Time to write!
The man was handsome, that much was not to be disputed. He was also intelligent, funny enough, polite, and altogether quite charming. The question remained, however... was he too charming?
He had refused to tell us his name since arriving three nights ago, claiming only that "such things can hardly matter now" and smiling in a way which utterly bewitched Belonda and left Marzi swooning.
"I don't like it." Shyla said to me, hands working through the pile of shirts on the table in front of her, folding first the bottom to the collar, then the sleeves, then in half.
"Don't like what?" I asked, not because I really didn't know, but because I didn't know what else to say.
"The stranger." Shyla stated the obvious. "What does he want here? More importantly, why won't he tell us who he is?"
"Because," I answered calmly, folding a pair of lemon-grass colored trousers, a strange color to be sure, especially in these parts. "apparently 'such things can hardly matter now.'"
Shyla sniffed in disapproval. "I don't trust him. Anyone who shows up here has an agenda, and while he may claim to be nothing but an innocent traveler, I don't buy it for a second."
I shrugged. "It's true, his lack of suspicious behavior does mark him as highly suspicious in and of itself,"
Before my older sister could respond, the twins, four years my junior, came rushing in.
Belonda's blue eyes were sparkling and Marzi could hardly keep herself from rocketing into the rafters as she jumped about giddily.
"He spoke to us!" Belonda said. "Of his own accord he spoke to us! Without us even asking him a question first!"
"Did he now?" Shyla responded, in a voice which made clear she shared in none of our younger sisters' excitement. "And just what did he say?"
"He said, 'Good day' and asked us about the cotillion tomorrow night," Marzi said.
"The cotillion?" I asked. "Ferrenbrook's cotillion?"
"The very same," Belonda said.
"Now why would someone from out of town care about old Ferrenbrook's cotillion?" I mused.
"I'll tell you why," Shyla said gruffly, finishing the last of the shirts and dropping the pile into a hamper to be taken upstairs. "Because that someone has questionable intentions towards the innocent girls who will be in attendance."
Showing posts with label mystery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mystery. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Letters At Night
Time to write!
Excuses stink, but I have good ones. Rehearsals, performances, finals next week, and being extremely sick among them. That said, let's do this thing!
Tara had called the police. They'd agreed to monitor her home, to keep a squad car driving around her block, to install security cameras at the doors. Tara's brother Jakin had come to spend the night so she wouldn't have to sleep in the old, large house all alone. The siblings had gone around the entire house before they went to sleep, painstakingly checking every single window before they went to sleep.
But that didn't mean there wasn't a letter on the table in the morning, just as there had been for almost two weeks.
When Tara's slippered feet left the last carpeted step, lighting onto the polished hardwood floor and took her into the kitchen she tried to tell herself to remain calm. There couldn't be a brown, unsealed envelope on the table. There was no way for anyone to get inside the house.
But there the letter was.
"Jakin?" Tara called, trying not to sound as frightened as she was.
Her brother, an imposing figure standing at nearly six and a half feet tall and with a muscular frame, rounded the corner from the living room where he had slept on the couch. His hair was a mess, the brown locks sticking out every which way from a night of troubled sleep.
"There's another letter." Tara pointed.
Jakin looked shocked. "This shouldn't be possible," he stated, merely recounting the obvious.
"Who is writing these?" Tara asked, taking a step back.
"I'm calling Officer Daley," Jakin said, picking up the black handheld telephone resting on the bar next to Tara's four-slice toaster, and dialing 911.
As Jakin began talking to the police, explaining that despite all the precautions the mysterious letter had still appeared in Tara's home, Tara reached for the envelope.
She knew that she wasn't supposed to touch it, the police had informed her that with each new letter that arrived she should not touch the envelope or the paper inside, so that they could be analyzed for prints. Tara had turned the last four letters over to the police, and no prints had been found on any of them, and the police had staunchly refused to tell Tara what the contents had been.
Now she had to know. This concerned her more than anyone.
I have missed you Tara. I know you don't want me here, but I just can't seem to leave you alone. There is nothing I enjoy more than watching you sleep. Your breath catches every now and then. It is the moments of silence, the moments I cannot hear you breathing, that I look forward to. It is these split seconds when no breath either enters nor leaves your body that captivates me, and it's the reason I refuse to be kept from your side.
Sweet dreams, Tara.
Behind the handwritten note-a handwriting which had been unable to trace thus far- was another sheet of paper, but this paper was thicker, more substantial. Tara pulled the glossy photo from behind the stalker's note.
The picture showed Tara, asleep in her bed. Her blond hair was fanned around her head, all over the pillow, and her right arm was over her eyes. The angle the picture was taken from made one thing absolutely clear: whoever had taken the photo had taken it standing inside her room.
For the second time that week Tara felt the room start to spin as her vision went fuzzy.
Excuses stink, but I have good ones. Rehearsals, performances, finals next week, and being extremely sick among them. That said, let's do this thing!
Tara had called the police. They'd agreed to monitor her home, to keep a squad car driving around her block, to install security cameras at the doors. Tara's brother Jakin had come to spend the night so she wouldn't have to sleep in the old, large house all alone. The siblings had gone around the entire house before they went to sleep, painstakingly checking every single window before they went to sleep.
But that didn't mean there wasn't a letter on the table in the morning, just as there had been for almost two weeks.
When Tara's slippered feet left the last carpeted step, lighting onto the polished hardwood floor and took her into the kitchen she tried to tell herself to remain calm. There couldn't be a brown, unsealed envelope on the table. There was no way for anyone to get inside the house.
But there the letter was.
"Jakin?" Tara called, trying not to sound as frightened as she was.
Her brother, an imposing figure standing at nearly six and a half feet tall and with a muscular frame, rounded the corner from the living room where he had slept on the couch. His hair was a mess, the brown locks sticking out every which way from a night of troubled sleep.
"There's another letter." Tara pointed.
Jakin looked shocked. "This shouldn't be possible," he stated, merely recounting the obvious.
"Who is writing these?" Tara asked, taking a step back.
"I'm calling Officer Daley," Jakin said, picking up the black handheld telephone resting on the bar next to Tara's four-slice toaster, and dialing 911.
As Jakin began talking to the police, explaining that despite all the precautions the mysterious letter had still appeared in Tara's home, Tara reached for the envelope.
She knew that she wasn't supposed to touch it, the police had informed her that with each new letter that arrived she should not touch the envelope or the paper inside, so that they could be analyzed for prints. Tara had turned the last four letters over to the police, and no prints had been found on any of them, and the police had staunchly refused to tell Tara what the contents had been.
Now she had to know. This concerned her more than anyone.
I have missed you Tara. I know you don't want me here, but I just can't seem to leave you alone. There is nothing I enjoy more than watching you sleep. Your breath catches every now and then. It is the moments of silence, the moments I cannot hear you breathing, that I look forward to. It is these split seconds when no breath either enters nor leaves your body that captivates me, and it's the reason I refuse to be kept from your side.
Sweet dreams, Tara.
Behind the handwritten note-a handwriting which had been unable to trace thus far- was another sheet of paper, but this paper was thicker, more substantial. Tara pulled the glossy photo from behind the stalker's note.
The picture showed Tara, asleep in her bed. Her blond hair was fanned around her head, all over the pillow, and her right arm was over her eyes. The angle the picture was taken from made one thing absolutely clear: whoever had taken the photo had taken it standing inside her room.
For the second time that week Tara felt the room start to spin as her vision went fuzzy.
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Deletion
Time to write!
When we arrived in the dormitories, everything seemed perfectly ordinary. There were twenty two rooms in our hallway, twelve on the right side and ten on the left. The left side also had the bathrooms which we were all to share. All of the doors were painted black, and were made of cold, unfeeling metal. They were strong doors, not doors which could easily be kicked in, nor doors which could slam when one of the girls was in her mood.
The hallway was stark and crisp, just like the rest of the Academy. There was no frou-frou, no bricabrac, no hodgepodge to be found. In fact words such as those were just the kind that would not be tolerated at the Academy. While other boarding schools likely had posters on the walls or at least a bulletin board for announcements, the dormitory hallways at St. Rosen's Academy were fresh-piece-of-paper white, uninterrupted by anything but the dove gray molding which framed those heavy black doors. There were, however, forty-four small spots of color in that hallway. On each of the doors were nametags, in a variety of different colors. There were red, blue, purple, and green name cards, all of these colors in dark tones. The red was more of a burgundy, the blue a navy more than anything else, the purple was nothing short of eggplant and the shade of green is one that could only be described as the love child of emerald and forest green.
Forty-four flashes of color in a black and white hallway. The colors made those name placards easily noticeable, but none of us anticipated how important they actually were, that is, until they started disappearing.
When we arrived in the dormitories, everything seemed perfectly ordinary. There were twenty two rooms in our hallway, twelve on the right side and ten on the left. The left side also had the bathrooms which we were all to share. All of the doors were painted black, and were made of cold, unfeeling metal. They were strong doors, not doors which could easily be kicked in, nor doors which could slam when one of the girls was in her mood.
The hallway was stark and crisp, just like the rest of the Academy. There was no frou-frou, no bricabrac, no hodgepodge to be found. In fact words such as those were just the kind that would not be tolerated at the Academy. While other boarding schools likely had posters on the walls or at least a bulletin board for announcements, the dormitory hallways at St. Rosen's Academy were fresh-piece-of-paper white, uninterrupted by anything but the dove gray molding which framed those heavy black doors. There were, however, forty-four small spots of color in that hallway. On each of the doors were nametags, in a variety of different colors. There were red, blue, purple, and green name cards, all of these colors in dark tones. The red was more of a burgundy, the blue a navy more than anything else, the purple was nothing short of eggplant and the shade of green is one that could only be described as the love child of emerald and forest green.
Forty-four flashes of color in a black and white hallway. The colors made those name placards easily noticeable, but none of us anticipated how important they actually were, that is, until they started disappearing.
Thursday, November 1, 2012
A Little Inspiration
Time to write!
"Names are powerful," Thran Zilfenridge said with all solemnity. "It's not wise to let someone like that know your name."
"But how do you know who can know and who cannot?" asked Belrow. "After all, you know my name. Does that mean you could use my name against me?"
"Yes," Thran replied seriously. "Names imply familiarity. They imply trust. Do you think I'm going to hurt you, Belrow Quillstock?"
The question hung in the air between them.
"No." Belrow said suddenly, shaking his head perhaps a bit too vigorously. "I'm sure you'd never betray the oath you made to Ivlet to protect me."
That unsettling smile pulled at the corner of Thran's mouth. The elf, tall even be elvish standards, stood and checked his sword at his side, but did not reply.
"Well," said Belrow. "Should we get going?"
"Lead the way," Thran replied, gesturing with a sweep of his arm and a slight bow.
Belrow couldn't quite say what is was that tickled his suspicions about Thran Zilfenridge. Thran didn't inspire the chill and the horror that the Cor-Morin had brought, but something about him made Belrow feel like he needed to be continually on his guard. Still, Ivlet trusted him, and if Belrow couldn't trust in Ivlet, well, who could he trust?
I realllllllllll liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiike.
"Names are powerful," Thran Zilfenridge said with all solemnity. "It's not wise to let someone like that know your name."
"But how do you know who can know and who cannot?" asked Belrow. "After all, you know my name. Does that mean you could use my name against me?"
"Yes," Thran replied seriously. "Names imply familiarity. They imply trust. Do you think I'm going to hurt you, Belrow Quillstock?"
The question hung in the air between them.
"No." Belrow said suddenly, shaking his head perhaps a bit too vigorously. "I'm sure you'd never betray the oath you made to Ivlet to protect me."
That unsettling smile pulled at the corner of Thran's mouth. The elf, tall even be elvish standards, stood and checked his sword at his side, but did not reply.
"Well," said Belrow. "Should we get going?"
"Lead the way," Thran replied, gesturing with a sweep of his arm and a slight bow.
Belrow couldn't quite say what is was that tickled his suspicions about Thran Zilfenridge. Thran didn't inspire the chill and the horror that the Cor-Morin had brought, but something about him made Belrow feel like he needed to be continually on his guard. Still, Ivlet trusted him, and if Belrow couldn't trust in Ivlet, well, who could he trust?
I realllllllllll liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiike.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
Suspense
Time to write!
The past couple nights I have listened to an old radio show called "Suspense" with some of my friends, and I got to thinking I should write my own Suspense radio program. Unfortunately I'm really sleepy so it might turn out, but we will give it our best shot, and by we I of course mean I. Because this is in the style of Suspense, there will be no commentary, merely dialogue, so it's basically just a script, and is also set in not modern day.
Jenna: "Do you think we'll be able to reach the hotel by eleven, Harold?"
Harold: "Oh I don't know Jenna, we'll get there sometime tonight."
Jenna: "I just hate trying to find places we've never been to in the dark. Everything looks so different."
Harold: "We'll be fine."
Jenna: "Always so sure of everything, that's you. Never mind all the times we've actually gotten lost."
Harold: "Jenna, I said we'll be fine. We'll be fine. Now stop your worrying. Turn on the radio why don't you."
*Radio static*
Radio broadcaster: ...which concludes our weather for the week. In sports the Braves have beaten the Cardinals, leaving them undefeated and over halfway through the season. Jerry, do you have more on that?"
Jenna: "Who really cares about a baseball game? I wish we could just--"
Harold: "Could you not complain about this right now, I'd like to hear the story."
Jenna: "What more do you need to know? You know who won. Now can't we just --"
Harold: "Jenna, please!"
Radio broadcaster: ...scoring another home run in the bottom of the fifth inning, with the Braves trailing badly.
Jenna: "You don't need to lose your patience with me, you know. It was your idea to come on this trip. All the way out to the city, so you can see your old college friends. The least you could do is talk to me."
Harold: "I'm sorry, dear. We can turn the radio off. Just after we hear the end of this segment."
Radio broadcaster: "...It certainly was a great game, thanks Jerry."
Jenna: "Can we turn it off now?"
Radio broadcaster: "...Thanks for tuning in. Now, listeners, it's come to our attention that I-25 is going to be under some pretty heavy construction tonight. It you're trying to head into the city, it's suggested that you find an alternate route or delay your commute to tomorrow afternoon, by which time the road should again be clear."
Jenna: "Did you hear that, Harold? Did you hear that?"
Harold: "Yes."
Jenna: "Well what are we going to do?"
Harold: "We're going to do like the broadcaster said, Jenna. We'll find an alternate route. We'll be fine."
*tires screech*
Jenna: "Mercy! Be careful! We don't have to exit the freeway that quickly!"
Harold: "If we're going to find another way into the city tonight, we better be quick about it."
Jenna: "Harold, please slow down. It's starting to rain. I don't want to crash."
Harold: "We'll be fine."
Jenna: "Slow down! Please. Please slow down."
Harold: "Now you've done it, Jenna. Your fussing has gotten me distracted."
Jenna: "You mean you don't know where we are?"
Harold: "Well I know where we are. I just don't know how to get to the city from this road."
Jenna: "We're lost. I knew this would happen."
Harold: "We'll be find. Your worrying isn't going to help anything."
Jenna: "We should ask someone for directions."
Harold: "We're on an old road. Who are we gonna ask?"
Jenna: "We can ask him. We can ask that man."
Harold: "What man?"
Jenna: "That man, on the side of the road. Why, his car must have broken down. His headlights are flashing. It's starting to rain awfully hard. We ought to stop and help him."
Harold: "I'd rather not, Jenna. You never know what kind of crazy people hang out on the streets at night."
Jenna: "We're out in the country, Harold, and his car is broken down. If our car was broken down and we were out here in the country, in the rain, wouldn't you hope someone would stop to help us?"
Harold: "Jenna...."
Jenna: "Wouldn't you?"
Harold: "Oh alright, alright...."
*car stopping*
Harold: "Uh, excuse me sir! Car troubles?"
Man: "Yes! Yes. Oh, prayers are answered. Oh, thank you sir, thank you. It seems my car's engine has given up and died, and in the dark and in the rain, there's no way I can fix it just now. Do you think you could give me a lift into the city?"
Harold: "Well I don't know..."
Jenna: "Harold!"
Harold: *sighs* "We're actually headed there, but are a little hazy on the directions. You wouldn't happen to know the way would you?"
Man: "Sure do! I can be your guide."
Harold: "Well, alright. Hop in the back I guess."
*car unlocks, door opens, then shuts. Engine starts back up*
Jenna: "What about your car?"
Man: "Oh I'll just have my wife drive me back tomorrow and I'll see what went wrong."
Harold: "Do you know where we turn off?"
Man: "Just keep going straight for awhile."
Harold: "Alright. So what do you do for a living?"
Man: "I, uh, I'm a salesman. I sell jewelry mostly."
Harold: "I see." *clearly not very interested*
Man: "It takes me traveling a lot."
Harold: "Hmm."
Jenna: "And your wife lives in the city?"
Man: "Sure does. Wife and four kids. Hard to keep all those mouths fed in today's economy."
Harold: "But selling jewelry does the trick?"
Man: "It's all in finding the right buyers and supplying the right jewels. It's...it's stressful work, but a man does what he has to do."
Radio broadcaster: "...The Gingham County Sheriff's department has requested that we ask you all to be on the lookout for a few individuals. There have been a string of robberies in the area, and several homes have been broken into. Most houses robbed have been from the Clivington area. If you live in this neighborhood please keep your doors and windows locked and be on the watch for any suspicious activity.'
Harold: "That's a real shame."
Jenna: "Doesn't Elaine Hughes live in Clivington?"
Harold: "Yes, that's right,"
Man: "Uh, follow the road here where it turns left,"
Harold: "You sure we don't keep going straight?"
Man: "I'm sure. Turn left."
Radio broadcaster: "...There have also been reported robberies in the Grover Hills community. Residents have spotted a male in his late thirties, wearing a black overcoat wandering around the neighborhood. Once again, please be wary of suspicious activity, and report any at once to the Gingham County Police Department."
Jenna: "Grover Hills, huh? Strange to think of anything bad happening to those people."
Harold: "Spoiled bunch, in big houses."
Man: "Serves them right, don't you think, for flaunting their wealth that way?'
Jenna: "Well, I don't know about that."
Man: "Don't you now?"
Harold: "Do I keep going straight on this road?"
Man: "No, turn right, just up ahead."
Harold: "By the corn field?"
Man: "That's right."
Harold: "Here?"
Man: "Here."
Jenna: "Are you sure this is the right way?"
Man: "Certain. You mind if I remove my coat? I'm dripping wet."
Jenna: "Of course not."
Harold: "Set it on the floor though, I'd rather it didn't drip on the seats."
Man: "Sure thing."
*slight clinking sound*
Jenna: "What was--Harold look out! There's a deer in the road!"
*tires screech, man and Jenna exclaim, clinking*
Man: *cusses mildly*
Jenna: *breathing heavy* "We didn't hit it."
Man: "Could you slow down a little? When we swerved my merchandise fell out of my pockets, it's awfully dark back here, and I'd really rather none of it got damaged."
Jenna: "Oh let me help you."
Man: "That's not necessary."
*seatbelt unbuckling, sound of hands running over carpet*
Jenna: "I insist."
Man: "No, it's--"
Jenna: "My, what lovely necklaces. Mind if I take a look at them for just a moment?"
Man: "Those necklaces aren't for sale! That is, they've already been purchased, I'm just, uh, on my way to deliver them, so --"
Jenna: "That's quite alright. No harm in looking. Oh this one's lovely. Look at how nicely the stone is cut, Harold."
Harold: "I'm driving, Jenna."
Jenna: "Oh, and this one. The chain is exquisite! And...my. My this looks just like Elaine Hughes necklace. Yes, it looks just like it. It looks just like the one her brother made for her when we graduated, he made one for Elaine and for Alice and for me. Doesn't this look like the necklace?"
Man: "That's quite enough, now, I think."
Jenna: "Don't you think Harold?"
Harold: "It does look a lot like your necklace dear."
Jenna: "It does. It looks just like my necklace! It is my necklace! It's Elaine's necklace! You're the robber!"
Man: "Aw c'mon now lady, just because it looks similar does not mean--"
Jenna: "It looks more than similar! It's Elaine's necklace! Our necklaces were all just the same except the little charm by the clasp with our initials on it, and there the initials are EH!"
Harold: "Jenna..."
Man: "Alright lady. You caught me. Looks like this isn't going to be easy after all."
Harold: "Now look here, mister"
Jenna: "Harold. He's got a knife."
I think I'll finish this tomorrow. :) Yes yes. Or I'll just leave it for a bit. Because I wrote a lot tonight and now I'm exhausted. See? It's in true Suspense fashion. This is the break in the middle where they advertise. Normally about car batteries. :)
The past couple nights I have listened to an old radio show called "Suspense" with some of my friends, and I got to thinking I should write my own Suspense radio program. Unfortunately I'm really sleepy so it might turn out, but we will give it our best shot, and by we I of course mean I. Because this is in the style of Suspense, there will be no commentary, merely dialogue, so it's basically just a script, and is also set in not modern day.
Jenna: "Do you think we'll be able to reach the hotel by eleven, Harold?"
Harold: "Oh I don't know Jenna, we'll get there sometime tonight."
Jenna: "I just hate trying to find places we've never been to in the dark. Everything looks so different."
Harold: "We'll be fine."
Jenna: "Always so sure of everything, that's you. Never mind all the times we've actually gotten lost."
Harold: "Jenna, I said we'll be fine. We'll be fine. Now stop your worrying. Turn on the radio why don't you."
*Radio static*
Radio broadcaster: ...which concludes our weather for the week. In sports the Braves have beaten the Cardinals, leaving them undefeated and over halfway through the season. Jerry, do you have more on that?"
Jenna: "Who really cares about a baseball game? I wish we could just--"
Harold: "Could you not complain about this right now, I'd like to hear the story."
Jenna: "What more do you need to know? You know who won. Now can't we just --"
Harold: "Jenna, please!"
Radio broadcaster: ...scoring another home run in the bottom of the fifth inning, with the Braves trailing badly.
Jenna: "You don't need to lose your patience with me, you know. It was your idea to come on this trip. All the way out to the city, so you can see your old college friends. The least you could do is talk to me."
Harold: "I'm sorry, dear. We can turn the radio off. Just after we hear the end of this segment."
Radio broadcaster: "...It certainly was a great game, thanks Jerry."
Jenna: "Can we turn it off now?"
Radio broadcaster: "...Thanks for tuning in. Now, listeners, it's come to our attention that I-25 is going to be under some pretty heavy construction tonight. It you're trying to head into the city, it's suggested that you find an alternate route or delay your commute to tomorrow afternoon, by which time the road should again be clear."
Jenna: "Did you hear that, Harold? Did you hear that?"
Harold: "Yes."
Jenna: "Well what are we going to do?"
Harold: "We're going to do like the broadcaster said, Jenna. We'll find an alternate route. We'll be fine."
*tires screech*
Jenna: "Mercy! Be careful! We don't have to exit the freeway that quickly!"
Harold: "If we're going to find another way into the city tonight, we better be quick about it."
Jenna: "Harold, please slow down. It's starting to rain. I don't want to crash."
Harold: "We'll be fine."
Jenna: "Slow down! Please. Please slow down."
Harold: "Now you've done it, Jenna. Your fussing has gotten me distracted."
Jenna: "You mean you don't know where we are?"
Harold: "Well I know where we are. I just don't know how to get to the city from this road."
Jenna: "We're lost. I knew this would happen."
Harold: "We'll be find. Your worrying isn't going to help anything."
Jenna: "We should ask someone for directions."
Harold: "We're on an old road. Who are we gonna ask?"
Jenna: "We can ask him. We can ask that man."
Harold: "What man?"
Jenna: "That man, on the side of the road. Why, his car must have broken down. His headlights are flashing. It's starting to rain awfully hard. We ought to stop and help him."
Harold: "I'd rather not, Jenna. You never know what kind of crazy people hang out on the streets at night."
Jenna: "We're out in the country, Harold, and his car is broken down. If our car was broken down and we were out here in the country, in the rain, wouldn't you hope someone would stop to help us?"
Harold: "Jenna...."
Jenna: "Wouldn't you?"
Harold: "Oh alright, alright...."
*car stopping*
Harold: "Uh, excuse me sir! Car troubles?"
Man: "Yes! Yes. Oh, prayers are answered. Oh, thank you sir, thank you. It seems my car's engine has given up and died, and in the dark and in the rain, there's no way I can fix it just now. Do you think you could give me a lift into the city?"
Harold: "Well I don't know..."
Jenna: "Harold!"
Harold: *sighs* "We're actually headed there, but are a little hazy on the directions. You wouldn't happen to know the way would you?"
Man: "Sure do! I can be your guide."
Harold: "Well, alright. Hop in the back I guess."
*car unlocks, door opens, then shuts. Engine starts back up*
Jenna: "What about your car?"
Man: "Oh I'll just have my wife drive me back tomorrow and I'll see what went wrong."
Harold: "Do you know where we turn off?"
Man: "Just keep going straight for awhile."
Harold: "Alright. So what do you do for a living?"
Man: "I, uh, I'm a salesman. I sell jewelry mostly."
Harold: "I see." *clearly not very interested*
Man: "It takes me traveling a lot."
Harold: "Hmm."
Jenna: "And your wife lives in the city?"
Man: "Sure does. Wife and four kids. Hard to keep all those mouths fed in today's economy."
Harold: "But selling jewelry does the trick?"
Man: "It's all in finding the right buyers and supplying the right jewels. It's...it's stressful work, but a man does what he has to do."
Radio broadcaster: "...The Gingham County Sheriff's department has requested that we ask you all to be on the lookout for a few individuals. There have been a string of robberies in the area, and several homes have been broken into. Most houses robbed have been from the Clivington area. If you live in this neighborhood please keep your doors and windows locked and be on the watch for any suspicious activity.'
Harold: "That's a real shame."
Jenna: "Doesn't Elaine Hughes live in Clivington?"
Harold: "Yes, that's right,"
Man: "Uh, follow the road here where it turns left,"
Harold: "You sure we don't keep going straight?"
Man: "I'm sure. Turn left."
Radio broadcaster: "...There have also been reported robberies in the Grover Hills community. Residents have spotted a male in his late thirties, wearing a black overcoat wandering around the neighborhood. Once again, please be wary of suspicious activity, and report any at once to the Gingham County Police Department."
Jenna: "Grover Hills, huh? Strange to think of anything bad happening to those people."
Harold: "Spoiled bunch, in big houses."
Man: "Serves them right, don't you think, for flaunting their wealth that way?'
Jenna: "Well, I don't know about that."
Man: "Don't you now?"
Harold: "Do I keep going straight on this road?"
Man: "No, turn right, just up ahead."
Harold: "By the corn field?"
Man: "That's right."
Harold: "Here?"
Man: "Here."
Jenna: "Are you sure this is the right way?"
Man: "Certain. You mind if I remove my coat? I'm dripping wet."
Jenna: "Of course not."
Harold: "Set it on the floor though, I'd rather it didn't drip on the seats."
Man: "Sure thing."
*slight clinking sound*
Jenna: "What was--Harold look out! There's a deer in the road!"
*tires screech, man and Jenna exclaim, clinking*
Man: *cusses mildly*
Jenna: *breathing heavy* "We didn't hit it."
Man: "Could you slow down a little? When we swerved my merchandise fell out of my pockets, it's awfully dark back here, and I'd really rather none of it got damaged."
Jenna: "Oh let me help you."
Man: "That's not necessary."
*seatbelt unbuckling, sound of hands running over carpet*
Jenna: "I insist."
Man: "No, it's--"
Jenna: "My, what lovely necklaces. Mind if I take a look at them for just a moment?"
Man: "Those necklaces aren't for sale! That is, they've already been purchased, I'm just, uh, on my way to deliver them, so --"
Jenna: "That's quite alright. No harm in looking. Oh this one's lovely. Look at how nicely the stone is cut, Harold."
Harold: "I'm driving, Jenna."
Jenna: "Oh, and this one. The chain is exquisite! And...my. My this looks just like Elaine Hughes necklace. Yes, it looks just like it. It looks just like the one her brother made for her when we graduated, he made one for Elaine and for Alice and for me. Doesn't this look like the necklace?"
Man: "That's quite enough, now, I think."
Jenna: "Don't you think Harold?"
Harold: "It does look a lot like your necklace dear."
Jenna: "It does. It looks just like my necklace! It is my necklace! It's Elaine's necklace! You're the robber!"
Man: "Aw c'mon now lady, just because it looks similar does not mean--"
Jenna: "It looks more than similar! It's Elaine's necklace! Our necklaces were all just the same except the little charm by the clasp with our initials on it, and there the initials are EH!"
Harold: "Jenna..."
Man: "Alright lady. You caught me. Looks like this isn't going to be easy after all."
Harold: "Now look here, mister"
Jenna: "Harold. He's got a knife."
I think I'll finish this tomorrow. :) Yes yes. Or I'll just leave it for a bit. Because I wrote a lot tonight and now I'm exhausted. See? It's in true Suspense fashion. This is the break in the middle where they advertise. Normally about car batteries. :)
Saturday, October 13, 2012
Steampunk
Time to write!
The room was dimly lit, and rather quiet, an unusual state of things for the West End Tavern. Felicia Mont-Lorrison and Shelia Wisclam warily strode past the coat hooks into the tavern's main room, where the tables were filled. Neither removed their coat at this time- Shelia because she wasn't wearing one at all, despite the unpredictable weather, and Felicia because taking off her brown leather jacket would reveal the pistol she had concealed at her waist. While guns were not by any means prohibited in the West End Tavern, such an item was not often viewed on the person of such a lady as Felicia Mont-Lorrison.
Shelia felt more at home in the tavern than Felicia and took the lead, striding up to the bar where she greeted the bar tender's wife in friendly terms, then asked the bartender for a drink. Felicia stood quietly behind her companion, straightening her long, brown, silken skirts and hoping nothing went wrong. Both women waited in silence for their drinks to be mixed, then took their glasses to the side of the room where they sat and surveyed the scene.
"Do you see him yet?" Felicia asked, looking straight ahead and taking a sip of her frothy, creamy beverage.
Shelia removed the slice of lime, perching precariously on the edge of her glass, and squeezed it, releasing more of it's sour juice into her cup and shook her head. "Not yet, but he's here," she answered.
Shelia finished her drink and assessed the tavern with wary eyes. Sometime in the last few minutes the band in the corner had begun to play and the tavern was becoming increasingly animated.
"I see him," Shelia murmured, fingering the revolver at her hip, her eyes glittering with anticipation.
"Well..." Felicia said, rising to her feet. "Shall we do this?"
Shelia smiled and began walking across the floor, Felicia following, head high in her normal posture of confidence and assurance, but her eyes darting to each face as she passed.
They made an odd pair, Shelia Wisclam the only female assassin to be found in London and Felicia Mont-Lorrison, social butterfly and heiress, but tonight they were united in a common goal. They both had a bone to pick with Grant Featherly, and it wasn't going to be pretty.
The room was dimly lit, and rather quiet, an unusual state of things for the West End Tavern. Felicia Mont-Lorrison and Shelia Wisclam warily strode past the coat hooks into the tavern's main room, where the tables were filled. Neither removed their coat at this time- Shelia because she wasn't wearing one at all, despite the unpredictable weather, and Felicia because taking off her brown leather jacket would reveal the pistol she had concealed at her waist. While guns were not by any means prohibited in the West End Tavern, such an item was not often viewed on the person of such a lady as Felicia Mont-Lorrison.
Shelia felt more at home in the tavern than Felicia and took the lead, striding up to the bar where she greeted the bar tender's wife in friendly terms, then asked the bartender for a drink. Felicia stood quietly behind her companion, straightening her long, brown, silken skirts and hoping nothing went wrong. Both women waited in silence for their drinks to be mixed, then took their glasses to the side of the room where they sat and surveyed the scene.
"Do you see him yet?" Felicia asked, looking straight ahead and taking a sip of her frothy, creamy beverage.
Shelia removed the slice of lime, perching precariously on the edge of her glass, and squeezed it, releasing more of it's sour juice into her cup and shook her head. "Not yet, but he's here," she answered.
Shelia finished her drink and assessed the tavern with wary eyes. Sometime in the last few minutes the band in the corner had begun to play and the tavern was becoming increasingly animated.
"I see him," Shelia murmured, fingering the revolver at her hip, her eyes glittering with anticipation.
"Well..." Felicia said, rising to her feet. "Shall we do this?"
Shelia smiled and began walking across the floor, Felicia following, head high in her normal posture of confidence and assurance, but her eyes darting to each face as she passed.
They made an odd pair, Shelia Wisclam the only female assassin to be found in London and Felicia Mont-Lorrison, social butterfly and heiress, but tonight they were united in a common goal. They both had a bone to pick with Grant Featherly, and it wasn't going to be pretty.
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
Letters From?
Time to write!
A character finds letters written to them from someone they've never met, which bear dates from the future.
Sounds very Lake House, but could be fun.
The first letter was on the breakfast table. I'd gotten my cup out, filled it with water, and set it in the microwave to heat for my hot chocolate and had sat down at the table to wait for the timer, my forehead resting in my hands and my fingers in my hair. I was exhausted. I rarely slept well. It wasn't until the timer went off and I pushed back from the table to retrieve my mug that I noticed the envelope on the table.
"Weird," I muttered, picking it up and turning it over.
It was addressed to me, Shauna Winderly, but there was no return address.
The beeping of the microwave, even more irritating than normal given the early hour, made me pause in my contemplation of where the letter could have come from, but once my hot chocolate had been made I broke the seal of the envelope, pulled out the letter and began reading as I sipped my beverage.
Dear Shauna,
It's been nearly a year now, and my feelings haven't changed. I was delighted to receive your letter last month, and I'm sorry I did not respond sooner. I simply did not know what to say. This is really no excuse though. I should have written straightaway.
First, I want you to know I truly am sorry about Eric. Despite my feelings for you, I wanted you to be happy, even if that meant picking Eric over me. I did not leave, as you thought, to make you feel guilty or to prove to you that you couldn't keep us both in your life. I left because I didn't want to mess things up by staying and saying something to you that would jeopardize our friendship. Of course, this was still a selfish choice, and if I could go back, I'd do it differently. I'm sorry you felt alone. That is never what I intended.
Second, it would be wonderful to see you again sometime, but I'm afraid I'm a little booked at the moment. Perhaps we could meet for a weekend in New York? I'm sure we can arrange something, my funds are just a little low right now and I need to finish this project before there's an option of me catching a plane anywhere.
Shauna. There's so much I want to say in this letter and so much I cannot say. I'm sorry I can't write more now, for lack of the right words. I'll do my best however in saying, I hope you're smiling. Right now, because the world needs your smile.
All my best,
Jayce
Despite Jayce's fond wish for me to smiling, that was not what I was doing. Instead I stared at the paper, completely confused. Who was this Jayce individual? Maybe even more to the point, who was Eric and why was Jayce sorry about him? Did Eric die, or did he just leave me?
I set the letter down. This is probably all just some big joke. How someone had managed to get the letter into my house, I had not the faintest, but I dismissed the odd letter as a prank, refolding it and sticking it into the torn envelope, then went upstairs to get ready for work.
***
"Thank you, sir, for your patience. Mr. Grayson is ready to see you now," I said, addressing the heavy set gentleman who was waiting to make a proposal about a merger to Mr. Todd Grayson, founder and CEO of Grayson Electronics Co., one of the largest electronic companies in the United States. I knew that the gentleman, Lloyd Harris, one of Sony's bigmen, would have to deliver a solid pitch to earn himself any more than five minutes of Mr. Grayson's time. The man was over scheduled overworked, and overwrought with the responsibilities the quickly expanding company presented to him. Unfortunately, as his secretary I was automatically over scheduled, overworked, and overwrought as well. I wondered what his three personal assistants did to keep themselves sane.
As Mr. Harris walked through the door leading to Mr. Grayson's office I suppressed a sigh and shut my eyes, rubbing my temples, feeling a headache beginning to press in on either side of my head. A sharp ping of the tiny bell snapped my eyes open and my attention to the man standing in front of my desk.
He was tall, perhaps even very tall. My initial guess would place him at 6' 2'' or 3''. He had sandy hair combed carefully back from his face, leaving him looking very polished, but not slicked back in a way that looked greasy or overdone.
"How can I help you?" I asked, trying to keep my appraisal of his appearance purely professional.
"I'm here to speak with Mr. Grayson," he told me, smiling in a way that revealed teeth which must have spent time in braces.
"Do you have an appointment?" I asked, looking at the Excel document on my computer screen listing Mr. Grayson's appointments for the day.
"Yes, eleven o' clock," he replied confidently.
Mr. Grayson still had another two people to talk to before eleven, but you had to give the man credit for being prompt. A strange sensation took me though as I looked at the name written in the eleven o' clock time slot, a ping which sent me questioning. The man's name was Eric Riley.
A character finds letters written to them from someone they've never met, which bear dates from the future.
Sounds very Lake House, but could be fun.
The first letter was on the breakfast table. I'd gotten my cup out, filled it with water, and set it in the microwave to heat for my hot chocolate and had sat down at the table to wait for the timer, my forehead resting in my hands and my fingers in my hair. I was exhausted. I rarely slept well. It wasn't until the timer went off and I pushed back from the table to retrieve my mug that I noticed the envelope on the table.
"Weird," I muttered, picking it up and turning it over.
It was addressed to me, Shauna Winderly, but there was no return address.
The beeping of the microwave, even more irritating than normal given the early hour, made me pause in my contemplation of where the letter could have come from, but once my hot chocolate had been made I broke the seal of the envelope, pulled out the letter and began reading as I sipped my beverage.
Dear Shauna,
It's been nearly a year now, and my feelings haven't changed. I was delighted to receive your letter last month, and I'm sorry I did not respond sooner. I simply did not know what to say. This is really no excuse though. I should have written straightaway.
First, I want you to know I truly am sorry about Eric. Despite my feelings for you, I wanted you to be happy, even if that meant picking Eric over me. I did not leave, as you thought, to make you feel guilty or to prove to you that you couldn't keep us both in your life. I left because I didn't want to mess things up by staying and saying something to you that would jeopardize our friendship. Of course, this was still a selfish choice, and if I could go back, I'd do it differently. I'm sorry you felt alone. That is never what I intended.
Second, it would be wonderful to see you again sometime, but I'm afraid I'm a little booked at the moment. Perhaps we could meet for a weekend in New York? I'm sure we can arrange something, my funds are just a little low right now and I need to finish this project before there's an option of me catching a plane anywhere.
Shauna. There's so much I want to say in this letter and so much I cannot say. I'm sorry I can't write more now, for lack of the right words. I'll do my best however in saying, I hope you're smiling. Right now, because the world needs your smile.
All my best,
Jayce
Despite Jayce's fond wish for me to smiling, that was not what I was doing. Instead I stared at the paper, completely confused. Who was this Jayce individual? Maybe even more to the point, who was Eric and why was Jayce sorry about him? Did Eric die, or did he just leave me?
I set the letter down. This is probably all just some big joke. How someone had managed to get the letter into my house, I had not the faintest, but I dismissed the odd letter as a prank, refolding it and sticking it into the torn envelope, then went upstairs to get ready for work.
***
"Thank you, sir, for your patience. Mr. Grayson is ready to see you now," I said, addressing the heavy set gentleman who was waiting to make a proposal about a merger to Mr. Todd Grayson, founder and CEO of Grayson Electronics Co., one of the largest electronic companies in the United States. I knew that the gentleman, Lloyd Harris, one of Sony's bigmen, would have to deliver a solid pitch to earn himself any more than five minutes of Mr. Grayson's time. The man was over scheduled overworked, and overwrought with the responsibilities the quickly expanding company presented to him. Unfortunately, as his secretary I was automatically over scheduled, overworked, and overwrought as well. I wondered what his three personal assistants did to keep themselves sane.
As Mr. Harris walked through the door leading to Mr. Grayson's office I suppressed a sigh and shut my eyes, rubbing my temples, feeling a headache beginning to press in on either side of my head. A sharp ping of the tiny bell snapped my eyes open and my attention to the man standing in front of my desk.
He was tall, perhaps even very tall. My initial guess would place him at 6' 2'' or 3''. He had sandy hair combed carefully back from his face, leaving him looking very polished, but not slicked back in a way that looked greasy or overdone.
"How can I help you?" I asked, trying to keep my appraisal of his appearance purely professional.
"I'm here to speak with Mr. Grayson," he told me, smiling in a way that revealed teeth which must have spent time in braces.
"Do you have an appointment?" I asked, looking at the Excel document on my computer screen listing Mr. Grayson's appointments for the day.
"Yes, eleven o' clock," he replied confidently.
Mr. Grayson still had another two people to talk to before eleven, but you had to give the man credit for being prompt. A strange sensation took me though as I looked at the name written in the eleven o' clock time slot, a ping which sent me questioning. The man's name was Eric Riley.
Monday, October 1, 2012
Imperceivables
Time to write!
A couple quick things to say before I post tonight's Authentic writing :)
1. I know I didn't post last night. That was because, while watching Thor *drool* my internet connection decided to go haywire. Then I had to reset everything up, and it took forever and was mucho frustrating. By the time that was done and I'd finished Thor (cause obviously it is imperative to finish Thor!!) my roommate was asleep on my bed, leaving me mooshed against the wall and the situation was not ideal for writing. So I really do apologize. :(
2. This story, while authentic, got it's origins while I was in an AP psychology class. Now, it's about Schizophrenic people. I don't know who will read this or if I will ever expand this and take it anywhere, because I really love the idea, but it needs to be understood that I in no way mean this with any disrespect to the Schizophrenic community or those with family members who suffer from Schizophrenia. I am not making light of the disorder, I am merely exploring an idea which came to me while learning about it.
Now, without further ado, here we go!
A couple quick things to say before I post tonight's Authentic writing :)
1. I know I didn't post last night. That was because, while watching Thor *drool* my internet connection decided to go haywire. Then I had to reset everything up, and it took forever and was mucho frustrating. By the time that was done and I'd finished Thor (cause obviously it is imperative to finish Thor!!) my roommate was asleep on my bed, leaving me mooshed against the wall and the situation was not ideal for writing. So I really do apologize. :(
2. This story, while authentic, got it's origins while I was in an AP psychology class. Now, it's about Schizophrenic people. I don't know who will read this or if I will ever expand this and take it anywhere, because I really love the idea, but it needs to be understood that I in no way mean this with any disrespect to the Schizophrenic community or those with family members who suffer from Schizophrenia. I am not making light of the disorder, I am merely exploring an idea which came to me while learning about it.
Now, without further ado, here we go!
The world around us is all a delusion. What we think we’re
seeing is merely the way our brains interpret light rays around us. That's all it is, and we have no way of proving otherwise.Who’s to
say that any of us even see things the same way? Who’s to say we all see the
same things? Scientists have discussed the theory that each person’s concept of
a certain color could be completely different. It’s hard to tell, what with the
brain sitting encased in our skulls, safe from scrutiny. That is, of course,
unless we’re dead and have donated our brains to science. But then you’re dead,
so fat lot of good that did you.
Beyond that, it's a wonder things appear the way they do even to one individual. I mean, most of what we look at as completely solid objects is actually empty space when viewed from the molecular level. I'm mostly empty space. You're mostly empty space. We all sit around, looking at other things which are mostly empty space and function based on what our brains see. It's all really one big mystery that everyone pretty much takes for granted. Those who study the brain come up with some crazy ideas about what's really going on in our heads, and some even believe that they've got it basicallyI figured out at this point.
I'm here to say that we don't have it figured out. The scientific community can't even begin to grasp what is happening. No matter what theories
are out there, and no matter what your textbooks say, I have an answer that they will never provide you with. I can tell you, we
don’t all see the same things. I know, because I’ve seen them. The Imperceivables, and science refuses to acknowledge that they exist.
***
I was ten years old when I saw my first Imperceivable. He was uncannily tall, wore a black sweatshirt and torn jeans, and had a gaunt, sunken face. He was basically your stereotypical creepy dude. I didn't notice him until the end of recess. Maycie and I had been swinging when the bell to line up rang. It wasn't until I jumped off the swing that I saw him leaning against a tree. I couldn't tell for sure, but it seemed like he was looking at me.
I was ten years old when I saw my first Imperceivable. He was uncannily tall, wore a black sweatshirt and torn jeans, and had a gaunt, sunken face. He was basically your stereotypical creepy dude. I didn't notice him until the end of recess. Maycie and I had been swinging when the bell to line up rang. It wasn't until I jumped off the swing that I saw him leaning against a tree. I couldn't tell for sure, but it seemed like he was looking at me.
I was extremely creeped out, but since we were going inside anyway, I just ran off and sort of forgot about the incident. Until I saw him outside my room two nights later. I heard a tapping sound at my window long after my parents had gone to bed. I was horrified, and called for my father. When he didn't come and didn't come and the tapping continued I became utterly hysterical. I jumped from my bed and peeked through the blinds of my window and there he was.
After running to my parents room in tears, my dad went outside to investigate, but assured me there was nothing there. I refused to be consoled and didn't sleep in my room for the rest of the week.
That didn't mean I stopped seeing the man though. He showed up again on the playground. I'd see him in the corner of my classroom. He'd follow me from school some days. But anytime I mentioned him to someone around me they said they couldn't see him, that there wasn't anyone there.
Two weeks after I first saw him, Maycie told me she didn't want to be my friend anymore. Her exact words, I believe, were, "You scare me now. I think you're crazy." Then she walked away from me. This made me feel more alone than ever, and I started seeing him more.
Finally my parents took me to a psychologist. I was diagnosed with Schizophrenia. I was given medication. I was told that everything would be fine. But everything wasn't fine, and it couldn't be fine, because the doctors didn't understand what was really going on.
Instead of getting better, the "hallucinations" began getting worse. More people started showing up. I'd hear voices whenever I closed my eyes, or I heard people talking about me but when I turned around there wasn't anybody to be seen.
For years this continued. My life fell into a certain kind of pattern. Someone would see me sitting alone, and they'd try to be my friend. I would try my very best to act normal around them, but after a couple days, one of my tormentors would show up in an especially unexpected way, or would change up the routine. That changed things pretty quickly.
One particular example was my fourth day of eighth grade. I was sitting alone at lunch and a nice girl with long brown hair and glasses which actually looked cute on her came to sit by me.
"I'm Jessica," she told me. "Is it ok if I sit here?"
I smiled at her and nodded.
I smiled at her and nodded.
"Do you like cheesecake?" she asked. "My mom gave me this huge slice of cheesecake in my lunch today."
"I love cheesecake!" I answered. After devouring the piece, I discovered that Jessica and I had a lot in common. We both had little sisters, we both loved the original Star Wars movies, and we both were super excited to get our ears pierced. She had to wait until she was sixteen, and my parents basically wanted to wait for me to "stabilize". I didn't tell her that, just that my parents wanted me to wait.
She ate lunch with me the next day, and the first three days of the next school week as well. My main haunter, the one I'd seen first, was still showing up everywhere, but my therapists had told me to ignore him, to remember that he wasn't real, and to live a normal life. So that's what I tried to do. But when, on Wednesday, he stood up from the table where he'd been sitting across the cafeteria, sitting with a bunch of the popular girls who of course didn't know he was there, and walked towards me, I could feel my pulse quickening. He didn't normally come close to me, but sometimes he did, and those were the worst moments. I think he knew how much I hated it, and he saved it for special circumstances.
I tried to ignore him. Truly, I did. I turned to Jessica and asked her how she liked the book we were reading in Mrs. Matterly's class. I tried to concentrate on her answer, but I was hyper aware of him drawing closer and closer to me. I gripped the edge of the table, squeezing so tightly my knuckles turned white, as he started making his way around the table to where I was sitting. At this point I was completely panicked. I could hardly breathe.
"Shea? What is wrong?" Jessica said.
"Oh, mercy, no!" I whispered, petrified, as he reached out to me. He'd never been this close before. With the torture he was inflicting, I expected him to be smirking, but he looked deadly serious as he reached out to lay a hand on my arm. I pushed back from the table, rising to my feet and stumbling backwards, hysterical.
"Don't touch me!" I screamed.
Jessica wasn't my friend anymore after that.
***
At seventeen years old and in my senior year of High School I was done trying to make friends. I didn't want friends. I didn't want anything but for everyone to leave me the heck alone. I wanted the hallucinations to leave me alone, I wanted the kids who'd tried to be my friends to stop whispering things about me to everyone else. I wanted my teachers to stop analyzing my behavior in class. I wanted my psychologist to stop telling me it was all in my head, and for my parents to stop asking me if I'd had any episodes every day when I walked in from school. I wanted to be normal, to be like everyone else.
I hated that when anyone else walked down the hall they would see a bunch of smiling students, walking together, nudging one another, laughing or complaining about their day. In the exact same hall I'd see all these students, and more often that not one or two other people who clearly didn't belong there. Sometimes they were the hallucinations that had been plaguing me from the beginning. Others I only recognized because they obviously weren't supposed to be in high school.
Most people would argue that I didn't belong at a normal high school. And while it's true that my parents talked, talked a lot in fact, about pulling me out, my doctors were convinced that I just needed to give the new set of medication "a little more time" and that I needed to live "the most normal life possible." Every time something of that vein left one of their mouths I wanted to strap them with the hallucinations for a little while and see what they had to say afterwards. As it was, I stayed in public schooling, but I kept to myself. Kids talked about me but not to me, and I pretty much left them alone as well.
The day life really changed, I mean even more than that day when I was ten, was a Wednesday. A seemingly innocent enough Wednesday, too, all things considered. I was sitting outside, eating my lunch. I ate outside whenever I could, sometimes even when it rained, because it was less socially painful than sitting in the loud, crowded, constantly bustling lunch room. Besides, large crowds freaked me out. The more real people were in a room, the harder it was to tell if there were "fake" people there too. This may sound like a benefit, but it actually just made the hallucinations that much more unexpected, that much more realistic.
I was eating my sandwich and trying not to think about anything really, when I heard a twig snap, and turned. There was no twig on the ground to have snapped, but there he was, less than a foot behind me. Oh, I hated him. Loathed him, detested him, blamed him for the nightmare it was my life. Rising shakily to my feet, sandwich forgotten on the ground, I did my best to breath normally, despite my pounding heart, and to assess the situation.
"Why don't you just leave me alone?" I asked, voice wavering. He hadn't gotten this close to me since that day in eighth grade, although I never went more than a week without seeing him. The others always made more infrequent appearances, but this one was rather consistent. It was especially disorienting that he hadn't changed at all in the seven years we'd been "seeing" one another, everything the same as the day I first noticed him.
"Shea, I need you to listen to me for a minute," he said. This was the first time he'd spoken to me. I heard lots of them talk, but he had always just been my silent stalker. Hearing his voice was completely disarming. I tried to run, but tripped and fell, landing hard on my hands and knees.
He slowly walked over, taking his time, and with each step he took coming closer to me the less power I had to gain control of my limbs and get away. He crouched down, right beside me.
"Are you okay?" he asked, in what was probably one of the stupidest questions ever asked.
"Leave me alone!" I gasped, crying now, completely alone with him, kneeling in the grass between the main building and the science lab, trees all around.
"Calm down," he said, not in an ordering sort of way, but in a gentle sort of tone. Tone aside, I was far from being consolable, especially by him, the inflictor of my misery.
"Listen," he continued, voice quiet as he remained crouched beside me. "I need you to do your best to calm down and to understand what I'm saying. My name is Ian, and I promise I am not going to hurt you. But the others might, and I'm here to warn you."
...thoughts?
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
Does that make ME an Alien?
Time to write!
 |
| My biggest question is... if everyone else is the same species, and I'm different, does that me the alien? And if the answer is yes, how did I get here? I looked like my parents, like my older sister, even like all my friends in the sense that we all looked, you know, human. They still looked human. It wasn't like they'd all set up some elaborate scheme for the past fourteen years to make me think I was just like them, while we are actually a different species. They didn't wear skin suits, or bind extra arms to their sides. They weren't green, they weren't slimy, and neither was I. They were different though. I wondered who else knew. Did everyone know? Did at least my parents know? I hadn't meant to find out. I'd been working in the science lab after school, like I did every Thursday afternoon, and was cleaning some of the newer equipment. A hair was lying on the new, fancy-shmancy DNA analyzer which had just come in two weeks before. The way it worked, essentially, was that you could place anything from a living organism under the lens and drop a couple of drops of solution over the sample, and the machine would give you results, telling you what species the sample had come from. Simple enough. I was just admiring it, so Doctor Warrell told me to go ahead, try it out. I tried it first with the hair already on the machine. After allowing the machine to process a code printed out. HU484-OOL. I wasn't sure what that meant, but figured it just meant the code for "human" or "homo sapien" or whatever. I plucked a hair from my own head, dripped the solution over it, waited for the DNA to be deciphered, then pulled out the strip of paper. The code read RW623-MMH. After that, I must admit, I was freaked out. I showed the first code to Doctor Warrell and asked him what that meant, and he told me it was just "the hair from a normal person", in fact it was one of Bianca's hairs. Bianca was the girl who came in to help Doctor Warrell on Wednesdays, and she'd been in my class for the past four years. I didn't want to tell Doctor Warrell my code was different. I wondered if it was just because I was a boy. Maybe there were different codes for boys and girls. A true thing.... I really want to continue this cause I have more of an idea, but I am tired and want to sleep. SO I will just revisit this for another day's prompt. |
Monday, September 17, 2012
Where Did They Go?
Time to write!
Quite honestly, this prompt freaks me out a little bit. But here we go.
You never really think about those people whose faces appear on the back of milk cartons, or on poles on street corners. You don't realize that they're gone, that their families don't know where they are, and that no one knows if they'll ever be back. Sure, the questions might cross your mind. You might even send up a quick prayer, but after that your mind replaces those thoughts with thoughts about your favorite tv show or what you and your best friend are going to do after school on Friday. You never think about it. At least I didn't, until my sister went missing.
***
Palmer was only eight years old when we lost her. It had started out a normal day. That's how these stories normally start however. If there was any warning that something bad was going to happen, we'd take measures to prevent it. I arrived home from Peter Mount High School, and dumped my extremely full backpack next to my shoes in the front hall.
"I'm home!" I called.
"Tracy!" Palmer squealed, then came bouncing down the stairs, her stocking feet making thumping sounds as she landed on each individual step, her brown pigtails bouncing.
I smiled and gave her a hug. "What'd you do today?" I asked, looking up to see Nana walking down the stairs quietly. Nana had that look on her face, the tight smile which meant that even though she loved Palmer very much, Palmer had been loud today. I smiled sympathetically.
"Me and Nana played animals!" Palmer exclaimed.
"Yeah? And how was school?" I asked, heading towards the kitchen to get an apple.
"School was sad." Palmer replied.
I stopped and looked at her carefully. "Were other kids mean to you?" I asked gently. Palmer was tiny for her age, and extremely thin. She was sick a lot, and last year a couple of kids had picked on her, leaving her shy around children her own age.
"No," she answered, with a vigorous shake of the head. "School was just sad, cause it was a sad place to be today."
I didn't know what Palmer meant, but satisfied that she wasn't being bullied I went to the fridge and began looking through the drawer where we kept our produce.
"Tracy?" Palmer said, coming up and hugging my leg. "Nana says she's too tired to go the park. Will you take me?"
I had a bunch of homework to complete, but I wasn't too eager to get to my AP Calculus and knew that it would make both Palmer and Nana very happy if I got Palmer out of the house for an hour so I agreed.
The park was only a couple of blocks from our home. We lived in a nice suburban area, and the park we went to had never seemed in the least bit dangerous. There was nothing haunting about the rows of creaky swings, or anything eerie about the long twisting slide. The monkey bars had never freaked me out, and the climbing spider dome was far from chilling. I let go of Palmer's hand as we got to the park and watched her run off towards the monkey bars. She'd practiced them all summer, and now were her favorite activity at the park. I sat down on the bench by the swings, the one with the best view of the duck pond near the park, and enjoyed the crisp air. It was late September, and the last bit of summer still swirled in the air with the ever growing presence of autumn.
Leaning back, I looked around, admiring the leaves on the changing trees, and watching the ducks swim lazily in the pond, quacking at one another every now and then, and occasionally wandering up out of the shallow pool and sitting in the shade of the trees. I made sure to keep an eye on Palmer, but she seemed to be happily playing. There were only about six other children at the park that day, and Palmer had started up a game of tag with a little girl with black, curly hair and a ginger boy wearing overalls. I smiled, remembering what it was like to be eight years old and full of energy.
I closed my eyes to enjoy the rays of sunlight on my face, when suddenly the bite in the air seemed colder. The creaking sound of swings died away, and for one split second everything was dead silent. A loud quack from a green-headed mallard cut through the stillness, and as I opened my eyes I saw it. A black looming form, looking mostly human, but part dog and constructed entirely of shadows was stalking out from underneath the bridge, connecting the two parts of the playground together. I blinked, not believing my eyes, but sure that I'd seen something.
I stood up, panic rising in my chest, as the looming shape, walking on two legs but slumped over so far the arms almost brushed the ground, began to charge.
"Palmer!" I called. But the creature had traveled across the playground in three bounds, taking with it an aura of darkness. Wherever it moved, it seemed mostly cloaked, as though it could grab on to the existing shadows and stretch them to shield himself from the sun's bright beams.
"Palmer!" I said again, hurrying towards her now, my voice rising higher than normal.
Her head snapped around and she looked at me, clumsily running towards her, but it was too late. The thing had reached her, and suddenly it was as if she was swirled up in a cape of blackness, and then suddenly they both were gone.
My hands flew to my face, and I realized I was about to vomit. She couldn't just be gone. She was standing right in front of me, literally one second ago. With wild eyes, I looked to the children who had been playing with her. Why were they still here? Why did it take Palmer? Where was she? What was it?
"Did you...Did you see what just happened?" I asked the tiny boy, who was kicking at the wood ships and swaying slightly.
He looked up at me, wide eyed, and shook his head, then turned and ran the other way.
My eyes darted about in agitation, glancing furtively at the other mothers and babysitters who were seated on various benches around the park, but no one else seemed to have noticed a thing.
I took a step backwards, not knowing what to do now. Palmer was gone. Palmer was missing.
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