flow through their shoes, when they saw a dark figure flying overhead. As they reached the sidewalk, Harris put his hand over his eyes and squinted at the man floating 50 feet above them, his green cape fluttering loudly against the rain.
"Dammit," Harris said. "It's another one."
"I think he's just checking on things," Melody said.
"No, they're like cockroaches. You never see just one for long."
"Let's keep going," she said. "This doesn't have to ruin our dinner."
"No, it's too late. Dinner is already ruined. Some bad guy or nemesis will show up at any moment and they'll wind up crashing through the restaurant's plate glass window, right on top of our table."
"But the place we're going to is still two blocks away."
"They'll find it," he said, then watched as a second caped figure appeared in the sky. Some angry words were shouted about revenge and justice and then the two men began to fight, throwing each other into buildings and disrupting various dinners, baths, and meetings. It wasn't long until the voices of the cheering fans and the screaming injured filled the air.
It hadn't always been like this in Capital City. As a major metropolis, it had had its share of crime, of course, and residents were suitably wary. They locked their doors at night and learned that they should hand over any valuables immediately if someone tried to mug them. They listened to the crime statistics on the local news and worried about their children's safety.
Then rumors started spreading about something incredible happening just 60 miles away in Central City. At first it all sounded far-fetched and no one would admit to believing any of it. But the trickle of information grew into a torrent and soon it was all that the local TV news and newspapers would discuss: "Superheroes Appear in Central City," "Superheroes Help Police Fight Crime," "Central City Mayor Awards Medal to Magnificent Man," "Super Villain Discovered at the Root of Central City's Crime Syndicate, Now Behind Bars Thanks to the Turquoise Tumbler."
People in Capital City began to talk about how they could use their own superheroes to wipe out the crime element that had overrun the city. They talked about it on the streets and at their jobs. Some began to call Mayor Greenblatt and demand that he find the city its own superheroes. The need permeated every conversation and event in the city, until one day something was spotted in the sky. No one was sure if the Mayor had done it or the message had gotten through by word-of-mouth, but a superhero had finally arrived. His name was Dr. Fantastic. He wore a white jumpsuit and a white jacket that resembled a lab coat. His belt contained a collection of never-before-seen crime-fighting tools that he had invented himself. He addressed the entire population in a speech that aired on every local news channel during which he promised to rid Capital City of every criminal that plagued it. And for a while, it seemed that he would be successful.
But just as the city began to feel the weight of constant crime lifted from its shoulders, a super villain appeared. It turned out that he was a nemesis of Dr. Fantastic and had developed the perfect plan to finally vanquish him. Their battles were numerous and increasingly violent. They clashed in the sky and on the ground where the city's residents watched and tried to keep a safe distance. In the end, Dr. Fantastic prevailed, but not before Capital City found itself with unplanned infrastructure and medical expenses. Taxes had to be raised, but everyone was grateful for Dr. Fantastic's efforts, and so few complained.
Not long after that, Sergeant Strong and the Silverlady appeared at Capital City. They, too, declared their interest in helping to keep everyone safe, and so they were welcomed.
"Dammit," Harris said. "It's another one."
"I think he's just checking on things," Melody said.
"No, they're like cockroaches. You never see just one for long."
"Let's keep going," she said. "This doesn't have to ruin our dinner."
"No, it's too late. Dinner is already ruined. Some bad guy or nemesis will show up at any moment and they'll wind up crashing through the restaurant's plate glass window, right on top of our table."
"But the place we're going to is still two blocks away."
"They'll find it," he said, then watched as a second caped figure appeared in the sky. Some angry words were shouted about revenge and justice and then the two men began to fight, throwing each other into buildings and disrupting various dinners, baths, and meetings. It wasn't long until the voices of the cheering fans and the screaming injured filled the air.
It hadn't always been like this in Capital City. As a major metropolis, it had had its share of crime, of course, and residents were suitably wary. They locked their doors at night and learned that they should hand over any valuables immediately if someone tried to mug them. They listened to the crime statistics on the local news and worried about their children's safety.
Then rumors started spreading about something incredible happening just 60 miles away in Central City. At first it all sounded far-fetched and no one would admit to believing any of it. But the trickle of information grew into a torrent and soon it was all that the local TV news and newspapers would discuss: "Superheroes Appear in Central City," "Superheroes Help Police Fight Crime," "Central City Mayor Awards Medal to Magnificent Man," "Super Villain Discovered at the Root of Central City's Crime Syndicate, Now Behind Bars Thanks to the Turquoise Tumbler."
People in Capital City began to talk about how they could use their own superheroes to wipe out the crime element that had overrun the city. They talked about it on the streets and at their jobs. Some began to call Mayor Greenblatt and demand that he find the city its own superheroes. The need permeated every conversation and event in the city, until one day something was spotted in the sky. No one was sure if the Mayor had done it or the message had gotten through by word-of-mouth, but a superhero had finally arrived. His name was Dr. Fantastic. He wore a white jumpsuit and a white jacket that resembled a lab coat. His belt contained a collection of never-before-seen crime-fighting tools that he had invented himself. He addressed the entire population in a speech that aired on every local news channel during which he promised to rid Capital City of every criminal that plagued it. And for a while, it seemed that he would be successful.
But just as the city began to feel the weight of constant crime lifted from its shoulders, a super villain appeared. It turned out that he was a nemesis of Dr. Fantastic and had developed the perfect plan to finally vanquish him. Their battles were numerous and increasingly violent. They clashed in the sky and on the ground where the city's residents watched and tried to keep a safe distance. In the end, Dr. Fantastic prevailed, but not before Capital City found itself with unplanned infrastructure and medical expenses. Taxes had to be raised, but everyone was grateful for Dr. Fantastic's efforts, and so few complained.
Not long after that, Sergeant Strong and the Silverlady appeared at Capital City. They, too, declared their interest in helping to keep everyone safe, and so they were welcomed.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)