So in case you haven't noticed, there's been a bit of a pause in operations on the site. The reason for this is NaNoWriMo, or National Novel Writing Month, which all three of us are currently participating in. We originally thought we might micromanage this project along with the novel-in-a-month challenge of NaNo, but it doesn't look like that's going to happen. I'm just posting this as a PSA to let everyone know that we'll resume our previous schedule come the end of November, once these pesky novels are (mostly) drafted out and we're a little less jittery from caffeine and have time to take showers, brush our hair, and look at the computer screen without a feeling of morbid dread.
Thanks, everyone!
Dylan
Monday, November 14, 2011
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Story #4: The Dirt Whispers
Hey everyone! Time for our fourth story post, nice and full of undeveloped subplots! :) I'm also going to go ahead and point out that NaNoWriMo has just started, so if there are any scheduling complications this month, that's why. (If you don't know what NaNoWriMo is, check out nanowrimo.org)
Title: The Dirt Whispers
The doctors have told me there’s a good chance I’ll never recover. They say it in a sort of prim-and-proper tone, a declaration, a sentence carried by the momentum of formality. I’d tell you they were smiling, too - even if it’s only because they’re grateful that they’re safe off the front lines - but I can’t tell.
(They’re smiling.)
My family knows, now. They’ve all sent letters. Mother’s was depressing to listen to, choked and miserable, I think. It’s hard to tell, in a way, just because it’s so wrong hearing her words claw their way out of a soldier’s smoke-scarred throat. The man in the bunk next to me reads them since I can’t anymore. I’ve never seen his face, never will. His name’s Lars. He tells people to call him Larry.
Father’s letter came out sounding like the doctors’ words do, overly intact, each fragment as carefully arranged as the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, creating a crackless cohesive whole. He laments my loss of vision, he says, and regrets that my younger brother will have to take over the family business now, instead of me. When Larry reads it aloud, something breaks through his voice - maybe amusement, maybe pity. His words are rough, gravelly, hardened by too many cigarettes: I imagine him as a big guy, burly, scarred, but I don’t know. All I know is that one of his legs got blown off by a land mine.
Upon my return, Father says, he’ll do his best to find me a good job where my blindness won’t be a disadvantage. I bet he will.
(He won’t.)
Sarah’s letter sounds especially strange. I can picture her handwriting tracing like a beetle’s scraggly footprints over the page, the overlarge underlegible print of a six-year-old still learning her letters. Something about it, both in its innocence and hearing it come out in Larry’s leering soldierly lilt, is depressing.
“Mama and Dada say your eyes got hurt,” Larry reads. “She spelled ‘eyes’ wrong. With an i-apostrophe-s.”
“Keep reading,” I say.
“Sure. So she says she hopes you feel better really soon - ‘really’ spelled like a fishing reel ‘reel’. She’ll get Mama to make you cookie cake once you’re home safe again. Also, don’t put soap in your eyes to try to clean out the badness, because she tried it, and it doesn’t work.”
Larry barks out coarse laughter. “What a doll,” he says. “Anyway, that’s it for this round.” He pats my shoulder in what I suspect is supposed to be a brotherly way.
“You’re sure that’s all of them?” There should be one more.
“That’s all.” I can picture the face I’ve never seen, just as I can picture the hospital unit around me without ever having noted anything but blackness: Larry, with thick brows and curly brown hair sticking up over his skull likes strands of wire, forehead creased with curiosity.
“Should there be one more?” Larry asks. I remember suddenly: of course there’s no letter. There’s no more Ross to write the letter, with all its subtle whispers and sharp, outlawed happiness. I tell Larry no, he’s right, only three.
“You sure? They lose the letters sometimes, or give them to the wrong person. I got one one for a Camile Joyce, or something. “
“No,” I say. “That’s all. Thanks, Larry.”
“Sure, pal. Any time.”
He hands me the letters. The paper is cool and crinkled, something I wouldn’t have picked up on before. It just would’ve been paper. Nothing special about it.
I think about Jonas and Mother and Father and Sarah. My image of them, the theoretical formula that will always, in my mind, constitute their pictures. Years from now, if I never see again, like the doctors are predicting, will I still think of them as they are now? Will I have the sole advantage of keeping Sarah’s innocence all to myself as she slowly loses it to twenty different boys? Can I, for at least myself, comb the gray strands out of Father’s hair, and iron the wrinkles off of Mother’s skin? Will Jonas stay as sharp as the last time I saw him, suited up in a tuxedo, immaculate? And will he keep on giving me that look, now unseen, that glare of contempt: I don’t need to ask, it says, and I wish I could tell.
I don’t know. I don’t know anything. Maybe, in my head, they can stay perfect. At least for a while.
(Fat chance.)
I remember the last thing I saw, really saw, and not just as a flimsy, artificial, blundering picture behind my eyelids - or pupils, even, since it’s really all the same anymore.
We were walking down one of the derelict streets, pale dirt-colored buildings rising like dunes on either side. Just me and Ross. Cars trundled down the roads, coughing out clouds of swirling dust, making the landscape that much paler and dustier and dirt-colored.
A few cars were parked on the sides of the sideless road, gleaming in the harsh glare of the sun like ancient gems or shooting stars that were all wished out, and crashed.
I don’t know what the motive was, how the trail of evidence fit together to form the final, fatal verdict. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe it was on purpose. Maybe it was just one of those strange twists of life that no one ever really figures out, but people formulate skepticisms that become law. Maybe all things happen for a reason.
(There can be no reason for this.)
I know people always say these things happen in slow motion, but they say it because it’s true. It really does. Time warps, slows down, as if every particle of reality is suddenly sifting through a dense, sticky gel. And it happens even slower in my memory.
First, there was a faint click, like a lock latching.
Second, Ross looked at me: he was smiling, I’m pretty sure, behind the bandana that was keeping the dust out of his mouth. I could see it in his eyes. That’s what I remember best, is his eyes. They were a bright blue, flecked with something almost gold, like day breaking over the ocean. I think about his eyes a lot.
Third, the car parked not so far away, to our left, exploded.
There was sound, so much sound, like the whole earth was degenerating, devolving into its primal, chaotic elements: sound and fury. Then there was no sound at all, everything morphing into an amorphous calm, an eerie whining silence.
After this, which occupied the timeless length of a second or two, pain. Intense pain. And then a soft blanket, a cure: blackness.
(A cure, a poison. Is there so much difference?)
I’ve tried to look on the bright side. That’s what Mother always told me to do: “Look on the bright side! For every sunset, there’s a sunrise. Isn’t that a happy thought, sweetie?”
It’s sort of depressing, these days. Every time I think of sunsets, or sunrises, for that matter, even though I never really got about seeing enough of those since they were always so damned early in the morning, I just regret not seeing enough of them. Or having the right to see them ripped away.
At least I didn’t have to see what happened to Ross. The doctors say I probably wouldn’t be alive if it wasn’t for him, because his body sheltered me from some of the damage. The shrapnel, mostly. I asked to see him - I still had bandages wound over my eyes, at this point, so I didn’t know I was blind yet - and the doctors said it’d be best if I didn’t.
Two words, they said: hamburger meat.
So maybe it’s a mixed blessing. That’s what I try to tell myself, though it doesn’t work most of the time. I don’t have to lose anything else into the oblivion of memory, no images have to slip down the storm drains into the general muddled shit of times gone by. I can cradle Ross in my thoughts, lull him into that good night.
I guess that’s how it works. The world of the past gets to stay forever, the day - what was it, November 3rd? - can remain lit in my mind, like a lightbulb only I can see, one that’s dead to everyone else. Maybe that’s bad, maybe it’s not. I guess there are worse days to relive.
(The worst day: an ocean-blue eye, an unseen smile: hamburger meat.)
But maybe I should look on the bright side.
I understand things now I’ve never understood before. The texture of an orange, the taste of wind, the sound of a beating heart and the secrets it can keep, and the roughness masked behind the smooth overtones of ice cream.
I was never much of one to imagine things before the bomb went off. Now, imagination is all I have. Funny, how that kind of thing can happen. I find my mind wandering now, lost in places of its own devising, a made-up man with wiry brown hair and thick eyebrows reading letters from family members half a world away in his gravelly, time-tired voice.
These men claim they are missing legs, or eyes, or a heart. In my head, though, they are whole. They walk on two sturdy feet, bootsoles clomping down hard, smashing withered brown grass with easy grace. They don’t have to ask, they don’t have to tell. They are something that they can never again be in reality, not the simulacrums of themselves, but whatever the dirt whispers and wills them to be: entire, untethered, perfect.
Title: The Dirt Whispers
The doctors have told me there’s a good chance I’ll never recover. They say it in a sort of prim-and-proper tone, a declaration, a sentence carried by the momentum of formality. I’d tell you they were smiling, too - even if it’s only because they’re grateful that they’re safe off the front lines - but I can’t tell.
(They’re smiling.)
My family knows, now. They’ve all sent letters. Mother’s was depressing to listen to, choked and miserable, I think. It’s hard to tell, in a way, just because it’s so wrong hearing her words claw their way out of a soldier’s smoke-scarred throat. The man in the bunk next to me reads them since I can’t anymore. I’ve never seen his face, never will. His name’s Lars. He tells people to call him Larry.
Father’s letter came out sounding like the doctors’ words do, overly intact, each fragment as carefully arranged as the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, creating a crackless cohesive whole. He laments my loss of vision, he says, and regrets that my younger brother will have to take over the family business now, instead of me. When Larry reads it aloud, something breaks through his voice - maybe amusement, maybe pity. His words are rough, gravelly, hardened by too many cigarettes: I imagine him as a big guy, burly, scarred, but I don’t know. All I know is that one of his legs got blown off by a land mine.
Upon my return, Father says, he’ll do his best to find me a good job where my blindness won’t be a disadvantage. I bet he will.
(He won’t.)
Sarah’s letter sounds especially strange. I can picture her handwriting tracing like a beetle’s scraggly footprints over the page, the overlarge underlegible print of a six-year-old still learning her letters. Something about it, both in its innocence and hearing it come out in Larry’s leering soldierly lilt, is depressing.
“Mama and Dada say your eyes got hurt,” Larry reads. “She spelled ‘eyes’ wrong. With an i-apostrophe-s.”
“Keep reading,” I say.
“Sure. So she says she hopes you feel better really soon - ‘really’ spelled like a fishing reel ‘reel’. She’ll get Mama to make you cookie cake once you’re home safe again. Also, don’t put soap in your eyes to try to clean out the badness, because she tried it, and it doesn’t work.”
Larry barks out coarse laughter. “What a doll,” he says. “Anyway, that’s it for this round.” He pats my shoulder in what I suspect is supposed to be a brotherly way.
“You’re sure that’s all of them?” There should be one more.
“That’s all.” I can picture the face I’ve never seen, just as I can picture the hospital unit around me without ever having noted anything but blackness: Larry, with thick brows and curly brown hair sticking up over his skull likes strands of wire, forehead creased with curiosity.
“Should there be one more?” Larry asks. I remember suddenly: of course there’s no letter. There’s no more Ross to write the letter, with all its subtle whispers and sharp, outlawed happiness. I tell Larry no, he’s right, only three.
“You sure? They lose the letters sometimes, or give them to the wrong person. I got one one for a Camile Joyce, or something. “
“No,” I say. “That’s all. Thanks, Larry.”
“Sure, pal. Any time.”
He hands me the letters. The paper is cool and crinkled, something I wouldn’t have picked up on before. It just would’ve been paper. Nothing special about it.
I think about Jonas and Mother and Father and Sarah. My image of them, the theoretical formula that will always, in my mind, constitute their pictures. Years from now, if I never see again, like the doctors are predicting, will I still think of them as they are now? Will I have the sole advantage of keeping Sarah’s innocence all to myself as she slowly loses it to twenty different boys? Can I, for at least myself, comb the gray strands out of Father’s hair, and iron the wrinkles off of Mother’s skin? Will Jonas stay as sharp as the last time I saw him, suited up in a tuxedo, immaculate? And will he keep on giving me that look, now unseen, that glare of contempt: I don’t need to ask, it says, and I wish I could tell.
I don’t know. I don’t know anything. Maybe, in my head, they can stay perfect. At least for a while.
(Fat chance.)
I remember the last thing I saw, really saw, and not just as a flimsy, artificial, blundering picture behind my eyelids - or pupils, even, since it’s really all the same anymore.
We were walking down one of the derelict streets, pale dirt-colored buildings rising like dunes on either side. Just me and Ross. Cars trundled down the roads, coughing out clouds of swirling dust, making the landscape that much paler and dustier and dirt-colored.
A few cars were parked on the sides of the sideless road, gleaming in the harsh glare of the sun like ancient gems or shooting stars that were all wished out, and crashed.
I don’t know what the motive was, how the trail of evidence fit together to form the final, fatal verdict. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe it was on purpose. Maybe it was just one of those strange twists of life that no one ever really figures out, but people formulate skepticisms that become law. Maybe all things happen for a reason.
(There can be no reason for this.)
I know people always say these things happen in slow motion, but they say it because it’s true. It really does. Time warps, slows down, as if every particle of reality is suddenly sifting through a dense, sticky gel. And it happens even slower in my memory.
First, there was a faint click, like a lock latching.
Second, Ross looked at me: he was smiling, I’m pretty sure, behind the bandana that was keeping the dust out of his mouth. I could see it in his eyes. That’s what I remember best, is his eyes. They were a bright blue, flecked with something almost gold, like day breaking over the ocean. I think about his eyes a lot.
Third, the car parked not so far away, to our left, exploded.
There was sound, so much sound, like the whole earth was degenerating, devolving into its primal, chaotic elements: sound and fury. Then there was no sound at all, everything morphing into an amorphous calm, an eerie whining silence.
After this, which occupied the timeless length of a second or two, pain. Intense pain. And then a soft blanket, a cure: blackness.
(A cure, a poison. Is there so much difference?)
I’ve tried to look on the bright side. That’s what Mother always told me to do: “Look on the bright side! For every sunset, there’s a sunrise. Isn’t that a happy thought, sweetie?”
It’s sort of depressing, these days. Every time I think of sunsets, or sunrises, for that matter, even though I never really got about seeing enough of those since they were always so damned early in the morning, I just regret not seeing enough of them. Or having the right to see them ripped away.
At least I didn’t have to see what happened to Ross. The doctors say I probably wouldn’t be alive if it wasn’t for him, because his body sheltered me from some of the damage. The shrapnel, mostly. I asked to see him - I still had bandages wound over my eyes, at this point, so I didn’t know I was blind yet - and the doctors said it’d be best if I didn’t.
Two words, they said: hamburger meat.
So maybe it’s a mixed blessing. That’s what I try to tell myself, though it doesn’t work most of the time. I don’t have to lose anything else into the oblivion of memory, no images have to slip down the storm drains into the general muddled shit of times gone by. I can cradle Ross in my thoughts, lull him into that good night.
I guess that’s how it works. The world of the past gets to stay forever, the day - what was it, November 3rd? - can remain lit in my mind, like a lightbulb only I can see, one that’s dead to everyone else. Maybe that’s bad, maybe it’s not. I guess there are worse days to relive.
(The worst day: an ocean-blue eye, an unseen smile: hamburger meat.)
But maybe I should look on the bright side.
I understand things now I’ve never understood before. The texture of an orange, the taste of wind, the sound of a beating heart and the secrets it can keep, and the roughness masked behind the smooth overtones of ice cream.
I was never much of one to imagine things before the bomb went off. Now, imagination is all I have. Funny, how that kind of thing can happen. I find my mind wandering now, lost in places of its own devising, a made-up man with wiry brown hair and thick eyebrows reading letters from family members half a world away in his gravelly, time-tired voice.
These men claim they are missing legs, or eyes, or a heart. In my head, though, they are whole. They walk on two sturdy feet, bootsoles clomping down hard, smashing withered brown grass with easy grace. They don’t have to ask, they don’t have to tell. They are something that they can never again be in reality, not the simulacrums of themselves, but whatever the dirt whispers and wills them to be: entire, untethered, perfect.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Story #3: Lost
Hey guys! So I wrote a story for both last week and this week but I decided to post the story I wrote last week because I think it applies to both prompts (a road map to misery and undeserving of his power). Here it goes:
Lost.
She stuck her head out of the passenger window as they approached the sign. The dying wind rushed past her, twirling her hair around dozens of invisible fingers. Aiden pulled the car to a complete stop at the red light and squinted at the sign as well.
“Do we want 40 west?” he asked.
Half of Laine’s upper body was outside the car now, her butt upturned toward Aiden as she propelled herself into the open air. When they were a younger couple, he might have slapped her behind, just to tease her, initiate a yelp and an affectionate round of name-calling. But they weren’t a young couple anymore, and the way the cotton of Laine’s skirt hung on her cheeks didn’t excite him the way it once had. She lowered herself back into the Honda and flipped her hair.
“I don’t know,” she said, her tone almost bored. “I guess so.”
Aiden flicked on his right blinker. The monotonous clicking noise made a vain attempt to fill the silence around them.
“Maybe you should call her again,” he said at last.
“I told you, she isn’t answering.”
“We could pull out the map.”
“You know I can’t read maps worth shit, Aiden.”
“We need a GPS.”
“You need a GPS. You’re the one driving.”
The light changed. Aiden turned onto the interstate and gradually gained speed, feeling the car start to roar softly beneath him. Laine had one of her feet on the dashboard now and was picking at a toenail, covered in chipping orange polish. The orange didn’t look good next to her pale skin and looked even worse beside the yellowed bruises along her toes that had never gone away. Beauty marks, she called them.
She flexed her toes. “I’m stiff,” she said. “Can we stop to stretch in a bit?”
“We aren’t making very good time,” Aiden said. “Can’t you wait till we get there?”
“Sure, I mean, if you really want me to suffer. It’s got to still be another two hours before we get there. And that’s if we’re not lost.”
“Okay,” he said, curling his fingers around the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. Through his clenched teeth he managed, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, Aiden. Just try to be a little more considerate.”
Aiden managed to merge into the traffic, slipping in after a Sisco truck. The silver exterior flashed the late day sun into his eyes. He groped for the visor.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” Laine reached over and pulled the visor down for him, swiping his forehead with it on the way down. “There. It wasn’t that hard.”
Aiden readjusted the visor against the glare of the truck in front of him and sighed heavily in the way he knew annoyed Laine. His exasperated sigh.
They drove on.
“I don’t think this is right,” Aiden said as they passed another illuminated green exit sign.
Laine rolled her eyes. “Do you even know where we are going?”
“Yes,” Aiden snapped and then checked his tone, taking a deep breath, calming himself. “We are going to your sister’s new house. What I don’t know is how to get there.”
“Obviously.”
“Can you please just take out the map?” Aiden said. “I’m sure you’ll be able to use it.”
Laine sucked her teeth in a way Aiden had always found grotesque. But she reached into the glove compartment anyway, grabbing the Virginia map. She snapped the compartment shut again and unfolded the map. It took her a full two minutes.
No need to make a big production out of it, Aiden thought but held his tongue. Sometimes, things were better left in silence.
“Now try to find her town,” Aiden said.
“It isn’t rocket science, Aiden.”
“I was just trying to help.”
“Help me read? Yes, I think I’ve got that under control.”
Despite this assurance, a minute later Laine was crumpling the map into a paper maze and balling it back into the glove compartment. Aiden was too nervous, too scared of her reply, to ask what her conclusion was. Instead, they drove on in silence before Aiden pulled off at the next exit to ask for directions.
----
Aiden used to have to ask for directions to find Laine, back when she performed at the small playhouses in the lower class neighborhoods. Those neighborhood roads would wind in and out of each other like a tangled ball of string and finding one small, worn down theater in the middle of the thicket was near impossible.
She was a good dancer, even back then. No one denied that. But getting a start in New York wasn’t easy for anyone, not even a beautiful, upper-class young woman who went to NYU’s dance program. She was on the rise, though. That’s what everyone said. Just one more of these low-brow gigs, one more recital at a performance hall that was about to go under, a charity project or two, and then she could land the big ones.
Laine didn’t know Aiden well then. She knew he was in a couple of her classes at NYU. What she didn’t know was that he came to every one of her performances, the ones he could find anyway. He liked to watch her come onstage, under the bright lights, her dark eyes glittering like black diamonds in the white velvet of her skin. Her arms, her body, her legs, her neck, they were no longer solid, but a smooth, opaque liquid, flowing around the stage. He wouldn’t blink in case he missed something, anything, something small. A flick of the wrist, a craning of the neck, a lifting of one of her drawn, slender eyebrows.
Tonight I will meet her after the show, he thought every time. Tonight I’ll introduce myself properly.
His friends thought he was weird. It was one girl, they said. What was the big deal? But they didn’t understand what these nights meant to him. It was about how, when he watched her, she seemed so close and yet so impossibly far away. It was how she seemed easily attainable and yet just out of reach. It was how her body spoke to him, beckoned him, preformed just for him. It was the passing blurs of streetlights as he rushed through the tangle of streets, searching for her.
It ended one night when he stayed after everyone else had left, sitting in the empty auditorium seats while a single janitor came in to sweep the cracking floors. The hard seat he was in creaked when he moved so he sat completely still, watching the empty stage where she had been dancing, only a few moments earlier. The brightness of her skin and the flash of her movement stained the air there. He watched it, her, flutter before him like a dream.
“You thinking about sleeping here?” a gruff voice asked.
Aiden turned around to see a burly looking employee with a walkie talkie clutched in one hand. The man nodded toward the exit. “Come on, kid, get going.”
Aiden stumbled to his feet, slinging his bag full of economics books over his shoulder. He pushed his glasses up his noise and loped toward the exit, avoiding the security guard’s gaze. The exit took him out of the theater into a side street. He readjusted his bag and his worn, brown jacket underneath and then began to walk toward the main street, where he could see cars blaring past, all horns and lights.
A door opened behind him and the clacking of heels began to follow him down the alley, following him to the street. The steps caught up with him.
“Hey.”
He looked over and found Laine, dressed in a flowing white dress and a black pea coat, her face still punctuated by stage makeup. She could have been a porcelain doll, his porcelain doll.
“Hey,” he said, shrugging his bag further up his shoulder to hold out his hand. “I’m Aiden. I’m-”
“In my economics class,” Laine said and smiled. “Yes, I know.”
“You were great,” he said. “In the dance, I mean.”
She tucked her light hair behind her ear, clearly pleased. “Thanks,” she said. “I’ve done that dance a thousand times by now. I could do it in my sleep.”
I know, he could have said. I’ve watched you do it before. But he wouldn’t say that because he knew she wouldn’t understand. Just like his friends. She wouldn’t understand how much he loved getting lost in seeing her, in losing himself in her dance. It wasn’t precise or certain, not like he was. It was open to interpretation, it offered another option. It was a window into a different life.
“Are you going to be a dancer professionally?” he asked.
She laughed, a tinkling of tinny bells. “I’m going to try,” she said. “It’s not exactly up to me, you know.”
“Sure it is,” Aiden said. “You’re good enough.”
She lifted one of her twiggy eyebrows. “You know a lot about dance?”
He tripped a little at the curb of the sidewalk, stumbling under her assured gaze. “Oh, no,” he said. “No, I don’t know anything about dance. I’m an economics major.”
“Ah,” she said with a brief roll of her eyes. “So you are just trying to kiss my ass?”
“No, I really do think you are good. I mean, if I can appreciate it and I’m not even into this sort of thing, real dance professionals must be crazy about you.”
Laine stopped walking to face him, a wide smile smoothing over her creamy lips. He noticed again just how dark her eyes were, like staring into blackness, into eternity.
“Okay, mister,” she said, handing him her purse to carry. “You’ve got yourself a dinner date. I’m in the mood for Italian.”
----
“I don’t want to stay here too long,” Laine said, drawing her legs up to her chest. She was grimacing at the run-down gas station they’d stopped at, the car idling in a handicapped parking space.
“I won’t even turn off the car,” Aiden said. And then, added, “So we can make a quick getaway.”
It didn’t make her laugh. Instead, Laine pulled her legs tighter around herself. In the mid afternoon light spilling in through her window, the long, spider leg-thin scar cupping her kneecap seemed to glow white against her skin.
Aiden opened the car door, got out, and slammed it behind him, leaving Laine’s tiny body in the passenger seat. He went into the convenience store connected to the gas station, his entry alerted with a mechanical ‘ding-dong.’
“Hi,” Aiden said, placing the crumpled Virginia map on the water-stained counter. “Can I get some directions? We’re a little lost.”
The woman behind the counter glanced down at the map and began tapping her long fingernails on the cash register. Her fake eyelashes fluttered.
“I’m not good with directions,” she said. “But I’ll try to get you where you’re goin’.”
Aiden explained where they were headed and the woman took a blue pen from the bun in her hair, clicking it open. She began to draw a route on the map, her violet fingernails clutching the pen.
“Thanks,” Aiden said, taking the map and folding it carefully.
Without a word she clicked her pen closed again and stuck it in her hair. The same mechanic chimes marked Aiden’s exit.
----
Laine used to like to paint her finger and toenails every Friday night before a performance. She said it was good luck. When they first started to live together, Aiden would make dinner for her while she put on music, something with a fast tempo. She would get ready and emerge from their apartment bedroom like a goddess, tossing her skirt playfully as she strutted to the dinner table. Sometimes he would take picture of her with his camera. Their apartment was covered in pictures of her. Pictures of her at dinner with her dance friends, glamour shots of her taken by professionals for her portfolio, photographs of her on stage taken from articles written about a performance.
Laine would strike a pose here, a pose there. Something provocative, now something funny, now something cute. All Aiden was, was the man behind the camera.
Flushed with excitement and the joy of attention, Laine would perch herself on the edge of her seat, her feet sliding out of her heels to begin moving to the rhythm of her routine. Aiden liked to see her this happy, but he feared her moods between performances, when she had difficulty mastering a step or when she didn’t land a part. He wasn’t here, he came to realize, to be loved; he was kept around to love her.
After a year, the glossy coating of even the good times had worn off. Laine didn’t play music anymore when she got ready and she complained about Aiden’s cooking. She always spoke of looking fat in his photographs or of needing to buy new clothes on a tight budget. He didn’t want to get too angry, even though he could feel his temper rising. He knew how fragile she was, how insecure. But that was just for now. The memories of how strong she was still came back when she danced; it still reminded him that she was the entrance to a world beyond numbers and sterility and into a place where getting lost in each other was possible.
One night before a performance, Laine was in the bedroom. They’d moved into a modest condo now, a place for budding families. Laine still would not marry him, but Aiden felt like the move to the condo was a step in the right direction. He was the one who had insisted upon it.
Aiden came in and leaned against the doorway, watching with a smile as Laine painted her toenails. Violet.
“What are you staring at?” she asked, her voice caught somewhere between play and malice.
“You,” he said with a smile. She could have been a contortionist, how her arms and legs interwove. Her hair fell into her face as she stared at her toes, still petite and beautiful despite the bruises and lifelong blisters that had formed there.
“Is dinner almost ready? I don’t want us to be late.”
“It’s cooling on the stove.”
Laine sat up and capped her nail polish. Aiden came around behind her and sat on the bed, putting his long arms around her tiny body. He forced his face into her neck, smelling her scent.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Laine asked and elbowed him softly in the side. “I’m trying to get ready.”
“You have plenty of time,” he said, trying to pull her into his lap. “Can we take some time for us?”
“After the show,” she said, pulling away and flying to her feet, so graceful and nymph-like.
“We always go out with your friends after the show,” Aiden said, tumbling onto his feet with much less ease. He followed Laine to her dressing table where she was fitting earrings into her lobes. He traced her ear with his nose. “Can we just come back here after?”
“We won’t stay out with them long,” she said and twirled out of his arms. “Now, stop it! I’m trying to get ready.”
Aiden felt unrest stirring in his chest. He caught sight of the pictures on her dresser, all black and white shots of her in her stage makeup.
“Why don’t we have any pictures of us together?” he asked her, not taking his eyes off of her photographs.
She was over by the closet now, slipping her feet into strappy sandals. “We do have pictures of us,” she said.
“No we don’t.”
“Yes, we do, Aiden. Jesus, what is your problem tonight? Why are you being so needy?”
Aiden stared at the photographs and wondered how someone so pretty could say such ugly things.
Laine flitted from the room and into the kitchen. Aiden followed slowly, in a waking daze. She was looking under the couch cushions.
“Where did you put my coat last night?” she asked.
“I didn’t touch your coat,” he said, his voice raising.
Her eyes flashed at him, dark and luminous. “Don’t act like a child. You always do this. Just because I’m not putting out right now doesn’t mean you have to be a bastard.”
“I wasn’t begging for sex!” Aiden yelled.
“You fooled me!” Laine snapped back. “That’s all you’ve ever wanted anyway. Bullshit you want a family. Bullshit you like my dancing. You just think I have a nice ass!”
Aiden turned away, fuming, but was met only with Laine’s smiling face staring at him from photographs on the windowsill. He closed his eyes.
“Christ, Aiden, I don’t even want you to come tonight, okay? You are going to ruin this night for me,” she was saying now and she took turns around the room, looking under tables and in closets.
Aiden stalked toward her and met her at the top of the stairs, leading down into the entrance to the condo.
“Just shut up, Laine!” he cried, tears pricking his eyelids. “Sometimes, there are more important things to talk about than you.”
“Like you?” she countered, standing on pointe toes to get close to his face. “You, an accountant? A man who takes everyone’s shit for a living? A man who was too much of a pussy to even introduce himself to me for months and just came to watch me? What kind of man does that, Aiden?”
His eyes stared into hers for only a second, but long enough to see the malice there, the darkness of a monster, and even, perhaps, the reflection of himself. Then he hit her. All it took was that moment to realize that all along he had been mistaking. It wasn’t her that controlled him. It was him that had the power all along.
The next moment she was falling, toppling down the stairs, just as gracefully as she used to dance, as she would never dance again. She ended in her contortionist pose at the base of the stairs, her hair in her face, staring at her violet colored toenails.
----
Laine was still sitting in her curled up position in the passenger seat, looking so small, with her hands gently grasping her knees. Her thumb was stroking her scar absent-mindedly. Her wedding ring caught the glare of the sun as they drove and sent a reflection into Aiden’s eyes that he had to squint against.
“We are going to be late,” Laine said, but the fight had gone out of her voice.
“I know,” Aiden replied. “But at least we will get there.”
Laine was silent and Aiden looked over to find her looking at her feet, flexing her toes, back and forth. He watched her calf muscles tense as she adjusted her feet into a pointed position, self-guided by some rhythm he could not hear. A tinge of regret and fear settled into its usual place in his heart.
With one hand still on the wheel, Aiden reached over and took Laine’s hand in his. She looked quickly out the window again. Her feet tucked themselves under her body, like a bird folding away a wounded wing.
The highway stretched out ahead of them as they drove on, back on track again. Being lost was only exciting for a while.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Prompt #3
Alrighty, I'll just get down to it without any wordy intro or time-wasting. Here's Prompt #3
"Undeserving of his power"
enjoy.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Prompt #2
Hello again; Dylan here. With the first week of the Inkwell Project successfully completed, it's time for the second prompt. It'd be a shame if our imaginations were allowed a moment of rest, wouldn't it? Anyway, prompt #2 follows; remember that you don't have to follow the prompt if you don't want to, and it's only there as something to spark the imagination.
So, the prompt:
"A roadmap to misery."
Happy writing!
So, the prompt:
"A roadmap to misery."
Happy writing!
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Story #1: Amaranth
Hey, guys! Since it's (technically) Tuesday now, it's time for our
first story post! I apologize if it's a little confusing; I was
wrestling a bit with the prompt and my inspiration came in the form of a
scene from a novel idea I'm in the process of organizing. Hopefully the
writing quality will be satisfactory regardless. So, for now, Dylan
signing out; well, signing out except for the following wall of text.
“I call it business,” I said. “What else?”
“I don’t know.” He swiveled back and forth in his chair, his eyes never leaving me. The light played over his glasses, flashing and dissipating, making his eyes gleam like sapphires. “Dreamcatchers have quite a reputation,” he said.
“And you don’t?” I countered. “What do you call your business?”
“Business,” DeLaney said coolly. “What else?”
Silence stretched for a moment between us. DeLaney kept swiveling in his chair, and it made this sort of creaky noise that was starting to give me a headache. I scratched at my pant legs, just for something to distract me. It didn’t work very well.
“It’s just, you know,” DeLaney mused, still watching me, “most people have this image of Dreamcatchers. Big, burly, gruff - a killer’s look in the eye. You look like you could be a schoolmarm.”
He looked like he was about to laugh, but he caught himself and made it out like a cough. I felt myself frowning, fingers straying towards the gun in my pocket, but I stopped the impulse dead. Keep it professional.
“Do you want to make a deal or not?”
“Of course I do,” DeLaney said. “Always. What’ve you got?”
I pulled my duffel bag from behind my chair and rustled around in it for a minute, trying to find the little glass vials through all the packing paper. You’d think they’d have made glass stronger by now, what so it couldn’t break so easy. I hate packing paper.
There. That’s one. I closed my fingers around the glass and changed it over to my other hand, then kept searching.
“So,” DeLaney continued, “who did you get this time?”
“Two hookers, one of them white and the other looked like some kind of mulatto, or maybe an Asian. It was dark, and the bouncers were coming, so I couldn’t really tell.” I stopped to think for a second, my fingers twirling through the packaging stuff, trying to find needles in a haystack. “Then one more.”
“One more?”
“Yes.”
DeLaney kept swiveling in his stupid, corking chair. “Would you stop that?” I snapped. The ache in my head was getting worse.
“What?” he asked.
“With the chair. Stop with the chair.”
He stopped swiveling the stupid, corking chair. “Fine,” he said, his voice a little testy. “Are you going to tell me what your third catch was?”
“I don’t know what she was,” I said. I found a second vial in the packaging and slipped it into my other hand. The glass clinked together; it sounded like a toast at some kind of fancy party. I wondered if maybe I should play number three off as a joke.
“We can find out,” he said.
“I know.”
“You look nervous.”
I slapped myself inwardly. That was practically rule number one, keep the emotions off the game board. No use lying, though.
“It was an unusual capture.”
“How so?”
“She, well - she asked for it.” My fingers brushed against the third vial. I scraped at it with one fingernail, painted scarlet, the same color as the vial’s contents. “Like, she actually came up to me and begged.”
“So it was easy,” DeLaney said. “I don’t see the problem.” He leaned forward onto his desk, an ugly oblong thing painted the nastiest shade of blue-green. “Free money, right?”
“I guess,” I said.
“You didn’t even have to put up a fight.”
I shook my head. That wasn’t it. Usually all it took was a few quick shots - silent, deadly, from the barrel to the neck in a blinking second - and the fight was over. Done with. This felt wrong. I told DeLaney so, but he just laughed.
“Free money,” he repeated.
“If you say so.”
“Look,” he said, “what’s your name?”
I remained silent.
“Yeah, okay,” he continued. “Whatever. Look, your job is to put down the target and extract the good stuff. And you’re great at it, so I hear - your stuff sells high on the market, anyway, and that’s all that matters to me. I trust you, but I don’t get why you care if you get some free business.”
I could tell him it was too easy, but then I figured I’d just sound like some big corking prick. So I just said, “I don’t know.”
“Well, how about you let us worry about it, then?” He glanced down towards where my hands were buried in the duffel bag. “Find them yet?”
My fingernail was still scraping at the vial. I quit fooling around and pulled it out of the bag, then set the three bottles on the desk between us, their little labels facing towards DeLaney. I was still thinking about the woman who had come up to me on the street yesterday, somehow knowing what I was there to do, begging me to kill her.
What kind of person am I for doing it? What kind of person would I be if I didn’t? Or does it even matter, since I barely know who I am except for who I should be?
I looked out the window as DeLaney eyed the crimson powder in the vials hungrily. His blue eyes were nearly level with the desk now; he was crouched in his chair like some black-suited predator, looking through his glasses like they were scopes on a rifle.
“This is pure stuff?”
“As pure as it gets,” I said.
DeLaney leaned back in his chair and threaded his fingers together. “It looks good,” he said.
“It is good.”
“Mmm.” His fingers struck out a desultory rhythm on the arm of his chair. “How much?”
“Ten thousand,” I said.
DeLaney’s mouth twitched. “That’s high.”
“You said it yourself,” I reminded him. “ ‘Your stuff sells high’ - that’s what you said. It’s good Amy, and people know it. They’ll pay you more if you pay me more. Everybody wins.”
“Theoretically, I could take it. I could kill you right now and take it.” His pale face was like dough in the whitish light of the room, his eyes tiny gems encrusted in it with rusted blood.
“You could.”
DeLaney grunted. “You’re not scared,” he said.
“No. If you killed me, it’d be bad for business. We both know that,” I said. “So are you going to pay or not?”
DeLaney’s fingers stopped picking their tune. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m going to. You said ten thousand? Right.” His fingers fiddled with a key and a drawer nearby. “The stuff is getting more expensive by the day, I swear.”
“You’re paying for a life,” I said. “Life isn’t cheap.”
DeLaney just grunted again. “If these aren’t good quality,” he said, “I’m hunting you down.”
“They are good quality.”
“I know,” he admitted, looking very unhappy about it. “Amaranth is a wonderful drug, but so many people damage it in the extraction.”
He hoisted a little lockbox onto the desk and pushed it towards me, then proceeded to hold each vial up against the light and watch it glitter. It refracted a mural of red across the walls, so they glowed the color of blood, like they were built of rubies.
“This is the very essence of someone’s soul,” he said, almost seeming to marvel over it as if it were something new. “Isn’t that something, how we humans are so voraciously greedy that we see it fit to extinguish a life just so we can relive it ourselves?”
“A crying shame,” I said, counting DeLaney’s money.
“It really is. It’s terrible.”
“It is,” I agreed.
“Absolutely abominable.”
“The mind reels.”
DeLaney set the vial down and examined me from across his ugly desk. His blue eyes were deep and thoughtful, slowly panning across my face like searchlights. “Does it ever bother you, what you do?”
“It’s business,” I said.
“Don’t I know it?” DeLaney sighed and pushed himself up from his chair with one final, groaning creak. “That’s all it is, in the end. A game of lives, one stamped out and another illuminated.”
I regarded him carefully. “It’s what we do,” I said.
“Of course.” He smiled sadly. “It’s only good business.”
I remembered the woman again, her dirty fingers scrabbling at my boots, looking up and begging, hardly even human anymore. She was something less, something uglier and more primitive, something I think could be a part of every one of us, deep down where we’ll probably never see it.
All ten thousand was there. I packed it into my duffel bag and stood. “That’s all it’s ever been,” I said. “Good business.”
Title: Amaranth
“What do you call it?” DeLaney asked.
“What?”
“Your, ah, business.” “What?”
“I call it business,” I said. “What else?”
“I don’t know.” He swiveled back and forth in his chair, his eyes never leaving me. The light played over his glasses, flashing and dissipating, making his eyes gleam like sapphires. “Dreamcatchers have quite a reputation,” he said.
“And you don’t?” I countered. “What do you call your business?”
“Business,” DeLaney said coolly. “What else?”
Silence stretched for a moment between us. DeLaney kept swiveling in his chair, and it made this sort of creaky noise that was starting to give me a headache. I scratched at my pant legs, just for something to distract me. It didn’t work very well.
“It’s just, you know,” DeLaney mused, still watching me, “most people have this image of Dreamcatchers. Big, burly, gruff - a killer’s look in the eye. You look like you could be a schoolmarm.”
He looked like he was about to laugh, but he caught himself and made it out like a cough. I felt myself frowning, fingers straying towards the gun in my pocket, but I stopped the impulse dead. Keep it professional.
“Do you want to make a deal or not?”
“Of course I do,” DeLaney said. “Always. What’ve you got?”
I pulled my duffel bag from behind my chair and rustled around in it for a minute, trying to find the little glass vials through all the packing paper. You’d think they’d have made glass stronger by now, what so it couldn’t break so easy. I hate packing paper.
There. That’s one. I closed my fingers around the glass and changed it over to my other hand, then kept searching.
“So,” DeLaney continued, “who did you get this time?”
“Two hookers, one of them white and the other looked like some kind of mulatto, or maybe an Asian. It was dark, and the bouncers were coming, so I couldn’t really tell.” I stopped to think for a second, my fingers twirling through the packaging stuff, trying to find needles in a haystack. “Then one more.”
“One more?”
“Yes.”
DeLaney kept swiveling in his stupid, corking chair. “Would you stop that?” I snapped. The ache in my head was getting worse.
“What?” he asked.
“With the chair. Stop with the chair.”
He stopped swiveling the stupid, corking chair. “Fine,” he said, his voice a little testy. “Are you going to tell me what your third catch was?”
“I don’t know what she was,” I said. I found a second vial in the packaging and slipped it into my other hand. The glass clinked together; it sounded like a toast at some kind of fancy party. I wondered if maybe I should play number three off as a joke.
“We can find out,” he said.
“I know.”
“You look nervous.”
I slapped myself inwardly. That was practically rule number one, keep the emotions off the game board. No use lying, though.
“It was an unusual capture.”
“How so?”
“She, well - she asked for it.” My fingers brushed against the third vial. I scraped at it with one fingernail, painted scarlet, the same color as the vial’s contents. “Like, she actually came up to me and begged.”
“So it was easy,” DeLaney said. “I don’t see the problem.” He leaned forward onto his desk, an ugly oblong thing painted the nastiest shade of blue-green. “Free money, right?”
“I guess,” I said.
“You didn’t even have to put up a fight.”
I shook my head. That wasn’t it. Usually all it took was a few quick shots - silent, deadly, from the barrel to the neck in a blinking second - and the fight was over. Done with. This felt wrong. I told DeLaney so, but he just laughed.
“Free money,” he repeated.
“If you say so.”
“Look,” he said, “what’s your name?”
I remained silent.
“Yeah, okay,” he continued. “Whatever. Look, your job is to put down the target and extract the good stuff. And you’re great at it, so I hear - your stuff sells high on the market, anyway, and that’s all that matters to me. I trust you, but I don’t get why you care if you get some free business.”
I could tell him it was too easy, but then I figured I’d just sound like some big corking prick. So I just said, “I don’t know.”
“Well, how about you let us worry about it, then?” He glanced down towards where my hands were buried in the duffel bag. “Find them yet?”
My fingernail was still scraping at the vial. I quit fooling around and pulled it out of the bag, then set the three bottles on the desk between us, their little labels facing towards DeLaney. I was still thinking about the woman who had come up to me on the street yesterday, somehow knowing what I was there to do, begging me to kill her.
What kind of person am I for doing it? What kind of person would I be if I didn’t? Or does it even matter, since I barely know who I am except for who I should be?
I looked out the window as DeLaney eyed the crimson powder in the vials hungrily. His blue eyes were nearly level with the desk now; he was crouched in his chair like some black-suited predator, looking through his glasses like they were scopes on a rifle.
“This is pure stuff?”
“As pure as it gets,” I said.
DeLaney leaned back in his chair and threaded his fingers together. “It looks good,” he said.
“It is good.”
“Mmm.” His fingers struck out a desultory rhythm on the arm of his chair. “How much?”
“Ten thousand,” I said.
DeLaney’s mouth twitched. “That’s high.”
“You said it yourself,” I reminded him. “ ‘Your stuff sells high’ - that’s what you said. It’s good Amy, and people know it. They’ll pay you more if you pay me more. Everybody wins.”
“Theoretically, I could take it. I could kill you right now and take it.” His pale face was like dough in the whitish light of the room, his eyes tiny gems encrusted in it with rusted blood.
“You could.”
DeLaney grunted. “You’re not scared,” he said.
“No. If you killed me, it’d be bad for business. We both know that,” I said. “So are you going to pay or not?”
DeLaney’s fingers stopped picking their tune. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m going to. You said ten thousand? Right.” His fingers fiddled with a key and a drawer nearby. “The stuff is getting more expensive by the day, I swear.”
“You’re paying for a life,” I said. “Life isn’t cheap.”
DeLaney just grunted again. “If these aren’t good quality,” he said, “I’m hunting you down.”
“They are good quality.”
“I know,” he admitted, looking very unhappy about it. “Amaranth is a wonderful drug, but so many people damage it in the extraction.”
He hoisted a little lockbox onto the desk and pushed it towards me, then proceeded to hold each vial up against the light and watch it glitter. It refracted a mural of red across the walls, so they glowed the color of blood, like they were built of rubies.
“This is the very essence of someone’s soul,” he said, almost seeming to marvel over it as if it were something new. “Isn’t that something, how we humans are so voraciously greedy that we see it fit to extinguish a life just so we can relive it ourselves?”
“A crying shame,” I said, counting DeLaney’s money.
“It really is. It’s terrible.”
“It is,” I agreed.
“Absolutely abominable.”
“The mind reels.”
DeLaney set the vial down and examined me from across his ugly desk. His blue eyes were deep and thoughtful, slowly panning across my face like searchlights. “Does it ever bother you, what you do?”
“It’s business,” I said.
“Don’t I know it?” DeLaney sighed and pushed himself up from his chair with one final, groaning creak. “That’s all it is, in the end. A game of lives, one stamped out and another illuminated.”
I regarded him carefully. “It’s what we do,” I said.
“Of course.” He smiled sadly. “It’s only good business.”
I remembered the woman again, her dirty fingers scrabbling at my boots, looking up and begging, hardly even human anymore. She was something less, something uglier and more primitive, something I think could be a part of every one of us, deep down where we’ll probably never see it.
All ten thousand was there. I packed it into my duffel bag and stood. “That’s all it’s ever been,” I said. “Good business.”
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
First Prompt
Hello everyone; Alice here. I’m so excited for this project to start! This is our first official Wednesday and our first official prompt so brace yourselves. These prompts are just meant as jumping off places; if you like my prompt, awesome! I like it too. But if you have had something stewing around in your head for a while, feel free to write about it. You won’t hurt my feelings. Still, hopefully this prompt will give you that little extra push if you need it. Don’t forget: if you want to join us but aren’t a staff member, e-mail your story to Dylan (his contact info is under “About Us”).
Write 1,000-10,000 words inspired by the following:
"Once upon a time, there was a woman who discovered she had turned into the wrong person."
Welcome to The Inkwell Project and happy writing!
Monday, October 3, 2011
Getting Started
So.
I'm going to be working on designing this site for the next few days. After everything is up and running, the havoc will be begin, and with it the fun.
(Because, if you are a writer, you must certainly think mayhem is the very definition of fun.)
Short story prompts will be posted every week by one of the writers, and everyone will write a short story either in response to whatever far-flung inspiration that prompt brought them or based on something else entirely - it doesn't really matter what you write about, as long as you write!
The next post is going to contain the first prompt, and within the week the page will start up with weekly updates of stories... how exactly we're going to manage that with multiple writers has yet to be seen. I'm thinking rotation, maybe, but it's all tentative. Either way, all our pens will be in the inkwell, soaking up the courage to start going!
I'm going to be working on designing this site for the next few days. After everything is up and running, the havoc will be begin, and with it the fun.
(Because, if you are a writer, you must certainly think mayhem is the very definition of fun.)
Short story prompts will be posted every week by one of the writers, and everyone will write a short story either in response to whatever far-flung inspiration that prompt brought them or based on something else entirely - it doesn't really matter what you write about, as long as you write!
The next post is going to contain the first prompt, and within the week the page will start up with weekly updates of stories... how exactly we're going to manage that with multiple writers has yet to be seen. I'm thinking rotation, maybe, but it's all tentative. Either way, all our pens will be in the inkwell, soaking up the courage to start going!
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