Her name was Delianna. Everyone called her Didi for short, mostly because they couldn’t say it. She thought the name was immature, and hated stupid Americans for never being able to pronounce anything. Fifteen years ago, Delianna was so frustrated with her nickname that she killed a man for it. She was chuck-full of issues: attention problems, anger problems, depression problems and anxiety problems.
She still thought he deserved it. It was when she was eight. She swore to herself that if Mr. Robinson called her Didi one more time, that she would kill him. She was sick of repeating herself.
It was his first year teaching and he was a nervous wreck. He was a short, fat, prematurely balding, sweaty wreck. He wouldn’t let them rip him apart. “I am a man,” he told himself. There was one student responsible for turning his classroom into a zoo, Didi. She was a petite blonde with bouncy curls, almond-shaped blue eyes, and creamy skin. She may have looked like an angel, but he thought she was an evil little devil.
She always talked back to Mr. Robinson. She would push the other children around, steal their toys and eat their snack packs from the brown bags in the coat closet. But she would only do it when he wasn’t watching. She was a little Eddie Hascal. Delianna loved picking on the other children, she loved the control and seeing the fear in their mousy eyes. One day, Mr. Robinson noticed her behavior was particularly bad. He scolded her for calling Lucas “a fat little piggy.”
“Didi, you need to apologize or I will send you to the principals office.”
“It’s Delianna.” She said.
“Duh-lee-hanah, you need to apologize or I will send you to the principals office.”
She had had it. He never imagined how strong a third grader could be. She looked at him fiercely as she walked towards his desk. Her little purple-handed scissors would not be big enough. She grabbed the big-metal left-handed scissors from his “Number One Teacher” coffee mug on his desk. His mother bought it for him when he graduated teaching school. He was confounded watching what she was doing. She plunged the cold blades into his chest. Warmth squirted across her face, his eyes filled with blood, and a slow trickle of red leaked from his mouth.
“It’s Del-i-anna.” She said, letting go of the scissors. Her classmates started screaming and crying as he collapsed to the ground. She had hit him directly in the heart.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Round Character Sketch- Elle
Elle pulled her short brown hair into a bun on the top of her head. She let it down, and repeated it until every piece was perfect. She hated lecture classes because every word was a number. She organized every surface in the classroom, grouping everything into categories by color. She changed her outfit four times during the day, all at specific times. She clamped her hands tightly and moved her fingers in a repetitive manner, that to the naked eye, it just looked like clenched fists, but to Elle it was a distinct pattern. The angrier she got the more intensely she twicked, the more her hands cramped up.
The doctor’s told her she developed her obsessive behavior during her parent’s divorce. She was the oldest of three, the one with the most responsibility. Daddy’s little girl until the divorce but after, he abandoned all responsibility for his children. He treated Elle the worst, ignoring her existence. The only time he would feed them was when the hamburgers at McDonalds were 42 cents. She clothed her siblings, fed them, made sure they did their homework. She felt like an adult, before she was even in middle school. She was their mother, now. It was only after they realized how terrible they were being, that her mom tried to take the reigns. Elle fought with her like a mother bear, defending her cubs. Her mother’s failed attempts wouldn’t matter anyways, her little brother and sisters wouldn’t respond to their parents. She was the only one her little brother would talk to. Nick became a mute after they split up. She felt like she missed out on her adolescence and shot straight to adulthood.
She had been writing her father a letter for three years. The relationship between her and her mom had improved in the least few. She was now attempting to become a mother. She kept asking her mom if what they said was true. Elle didn’t understand the denial. She questioned everything now. She said it over in her mind a thousand times, but couldn’t put it down on paper. She rewrote the words, making sure they were equal distance apart.
The doctor’s told her she developed her obsessive behavior during her parent’s divorce. She was the oldest of three, the one with the most responsibility. Daddy’s little girl until the divorce but after, he abandoned all responsibility for his children. He treated Elle the worst, ignoring her existence. The only time he would feed them was when the hamburgers at McDonalds were 42 cents. She clothed her siblings, fed them, made sure they did their homework. She felt like an adult, before she was even in middle school. She was their mother, now. It was only after they realized how terrible they were being, that her mom tried to take the reigns. Elle fought with her like a mother bear, defending her cubs. Her mother’s failed attempts wouldn’t matter anyways, her little brother and sisters wouldn’t respond to their parents. She was the only one her little brother would talk to. Nick became a mute after they split up. She felt like she missed out on her adolescence and shot straight to adulthood.
She had been writing her father a letter for three years. The relationship between her and her mom had improved in the least few. She was now attempting to become a mother. She kept asking her mom if what they said was true. Elle didn’t understand the denial. She questioned everything now. She said it over in her mind a thousand times, but couldn’t put it down on paper. She rewrote the words, making sure they were equal distance apart.
Monday, September 22, 2008
THE DIAGNOSIS
There was nothing to do, and so he did nothing at all. Tic-tic-tic went the clock. Thump-thump-thump went his heart, for he was very nervous. The room was large, sparse and white. It was a hospital room.
The doctor was in the back room, tapping his foot. Tap-tap-tap. He was not nervous; he was scared. The test results displayed in front of him were frightening, and he regretted feeling sorry for the gray-haired man waiting outside. The doctor had committed his life to helping those who could not help themselves, and after graduating from medical school he had moved overseas. That was three years ago, though it seemed to him like a lifetime.
The doctor stopped tapping and entered the white room. The man looked up, and his heart beat faster. He remained seated, and he was more nervous than ever before. Thump-thump-thump-thump. The doctor's face was expressionless.
"Good news," said the doctor. He made sure to keep his distance. "You're going to be fine." He hated himself for his lie, but at the same time he was relieved he had told it.
The man was also relieved, and let out a sigh. He thanked the doctor, and they talked for another few minutes. Every answer was good, and brought new hope to his fragile psyche. He was not old, merely pre-maturely gray. He still had things to live for.
The man left the hospital room with a spring in his step and a bottle of pills. The doctor slumped into a nearby chair. He thought of the results, and shuddered. Ignorance, he mused, was bliss. He had never smoked, but he wished he had a cigarette. Or maybe chocolate. A lot of chocolate. Tic-tic-tic.
He stared at the clock on the wall. Tic-tic. Time was running out. Every moment the gray-haired man was alive, more people would die.
Thump-thump-thump.
He had to leave town, before the quarantine.
The doctor was in the back room, tapping his foot. Tap-tap-tap. He was not nervous; he was scared. The test results displayed in front of him were frightening, and he regretted feeling sorry for the gray-haired man waiting outside. The doctor had committed his life to helping those who could not help themselves, and after graduating from medical school he had moved overseas. That was three years ago, though it seemed to him like a lifetime.
The doctor stopped tapping and entered the white room. The man looked up, and his heart beat faster. He remained seated, and he was more nervous than ever before. Thump-thump-thump-thump. The doctor's face was expressionless.
"Good news," said the doctor. He made sure to keep his distance. "You're going to be fine." He hated himself for his lie, but at the same time he was relieved he had told it.
The man was also relieved, and let out a sigh. He thanked the doctor, and they talked for another few minutes. Every answer was good, and brought new hope to his fragile psyche. He was not old, merely pre-maturely gray. He still had things to live for.
The man left the hospital room with a spring in his step and a bottle of pills. The doctor slumped into a nearby chair. He thought of the results, and shuddered. Ignorance, he mused, was bliss. He had never smoked, but he wished he had a cigarette. Or maybe chocolate. A lot of chocolate. Tic-tic-tic.
He stared at the clock on the wall. Tic-tic. Time was running out. Every moment the gray-haired man was alive, more people would die.
Thump-thump-thump.
He had to leave town, before the quarantine.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
3rd person narrative
From the outside, she emitted an attitude of complete composure and calm.
Thank God for yoga, she thought. On the inside, she was a bundle of nerves.
Walking east on Sixth Avenue, she began to run through her mental check list.
Resumé, check.
This was the biggest interview of her career. She couldn’t help but wonder how she would stack up against the competition. After all, she had gone to college, gotten good grades, and made it through without any significant screw-ups. She pulled out her compact from her purse.
Make-up, check.
She was a city girl at heart, growing up in Manhattan and never having the desire to leave. So when she started looking for a job, she had two requirements: one, she needed to stay where she was at, and two, she refused to take “no” for an answer. Settling was simply not an option. She reached up her hand and touched her blond curls bouncing in rhythm with her step.
Hair, check.
There it was, Burke & Burke Financial, one of the biggest investment banking centers in Manhattan. The pressure she felt was intense, as if the building itself was resting on her shoulders.
This interview could make or break me, she told herself.
Fortunately, she was smart, becoming skilled at working the system to get her needs met. She knew how to show these company big-wigs that she could handle it. She could make it in a man’s world.
Walking west on Sixth Avenue, he felt like he was in a dream. He had grown up in the land of country bumpkins, otherwise known as rural Oklahoma. He was feeling a little on edge, the interview weighing heavily on his mind. He pictured himself wobbling through a sidewalk entirely made of jell-o.
Jell-o, he thought. It reminded him of his childhood.
His focus shifted as the ominous skyscraper came into sight. Burke & Burke Financial. It looked exactly as he had pictured it in his dreams. He reached up and smoothed the front of his shirt.
Tie, check.
He entered the building and made his way onto the elevator. He felt lost, out-of-place, like a bum off the street begging for a scrap of food.
Brrrrrrr, he thought. This place is freezing.
He rubbed his hands together, careful not to drop his leather-bound portfolio. It had been a gift from his parents. Climbing into the elevator, he saw his reflection in the mirror.
Hair, check.
Ding! “Floor 42,” the elevator announced.
Here we are, he told himself. He felt like this interview could be a beautiful beginning or the means to a tragic end. As he got off, he masked his anxiety as best he could.
Go, Fight, Win, he chanted to himself. There is no day but today, no moment but now.
He noticed a young woman seated at the end of a row of chairs.
Breath, “hah hah,” check.
He strategically sat down in the seat across from her.
“Are you here for the interview?” he asked casually.
“Yes.”
He didn’t know what to say next, and looked down.
Awkward, he thought.
She looked at him, expecting him to go on.
That was strange, she mused.
Thank God for yoga, she thought. On the inside, she was a bundle of nerves.
Walking east on Sixth Avenue, she began to run through her mental check list.
Resumé, check.
This was the biggest interview of her career. She couldn’t help but wonder how she would stack up against the competition. After all, she had gone to college, gotten good grades, and made it through without any significant screw-ups. She pulled out her compact from her purse.
Make-up, check.
She was a city girl at heart, growing up in Manhattan and never having the desire to leave. So when she started looking for a job, she had two requirements: one, she needed to stay where she was at, and two, she refused to take “no” for an answer. Settling was simply not an option. She reached up her hand and touched her blond curls bouncing in rhythm with her step.
Hair, check.
There it was, Burke & Burke Financial, one of the biggest investment banking centers in Manhattan. The pressure she felt was intense, as if the building itself was resting on her shoulders.
This interview could make or break me, she told herself.
Fortunately, she was smart, becoming skilled at working the system to get her needs met. She knew how to show these company big-wigs that she could handle it. She could make it in a man’s world.
Walking west on Sixth Avenue, he felt like he was in a dream. He had grown up in the land of country bumpkins, otherwise known as rural Oklahoma. He was feeling a little on edge, the interview weighing heavily on his mind. He pictured himself wobbling through a sidewalk entirely made of jell-o.
Jell-o, he thought. It reminded him of his childhood.
His focus shifted as the ominous skyscraper came into sight. Burke & Burke Financial. It looked exactly as he had pictured it in his dreams. He reached up and smoothed the front of his shirt.
Tie, check.
He entered the building and made his way onto the elevator. He felt lost, out-of-place, like a bum off the street begging for a scrap of food.
Brrrrrrr, he thought. This place is freezing.
He rubbed his hands together, careful not to drop his leather-bound portfolio. It had been a gift from his parents. Climbing into the elevator, he saw his reflection in the mirror.
Hair, check.
Ding! “Floor 42,” the elevator announced.
Here we are, he told himself. He felt like this interview could be a beautiful beginning or the means to a tragic end. As he got off, he masked his anxiety as best he could.
Go, Fight, Win, he chanted to himself. There is no day but today, no moment but now.
He noticed a young woman seated at the end of a row of chairs.
Breath, “hah hah,” check.
He strategically sat down in the seat across from her.
“Are you here for the interview?” he asked casually.
“Yes.”
He didn’t know what to say next, and looked down.
Awkward, he thought.
She looked at him, expecting him to go on.
That was strange, she mused.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Almost Famous
The alarm clock buzzed, and I pushed the snooze button like I do every morning. I groggily rubbed the crust out of the corners of my eyes, coming to reality. When I dream, she’s still alive. I laid in bed, remembering the accident. I envisioned what her last moment was like: what she thought as the car started to flip, how the emergency team felt as they tried to free her mangled body from the car, what the person who’s job it is to cut the jewelry off of her swollen corpse felt. I wonder if she was peaceful, I wonder if she screamed, I wonder how long it took for her to die.
I jumped off the top bunk and clamored around the dark room for my towel and bathrobe. A girl on my floor gave me a cheerful, “Good Morning!” I replied with all that I could muster, a mumbled cross between a groan and a grunt. Talk about waking up on the wrong side of the bed.
The scalding water burned my skin as I climbed into the shower. I stood under the nozzle letting my tears slip through the drain. I had never met anyone like her. I want to tell her that.
I smoked a pack of cigarettes the day of her service. The map quest directions lead us to a foreign highway and as we got back on track, the car hit empty. I don’t think I’ve ever been so anxious. By the time we made it to the temple, the entire room was full. I had never seen so many people in one place. It was as if we were at the funeral of someone famous. I stood in back, an outcast amongst people garbed in black. I wore a white and green sundress, and clung to my tie-dye sweatshirt. Green was her favorite color.
It had not yet hit me, then. I felt like I would turn around and she would be there. Her mom doubled over into my arms, and I held her weeping body. I was completely calloused to emotion, in a state of shock and dismay all in one. I wondered when I would feel our loss.
New Years was the last time I spent time with her. Always busy traveling and changing the world; she only came home every once and a while. New Years was a surprise. We spent the night taking shots of tequila as she told me everywhere she had been that year and all that she had experienced. She was an artist, a writer, a speaker, a dreamer, a sister and a best friend. We went outside for a smoke, losing interest in the time. It was a minute to mid-night when we realized we would miss the count down. Happy New Years! I would have given her a longer hug if I had known that was the last time I’d see her. I looked at pictures from that night and see her smiling back at me, we were so happy.
No one here knows the void that is missing from me. No one knows her here. But if she lived past that night, I’m sure the world would know her name. She left a fingerprint on all she met.
I stepped out of the shower, leaving wet feet marks across the tiled floor. It hit me that morning that she isn’t coming back. That life lives on, even if she doesn’t. I realized that the world is more beautiful since she lived in it, that I am more beautiful since she lives in me. I dried off and got ready for class. That morning, I wore green for the first time since her funeral. On my walk to campus, I swear I smelled her Dior perfume in the air, I felt her walking with me, and I smiled. I knew I’d meet her in my dreams again that night.
I jumped off the top bunk and clamored around the dark room for my towel and bathrobe. A girl on my floor gave me a cheerful, “Good Morning!” I replied with all that I could muster, a mumbled cross between a groan and a grunt. Talk about waking up on the wrong side of the bed.
The scalding water burned my skin as I climbed into the shower. I stood under the nozzle letting my tears slip through the drain. I had never met anyone like her. I want to tell her that.
I smoked a pack of cigarettes the day of her service. The map quest directions lead us to a foreign highway and as we got back on track, the car hit empty. I don’t think I’ve ever been so anxious. By the time we made it to the temple, the entire room was full. I had never seen so many people in one place. It was as if we were at the funeral of someone famous. I stood in back, an outcast amongst people garbed in black. I wore a white and green sundress, and clung to my tie-dye sweatshirt. Green was her favorite color.
It had not yet hit me, then. I felt like I would turn around and she would be there. Her mom doubled over into my arms, and I held her weeping body. I was completely calloused to emotion, in a state of shock and dismay all in one. I wondered when I would feel our loss.
New Years was the last time I spent time with her. Always busy traveling and changing the world; she only came home every once and a while. New Years was a surprise. We spent the night taking shots of tequila as she told me everywhere she had been that year and all that she had experienced. She was an artist, a writer, a speaker, a dreamer, a sister and a best friend. We went outside for a smoke, losing interest in the time. It was a minute to mid-night when we realized we would miss the count down. Happy New Years! I would have given her a longer hug if I had known that was the last time I’d see her. I looked at pictures from that night and see her smiling back at me, we were so happy.
No one here knows the void that is missing from me. No one knows her here. But if she lived past that night, I’m sure the world would know her name. She left a fingerprint on all she met.
I stepped out of the shower, leaving wet feet marks across the tiled floor. It hit me that morning that she isn’t coming back. That life lives on, even if she doesn’t. I realized that the world is more beautiful since she lived in it, that I am more beautiful since she lives in me. I dried off and got ready for class. That morning, I wore green for the first time since her funeral. On my walk to campus, I swear I smelled her Dior perfume in the air, I felt her walking with me, and I smiled. I knew I’d meet her in my dreams again that night.
ENEMY AT THE GATES
She exited from the cold bath and slipped into a silk shift, dyed a deep blue. She messed with her hair before entering the sleeping chamber. He was sprawled out on the bed, bare chest rising and falling to the rhythm of sleep. She left him there, and entered the common room. The azaleas and purple morning plants were wilting into their stalks, neglected.
The slave was bent over a scroll, taking inventory. Boxes were sprawled around him, revealing caskets of raisin wine, scores of dates and a smattering of peaches, dried meat and other delicacies.
She walked to him, and peeked over his shoulder. She blinked at the small and precise notations before yawning.
"It is too quiet."
"Mistress?"
"Perhaps some music…"
"Of course." His pale, soft hands deftly rolled up the scroll before tucking it into his tunic.
"Shall I also call for Shafat?"
She shook her head. "Not today."
He bowed and disappeared behind a curtain, the visage of Dido rippling in his passing.
The couch was calling. She went to it, and stretched. Many a time had she lain in its embrace, dreaming of foreign princes and breathtaking mountains. Now she only thought of her father. But she did not dwell on him. It hurt too much.
The music grated on her psyche like a rusted dagger, and she ordered a stop. It had seemed as if she was hearing her own, somber death march, a dirge of impending doom. She arose, and paced.
"You are like a caged lion, my love."
She had not noticed his entrance.
"Perhaps I shall go to Byrsa. Or maybe the Tartan Way: Elissa says I should visit."
He grunted in response.
"She has done a lot for us," she said.
"Yes." He did not sound happy. "She has."
He strode to the crates and grabbed a handful of dates.
"Baaly, I have ordered those to be rationed."
"I'd rather die with a full belly than an empty one."
"You're morbid."
"Realistic."
She crossed her ams.
"Well, I guess I'm going now."
His mouth was full, so he did not answer.
She went and changed into a pale green robe, a gift from Elissa. The old lady was always happy to see her charity on display. The robe was cut down the middle to the waist, and a small jade necklace was chosen to accompany it.
The streets away from the citadel stood aloof and apart, brooding in their solitude. Many of the families had secured their valuables and left, winding their way to the hill that would provide the final defense. Elissa lived in a large house near the sea, between the baths and theatre. It was surrounded by a large stone wall, the mid-morning sun revealing a reddish tent.
She paused at the gate, and fingered her necklace. It would not be locked; it was never locked. The mercenaries welcomed action, and Elissa welcomed the mercenaries. It had been three years since the rabble had tried to steal. There had been no judgment, for there was no evidence left of the thief. But the stories survived.
There was the gate, she had only to enter. She ran her hand along the metal, and closed her eyes. Was it this same element that had ended his life? Was it a thrust to the heart? A slice to the neck? A blow to the leg? Her hand dropped to her side, and a tear sprang unbidden to her eye. She was alone, all alone and Elissa could not help. Baalyaton would look at her with his puppy-dog eyes and blink, not knowing what to say. And so he would crack a joke, or speak to her as a child, and she would melt into his arms hating him all the more.
It was the end of the world, and she could not open the gate. She walked toward the sea, away from home.
The slave was bent over a scroll, taking inventory. Boxes were sprawled around him, revealing caskets of raisin wine, scores of dates and a smattering of peaches, dried meat and other delicacies.
She walked to him, and peeked over his shoulder. She blinked at the small and precise notations before yawning.
"It is too quiet."
"Mistress?"
"Perhaps some music…"
"Of course." His pale, soft hands deftly rolled up the scroll before tucking it into his tunic.
"Shall I also call for Shafat?"
She shook her head. "Not today."
He bowed and disappeared behind a curtain, the visage of Dido rippling in his passing.
The couch was calling. She went to it, and stretched. Many a time had she lain in its embrace, dreaming of foreign princes and breathtaking mountains. Now she only thought of her father. But she did not dwell on him. It hurt too much.
The music grated on her psyche like a rusted dagger, and she ordered a stop. It had seemed as if she was hearing her own, somber death march, a dirge of impending doom. She arose, and paced.
"You are like a caged lion, my love."
She had not noticed his entrance.
"Perhaps I shall go to Byrsa. Or maybe the Tartan Way: Elissa says I should visit."
He grunted in response.
"She has done a lot for us," she said.
"Yes." He did not sound happy. "She has."
He strode to the crates and grabbed a handful of dates.
"Baaly, I have ordered those to be rationed."
"I'd rather die with a full belly than an empty one."
"You're morbid."
"Realistic."
She crossed her ams.
"Well, I guess I'm going now."
His mouth was full, so he did not answer.
She went and changed into a pale green robe, a gift from Elissa. The old lady was always happy to see her charity on display. The robe was cut down the middle to the waist, and a small jade necklace was chosen to accompany it.
The streets away from the citadel stood aloof and apart, brooding in their solitude. Many of the families had secured their valuables and left, winding their way to the hill that would provide the final defense. Elissa lived in a large house near the sea, between the baths and theatre. It was surrounded by a large stone wall, the mid-morning sun revealing a reddish tent.
She paused at the gate, and fingered her necklace. It would not be locked; it was never locked. The mercenaries welcomed action, and Elissa welcomed the mercenaries. It had been three years since the rabble had tried to steal. There had been no judgment, for there was no evidence left of the thief. But the stories survived.
There was the gate, she had only to enter. She ran her hand along the metal, and closed her eyes. Was it this same element that had ended his life? Was it a thrust to the heart? A slice to the neck? A blow to the leg? Her hand dropped to her side, and a tear sprang unbidden to her eye. She was alone, all alone and Elissa could not help. Baalyaton would look at her with his puppy-dog eyes and blink, not knowing what to say. And so he would crack a joke, or speak to her as a child, and she would melt into his arms hating him all the more.
It was the end of the world, and she could not open the gate. She walked toward the sea, away from home.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
50 First Dates
Date One
She had walked in wearing one of those little red dresses. Short, tight, the kind that make a man go wild. He had always used the coffee shop as a place to stroke his ego and show off his stuff. He thought she must have had something important going on - a meeting, a presentation, something. Rob looked at his watch. 2:21 p.m.
Rob had always had a thing for brunettes. Rob got up from his corner table. Her hand was reaching for the freshly-brewed cup of coffee. He felt like a cat on the prowl, his confidence soaring. She looked up and smiled, one of those pitiful but kind smiles, as if to apologize for being in his walkway.
“Hey baby.”
She had a large stack of papers in her hands, attempting to balance them on her left arm as she reached for her coffee sitting on the counter with her right.
“Shoot doll, lemme get that for you.” Smooth, he thought. She’s like puddy in your hands already.
But, as he went to grab her cup, he slipped. His hand swatted the front of the paper cup, knocking the unsecured lid off onto the floor. The hot liquid soaked her head to toe. She screamed bloody murder.
“You bastard!”
Her papers hit the floor, soaking into the brown coffee that had made a puddle at her feet.
“You are going to pay for this,” she screamed. The coffee continued to burn her skin. The pain and humiliation were fierce. "I had a presentation today! That shit took me months to prepare!"
Damn, Rob thought, no sex tonight.
Date Two
Today was a new day. Rob had decided to up the ante for Date 2. “Never give up, never surrender!” was his motto. He sat down and pulled out the newspaper, turning to the classifieds.
His apartment was what Rob considered to be a typical bachelor pad. A lava lamp, massage oil, mood music, and condoms. Lots of condoms. He was, after all, a desperado. A Don Juan. Casanova. He could get the ladies. He nodded. Oh yes, he could get the ladies.
Rob skimmed the ads. He was not yet skilled enough to navigate the ins and outs of online dating. Heck, his job at Pizza Joint didn’t really provide the funds for extras, the internet included. Plus, he figured that if he found a woman through the paper, one, she would be more serious and, two, she would have cash to spend, with the extra 42-cent stamp that it took to send the ad and have it published.
He started reading, his eyes focused on locating the words that turned him on the most: hot, sexy, brunette…sex.
“Hmmm… this one looks good. Maybe this one?” He wished there were pictures.
“Oh yes, here she is.” He read the ad out loud. “Wild and Sexy Lollipop Mama -- Brown hair, blue eyed female looking for sexy, romantic male. Must like hot and wild women. If this is you and you’re looking for a good time, call: 555-2397.”
She sounds hot, he thought. H-O-T-T. And boy, do I like lollipops.
He picked up the phone and dialed.
“Come on, baby. Come to Papa.”
Ring. Ring. Ring. Ri --
“Hello?”
“Hi, is this Hot and Sexy Lollipop Mama?”
He couldn’t contain himself. The suspense was too much.
“Ooo, you bet your hot, sexy lollipop lips it is. Who is this?”
Rob could tell this girl was a winner. Her voice was like honey. He could just imagine how good she looked.
“This is Rob. You sound like my kind of girl. How about you and me head out tonight? There is this hot little club down the street called Studio X. What do you say we meet around 11 p.m.? I’ll be the hot, sexy Lolli-Papa out front in jeans and a black leather jacket.”
“Honey, how much money you got?”
“Baby, don’t you worry about that. I got you covered more than you know.”
Rob smiled to himself. That was smooth, Rob boy. You got her right where you want her.
He waited out front at Studio X. 10:57 p.m. He strained his eyes to see if she was coming. The flashing lights and booming music made him feel like he was tripping acid. Not that he ever had, but he could imagine this would be just like it.
A group of people stopped in front of him. When they were ushered inside the club, only one person stood remained.
“You Rob?”
He stood there, unsure how to answer. He looked her up and down. He was confused. Was it her? Was it Hot and Sexy Lollipop Mama? Hang on. He looked closer. Was this even… a she? He couldn’t be sure. He told himself, I must be tripping. Whatever it was, this is not what he had expected. It was dressed in black leather. Tall and sculpted, its physique reminded him of Catwoman. Or maybe it was more like Batman’s.
This was not cool, he thought. He looked down. It had a whip.
“Ummmm….”
He shook his head. No way, he thought. No way in hell.
It spoke.
“Well, you see a guy named Rob around here, you tell him Hot and Sexy Mama’s got a big surprise waiting for him.”
I’m sure, Rob thought. Too big for what I’m looking for. There’s only room for one penis in my house… and that’s mine.
Rob started walking home.
Damn, he thought, no sex tonight. 0 for 2.
She had walked in wearing one of those little red dresses. Short, tight, the kind that make a man go wild. He had always used the coffee shop as a place to stroke his ego and show off his stuff. He thought she must have had something important going on - a meeting, a presentation, something. Rob looked at his watch. 2:21 p.m.
Rob had always had a thing for brunettes. Rob got up from his corner table. Her hand was reaching for the freshly-brewed cup of coffee. He felt like a cat on the prowl, his confidence soaring. She looked up and smiled, one of those pitiful but kind smiles, as if to apologize for being in his walkway.
“Hey baby.”
She had a large stack of papers in her hands, attempting to balance them on her left arm as she reached for her coffee sitting on the counter with her right.
“Shoot doll, lemme get that for you.” Smooth, he thought. She’s like puddy in your hands already.
But, as he went to grab her cup, he slipped. His hand swatted the front of the paper cup, knocking the unsecured lid off onto the floor. The hot liquid soaked her head to toe. She screamed bloody murder.
“You bastard!”
Her papers hit the floor, soaking into the brown coffee that had made a puddle at her feet.
“You are going to pay for this,” she screamed. The coffee continued to burn her skin. The pain and humiliation were fierce. "I had a presentation today! That shit took me months to prepare!"
Damn, Rob thought, no sex tonight.
Date Two
Today was a new day. Rob had decided to up the ante for Date 2. “Never give up, never surrender!” was his motto. He sat down and pulled out the newspaper, turning to the classifieds.
His apartment was what Rob considered to be a typical bachelor pad. A lava lamp, massage oil, mood music, and condoms. Lots of condoms. He was, after all, a desperado. A Don Juan. Casanova. He could get the ladies. He nodded. Oh yes, he could get the ladies.
Rob skimmed the ads. He was not yet skilled enough to navigate the ins and outs of online dating. Heck, his job at Pizza Joint didn’t really provide the funds for extras, the internet included. Plus, he figured that if he found a woman through the paper, one, she would be more serious and, two, she would have cash to spend, with the extra 42-cent stamp that it took to send the ad and have it published.
He started reading, his eyes focused on locating the words that turned him on the most: hot, sexy, brunette…sex.
“Hmmm… this one looks good. Maybe this one?” He wished there were pictures.
“Oh yes, here she is.” He read the ad out loud. “Wild and Sexy Lollipop Mama -- Brown hair, blue eyed female looking for sexy, romantic male. Must like hot and wild women. If this is you and you’re looking for a good time, call: 555-2397.”
She sounds hot, he thought. H-O-T-T. And boy, do I like lollipops.
He picked up the phone and dialed.
“Come on, baby. Come to Papa.”
Ring. Ring. Ring. Ri --
“Hello?”
“Hi, is this Hot and Sexy Lollipop Mama?”
He couldn’t contain himself. The suspense was too much.
“Ooo, you bet your hot, sexy lollipop lips it is. Who is this?”
Rob could tell this girl was a winner. Her voice was like honey. He could just imagine how good she looked.
“This is Rob. You sound like my kind of girl. How about you and me head out tonight? There is this hot little club down the street called Studio X. What do you say we meet around 11 p.m.? I’ll be the hot, sexy Lolli-Papa out front in jeans and a black leather jacket.”
“Honey, how much money you got?”
“Baby, don’t you worry about that. I got you covered more than you know.”
Rob smiled to himself. That was smooth, Rob boy. You got her right where you want her.
He waited out front at Studio X. 10:57 p.m. He strained his eyes to see if she was coming. The flashing lights and booming music made him feel like he was tripping acid. Not that he ever had, but he could imagine this would be just like it.
A group of people stopped in front of him. When they were ushered inside the club, only one person stood remained.
“You Rob?”
He stood there, unsure how to answer. He looked her up and down. He was confused. Was it her? Was it Hot and Sexy Lollipop Mama? Hang on. He looked closer. Was this even… a she? He couldn’t be sure. He told himself, I must be tripping. Whatever it was, this is not what he had expected. It was dressed in black leather. Tall and sculpted, its physique reminded him of Catwoman. Or maybe it was more like Batman’s.
This was not cool, he thought. He looked down. It had a whip.
“Ummmm….”
He shook his head. No way, he thought. No way in hell.
It spoke.
“Well, you see a guy named Rob around here, you tell him Hot and Sexy Mama’s got a big surprise waiting for him.”
I’m sure, Rob thought. Too big for what I’m looking for. There’s only room for one penis in my house… and that’s mine.
Rob started walking home.
Damn, he thought, no sex tonight. 0 for 2.
Finding Nemo
Once upon a time when she was in her junior year of college and still without a major she considered going to law school. Then she found out that being a lawyer was nothing like on TV and the ambition passed like a fading daydream.
Robert gestured and tried to explain to her what it all meant. She was sure that he was speaking English, but every now and again he would slip into legalese and she would lose track of what he was saying.
“So…the ring?” She pleaded.
He sighed deeply. “Clara, it’s theirs. I’m sorry. You have to give it to them.”
She twisted the diamond around her finger and shook her head. No. No, no, no.
“Isn’t there something we could do?” She asked. “Offer them money or…something!”
He hesitated. “They’re Holocaust survivors Clara.” When this statement had no effect on her death grip of the ring he shook his head. “If you could prove that it wasn’t the same ring.” He finally conceded. “Then you might have a chance.”
She nodded eagerly. “And how do I do that?”
“Clara…”
“Please!”
“First you should see if you can track down who great-grandpa bought the ring from.” Robert stood and moved to riffle through an old filing cabinet in the corner of the room, now serving as a television stand. He tossed a packet of papers at her. “That’s all I have on the insurance information. Besides that…” He shrugged. “Sorry, I can’t do much more to help you at this point.”
She accepted the papers, clutching them to her chest. “No, that’s fine. Thank you. Really.” She stood. “Really, thank you.”
“Clara…” He seemed to be about to say something. “Take care of yourself.”
The tiny diamond winked up at her in the swirl of silver meant to imitate a rose. Oscar had been so excited to give it to her. It was a something of a family heirloom. For two weeks after he proposed she hadn’t been able to look down at her left hand without giggling. Then there was the car accident, and he was gone and even though it was her own personal tragedy, her heart breaking as her whole world fell apart; to everyone else it was just really god damn bad luck.
She began researching. Robert sent her emails with law articles attached and she wasn’t sure if they were meant to dissuade her or aide her but she poured over them, learning terms like “nemo dat quod non habet.” It was Latin for “No one can give what one does not have.” It made her laugh. Was that what she was doing? Looking for no one?
She had known that Oscar’s great grandfather immigrated to the United States from Germany when he was young. She knew that one of his friends from Europe had offered to sell him a ring, cheap, for his pretty young American bride. She didn’t know who it was and she didn’t know where they had acquired the ring.
And now there were these people saying that her ring…her ring….was theirs.
One night she called her mother about it, crying. They were trying to take him away.
Take who away? Her mother had asked.
Oscar! She sobbed.
Her mother tried to be sympathetic. She had never liked Oscar much. Thought that he wasn’t good enough for her daughter.
But really dear, they’ve probably been through so much, you know. The Holocaust! You should really just give them the ring back.
She slammed the phone down hard on the receiver. She did not understand how her pain could be so insignificant in the face of that one word. Yes it was awful. Yes it was horrible. But it happened over half a century ago and it certainly wasn’t her fault. She was not the Gestapo and she hadn’t pried the ring away from them. She had done nothing…nothing….what right did they have to hurt her like this now?
Their names were on the lawsuit. Harry and Marjorie Thomas. They did not sound particularly Jewish to her. She looked up their address and drove by just to satisfy her curiosity. They lived in a tiny retirement community. What on earth did they need the ring for? She fumed silently as she watched the silver haired old man she assumed was Harry take out the trash. How many more years did they have? What joy could the silver band give them at this point?
Robert called first. He said that he was sorry, and she hung up on him. He called again, and she pulled the phone out of the wall. She wouldn’t do it. She wouldn’t give it to them. He came to the door. It was him or the police. They’d won. It was just a ring! Please Clara! Clara…Clara….
She watched them for the next week. They had it now, but Marjorie didn’t wear it. There seemed to be no noticeable improvement in the quality of their lives.
Every time she looked down at her left hand she broke into sobs.
She could go there. She convinced herself. She could go there and explain to them. Maybe they didn’t understand. Maybe their lawyer hadn’t told him. He couldn’t have told them. If they knew about Oscar…they never would have taken the ring away. Yes. She would go talk to them.
The little old man frowned when he opened the door.
Yes? He asked and she tried to smile but couldn’t.
And then…? Robert asks.
And then she doesn’t remember.
The judge calls recess for the day and Robert lays a hand on her shoulder and tells her that it’s going to be okay before the guards take her back to her cell.
She doesn’t understand. They hadn’t had the ring.
The day her verdict is going to be read she sees it, shining like hope in the darkness on the hand of some terrible woman in black sitting behind the prosecutor.
Excuse me, she tries and Robert grabs her arm and hisses something at her. That’s mine.
The woman looks at her as if she is a spot on white carpet. The man beside her wraps an arm around her shoulders.
Are you getting married? Clara asks. I was going to be married. But then Oscar… Please, may I have my ring back?
Now Clara! Robert orders her and she is pulled back into he seat next to him. She stares at the ring, even as the jury comes in, even while the judge talks. Her ring. Her last piece of Oscar.
At some point Robert grabs her by the elbow and forces her to stand. Oh. They must be sentencing her now.
“We the jury on the charge of murder in the first degree find the defendant not guilty, by reason of mental disease or defect.”
Robert sighs in relief and hugs her.
My ring. She insists. My ring. May I please have it back now?
Robert gestured and tried to explain to her what it all meant. She was sure that he was speaking English, but every now and again he would slip into legalese and she would lose track of what he was saying.
“So…the ring?” She pleaded.
He sighed deeply. “Clara, it’s theirs. I’m sorry. You have to give it to them.”
She twisted the diamond around her finger and shook her head. No. No, no, no.
“Isn’t there something we could do?” She asked. “Offer them money or…something!”
He hesitated. “They’re Holocaust survivors Clara.” When this statement had no effect on her death grip of the ring he shook his head. “If you could prove that it wasn’t the same ring.” He finally conceded. “Then you might have a chance.”
She nodded eagerly. “And how do I do that?”
“Clara…”
“Please!”
“First you should see if you can track down who great-grandpa bought the ring from.” Robert stood and moved to riffle through an old filing cabinet in the corner of the room, now serving as a television stand. He tossed a packet of papers at her. “That’s all I have on the insurance information. Besides that…” He shrugged. “Sorry, I can’t do much more to help you at this point.”
She accepted the papers, clutching them to her chest. “No, that’s fine. Thank you. Really.” She stood. “Really, thank you.”
“Clara…” He seemed to be about to say something. “Take care of yourself.”
The tiny diamond winked up at her in the swirl of silver meant to imitate a rose. Oscar had been so excited to give it to her. It was a something of a family heirloom. For two weeks after he proposed she hadn’t been able to look down at her left hand without giggling. Then there was the car accident, and he was gone and even though it was her own personal tragedy, her heart breaking as her whole world fell apart; to everyone else it was just really god damn bad luck.
She began researching. Robert sent her emails with law articles attached and she wasn’t sure if they were meant to dissuade her or aide her but she poured over them, learning terms like “nemo dat quod non habet.” It was Latin for “No one can give what one does not have.” It made her laugh. Was that what she was doing? Looking for no one?
She had known that Oscar’s great grandfather immigrated to the United States from Germany when he was young. She knew that one of his friends from Europe had offered to sell him a ring, cheap, for his pretty young American bride. She didn’t know who it was and she didn’t know where they had acquired the ring.
And now there were these people saying that her ring…her ring….was theirs.
One night she called her mother about it, crying. They were trying to take him away.
Take who away? Her mother had asked.
Oscar! She sobbed.
Her mother tried to be sympathetic. She had never liked Oscar much. Thought that he wasn’t good enough for her daughter.
But really dear, they’ve probably been through so much, you know. The Holocaust! You should really just give them the ring back.
She slammed the phone down hard on the receiver. She did not understand how her pain could be so insignificant in the face of that one word. Yes it was awful. Yes it was horrible. But it happened over half a century ago and it certainly wasn’t her fault. She was not the Gestapo and she hadn’t pried the ring away from them. She had done nothing…nothing….what right did they have to hurt her like this now?
Their names were on the lawsuit. Harry and Marjorie Thomas. They did not sound particularly Jewish to her. She looked up their address and drove by just to satisfy her curiosity. They lived in a tiny retirement community. What on earth did they need the ring for? She fumed silently as she watched the silver haired old man she assumed was Harry take out the trash. How many more years did they have? What joy could the silver band give them at this point?
Robert called first. He said that he was sorry, and she hung up on him. He called again, and she pulled the phone out of the wall. She wouldn’t do it. She wouldn’t give it to them. He came to the door. It was him or the police. They’d won. It was just a ring! Please Clara! Clara…Clara….
She watched them for the next week. They had it now, but Marjorie didn’t wear it. There seemed to be no noticeable improvement in the quality of their lives.
Every time she looked down at her left hand she broke into sobs.
She could go there. She convinced herself. She could go there and explain to them. Maybe they didn’t understand. Maybe their lawyer hadn’t told him. He couldn’t have told them. If they knew about Oscar…they never would have taken the ring away. Yes. She would go talk to them.
The little old man frowned when he opened the door.
Yes? He asked and she tried to smile but couldn’t.
And then…? Robert asks.
And then she doesn’t remember.
The judge calls recess for the day and Robert lays a hand on her shoulder and tells her that it’s going to be okay before the guards take her back to her cell.
She doesn’t understand. They hadn’t had the ring.
The day her verdict is going to be read she sees it, shining like hope in the darkness on the hand of some terrible woman in black sitting behind the prosecutor.
Excuse me, she tries and Robert grabs her arm and hisses something at her. That’s mine.
The woman looks at her as if she is a spot on white carpet. The man beside her wraps an arm around her shoulders.
Are you getting married? Clara asks. I was going to be married. But then Oscar… Please, may I have my ring back?
Now Clara! Robert orders her and she is pulled back into he seat next to him. She stares at the ring, even as the jury comes in, even while the judge talks. Her ring. Her last piece of Oscar.
At some point Robert grabs her by the elbow and forces her to stand. Oh. They must be sentencing her now.
“We the jury on the charge of murder in the first degree find the defendant not guilty, by reason of mental disease or defect.”
Robert sighs in relief and hugs her.
My ring. She insists. My ring. May I please have it back now?
300
The alarm clock rang at 5:00 AM on October 27th. The man arose from his bed and looked out the window. He steadied himself on the dresser and wiped the crust from his eyes. He looked down at the dresser at the picture of Claire and him, barely visible in the dark. Claire had been his girlfriend for 4 months now. They were smiling on top of the Empire State building. He smiled to himself, remembering that he liked her thick curly hair and crooked teeth.
The man walked through the hall, past the closet and down the stairs. He went into the unfinished basement in the tiny apartment. He turned on some music and started his morning routine: 100 push ups, 100 crunches, and 100 leg lunges. Keeping in shape was important, he thought. Those were the rules, he told himself.
Afterward he wiped the sweat off his underarms as he turned on the coffee maker. He listened to the two messages on his phone.
“It’s Dale, I know you aren’t coming in today, but you’ve got some breakdowns I’ll be needing for that sale I told you about. Give me a call if you can.”
“Hi baby, it’s me. I hope you feel better this morning. Call me when you get this.”
He knew he wouldn’t call back. Not today. Those were the rules, he told himself.
After the coffee he walked up the stairs and past the closet and into the bathroom where he brushed his teeth and then combed back his dark hair, silently wishing there were more of it.
He went to the drawer in his dresser that had the clothes he always wore on October 27th, unless it was a leap year. He pulled the black cap with the bent bill down on his forehead, removing his peripherals.
He went past the closet, down the stairs, and out into the street. Standing on the front step and looking at his feet he breathed deeply. He stepped onto the sidewalk and
lifted his eyes.
“One.” He counted to himself, seeing the black haired little boy running past him.
He was walking downtown, and then to the park, and then farther, maybe. It all depended.
“Two.” The pretty girl with the ebony hair in the jean jacket.
It was a little after noon now, and his legs were starting to get tired. He was in the park now, walking under the oaks that led to the bridge over the stream.
“297.” The man throwing a frisbee to his dog, his arm rippled.
“298.” A little ways down a homeless man had taken off his cap and laid his head with a flowing black mane in the grass.
“299.” He noted the boy counting aloud for hide-and-go-seek behind the tree, his back toward the path.
For a while there weren’t any. He was heading out of the park now, climbing up the big stairs that led to the street. He’d made it past the park before, all the way down to Chinatown, but he hadn’t gone any farther that year.
“I thought you’d be here, you like the park too much to stay away, even when you’re sick,” Claire said.
He looked up and she was waiting at the top of the stairs. “300.” He thought and then he really was sick, all over his shoes.
“Oh God,” she walked down the last few steps and put a hand on his shoulder. Now she was a little angry. “You should really be in bed. Sometimes I don’t get you.”
“Thought a walk would be nice… such a nice day.” His grasped her black, curly hair as he steadied himself. But then he withdrew quickly. He retched again but swallowed hard.
“I think I’m going back home now.”
“Damn right you are, I have a half hour left of my lunch break, want me to go with you?”
“No.”
“You sure.”
“Yes.”
“Alright, well you should take the bus, get some rest.”
“I’ll be fine.” But he wasn’t sure about that.
He caught a bus and stared in a daze out the window. This year was different; he knew exactly where to go. He wondered if he had miss-counted. The rules are never wrong, he thought. But it wasn’t reassuring. His stomach felt like stones.
When he arrived at his apartment he went up the stairs past the closet, and into the bathroom. He took a shower, shaving off all the hair he could reach. Those were the rules, he told himself. His hand trembled a little as he did this, and every once in a while some blood ran down the drain from a fresh nick. Afterward he rubbed his bald head in the clouded mirror, wishing there had been more to shave, trying not to remember that Claire liked running her fingers through his hair. He looked at his hand. There was a little blood on it from where he had cut his forehead. He rubbed the water off the place where his eyebrows had been. He tried to focus on his face in the foggy mirror.
He dried himself off and put the clothes and the black cap back on. Then he sat in the big chair in the room downstairs, the one he and Claire would sit in and watch movies, but tried not to think about that. He stared at the black empty screen until sunset, his hands shaking.
He went up the stairs and opened the door to the closet. He opened the duffel bag in the corner of the closet. This time the sight of the bag and its contents made him retch again. Nothing came up from his stomach though because he hadn’t eaten all day. Those were the rules, he told himself. Light from the hall glinted off some of the objects in the bag. He looked away, zipped it shut, and shouldered it. The closet door closed.
He looked into the bedroom at the picture of the Empire State Building and shuddered. Then there were hesitant footsteps, descending the staircase. The door to the apartment opened; there was a long pause. It closed.
The man walked through the hall, past the closet and down the stairs. He went into the unfinished basement in the tiny apartment. He turned on some music and started his morning routine: 100 push ups, 100 crunches, and 100 leg lunges. Keeping in shape was important, he thought. Those were the rules, he told himself.
Afterward he wiped the sweat off his underarms as he turned on the coffee maker. He listened to the two messages on his phone.
“It’s Dale, I know you aren’t coming in today, but you’ve got some breakdowns I’ll be needing for that sale I told you about. Give me a call if you can.”
“Hi baby, it’s me. I hope you feel better this morning. Call me when you get this.”
He knew he wouldn’t call back. Not today. Those were the rules, he told himself.
After the coffee he walked up the stairs and past the closet and into the bathroom where he brushed his teeth and then combed back his dark hair, silently wishing there were more of it.
He went to the drawer in his dresser that had the clothes he always wore on October 27th, unless it was a leap year. He pulled the black cap with the bent bill down on his forehead, removing his peripherals.
He went past the closet, down the stairs, and out into the street. Standing on the front step and looking at his feet he breathed deeply. He stepped onto the sidewalk and
lifted his eyes.
“One.” He counted to himself, seeing the black haired little boy running past him.
He was walking downtown, and then to the park, and then farther, maybe. It all depended.
“Two.” The pretty girl with the ebony hair in the jean jacket.
It was a little after noon now, and his legs were starting to get tired. He was in the park now, walking under the oaks that led to the bridge over the stream.
“297.” The man throwing a frisbee to his dog, his arm rippled.
“298.” A little ways down a homeless man had taken off his cap and laid his head with a flowing black mane in the grass.
“299.” He noted the boy counting aloud for hide-and-go-seek behind the tree, his back toward the path.
For a while there weren’t any. He was heading out of the park now, climbing up the big stairs that led to the street. He’d made it past the park before, all the way down to Chinatown, but he hadn’t gone any farther that year.
“I thought you’d be here, you like the park too much to stay away, even when you’re sick,” Claire said.
He looked up and she was waiting at the top of the stairs. “300.” He thought and then he really was sick, all over his shoes.
“Oh God,” she walked down the last few steps and put a hand on his shoulder. Now she was a little angry. “You should really be in bed. Sometimes I don’t get you.”
“Thought a walk would be nice… such a nice day.” His grasped her black, curly hair as he steadied himself. But then he withdrew quickly. He retched again but swallowed hard.
“I think I’m going back home now.”
“Damn right you are, I have a half hour left of my lunch break, want me to go with you?”
“No.”
“You sure.”
“Yes.”
“Alright, well you should take the bus, get some rest.”
“I’ll be fine.” But he wasn’t sure about that.
He caught a bus and stared in a daze out the window. This year was different; he knew exactly where to go. He wondered if he had miss-counted. The rules are never wrong, he thought. But it wasn’t reassuring. His stomach felt like stones.
When he arrived at his apartment he went up the stairs past the closet, and into the bathroom. He took a shower, shaving off all the hair he could reach. Those were the rules, he told himself. His hand trembled a little as he did this, and every once in a while some blood ran down the drain from a fresh nick. Afterward he rubbed his bald head in the clouded mirror, wishing there had been more to shave, trying not to remember that Claire liked running her fingers through his hair. He looked at his hand. There was a little blood on it from where he had cut his forehead. He rubbed the water off the place where his eyebrows had been. He tried to focus on his face in the foggy mirror.
He dried himself off and put the clothes and the black cap back on. Then he sat in the big chair in the room downstairs, the one he and Claire would sit in and watch movies, but tried not to think about that. He stared at the black empty screen until sunset, his hands shaking.
He went up the stairs and opened the door to the closet. He opened the duffel bag in the corner of the closet. This time the sight of the bag and its contents made him retch again. Nothing came up from his stomach though because he hadn’t eaten all day. Those were the rules, he told himself. Light from the hall glinted off some of the objects in the bag. He looked away, zipped it shut, and shouldered it. The closet door closed.
He looked into the bedroom at the picture of the Empire State Building and shuddered. Then there were hesitant footsteps, descending the staircase. The door to the apartment opened; there was a long pause. It closed.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Optional Exercise: Story for Titular
Titular, an online journal of fictions in the the 500 - 1000 word range, publishes stories that borrow titles from well-known novels, films, or TV shows. According to the web site, these stories “do not need to relate to the original entity from which the title came, but should be inextricably tied to the title itself on a semantic level.”
Your task: write one of these things. Give yourself a title. As the Titular web site says, the more well-known the better. 101 Dalmations. Dumb and Dumber. For Whom the Bell Tolls. Desperate Housewives. Hellboy II: The Golden Army. The Sound and the Fury. You've Got Mail. The Backyardigans. PIck a title and go. 500 -1000 words.
If you want to look through some others on the site before starting -- and I imagine you might -- here are two very good ones, both to be found under the 'films' heading:
"Die Hard With a Vengeance," by Gene Morgan
"Kill Bill," by Brandi Wells
Your task: write one of these things. Give yourself a title. As the Titular web site says, the more well-known the better. 101 Dalmations. Dumb and Dumber. For Whom the Bell Tolls. Desperate Housewives. Hellboy II: The Golden Army. The Sound and the Fury. You've Got Mail. The Backyardigans. PIck a title and go. 500 -1000 words.
If you want to look through some others on the site before starting -- and I imagine you might -- here are two very good ones, both to be found under the 'films' heading:
"Die Hard With a Vengeance," by Gene Morgan
"Kill Bill," by Brandi Wells
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Hello and Links
Here's the link for the story we talked about today.
Here's another link, to an online journal of very, very short fictions -- under 1000 words -- called SmokeLong Quarterly.
Here's another link, to an online journal of very, very short fictions -- under 1000 words -- called SmokeLong Quarterly.
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