Month: January 2015

January 12, 2015

Another Bad One

I don’t know what’s up with me.  This one was rough.  Although I think this time isn’t on me and more on the prompt.  We just didn’t see eye to eye.  Much like the exchange between the two below.

A Year of Writing Prompts by Brian A. Klems and Zachary Petit

January 11

Literary Road Show – J.D. Salinger Edition

“…one author’s stray lines become your source of inspirational gold?”

“C’mon, I’ll take ya home. No kidding.”

“I can go home by myself, thank you. If you think I’d let you take me home you’re mad. No boy ever said that to me in my entire life.”

“Probably because you’re a raging bitch.”

Her eyes widened.

“How dare you say that to me. Do-“

“Yes, I know who your father is and no I do not care. I don’t have to offer you a ride home after you brutally rebuff my advances, but I thought it’d be the gentleman thing to do.”

She began to storm down the wet sidewalk, her heels clicking on the cement.

Richard sighed and hung his head. At one point he had been madly in love with this woman, which was why he had mustered up the most courage he could offer to ask her out on a date. Then he lets his ego get to his head and he becomes a bully.

“Lily, wait.”

He chased after her and she only picked up the pace.

“You are ridiculous. You call me filthy names and expect me to stop.”

He placed a hand gently on her shoulder to stop her. She in turn reached a hand into her purse to retrieve a pink sparkle pepper spray can. The red spray arched over his right shoulder and onto the cement below.

“Hold on there, I am not going to hurt you. Please, let me just say one more thing before you decide to end whatever this could be.”

She held the can aloft, pointed threateningly at his face.

“I have been in love with you the moment you stepped into the library.”

Her angry expression lessened some.

“The past two months I have tried desperately to work up enough courage to ask you out. I do know who your father is and that is terrifying to me. Father’s in general are terrifying to the potential man whom may steal his daughter away. It’s just a fact of life.

“I know this night has been nothing you’re accustomed to. I don’t have the kind of money some people do at times. My money requires careful thought and planning. This whole night was planned from the get. The walk along the river, the dinner at Rivera’s, and I had planned a poetry slam before you, for some reason, decided not to enjoy my company any further than it had gone.”

Lily closed her eyes, lowered the can of mace, and sighed.

“Rick, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had such strong feeling for me. If I had known that I wouldn’t have agreed to this.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I only agreed because I’ve seen you around campus and I knew what type of person you are. My father is an ambassador and would have hated the very idea of me being out with you.”

Richard’s shoulders slumped.

“What I didn’t expect was to enjoy the night as much as I have. I felt terrible that I had even given a thought to use you as some sort of pawn. It was terrible of me. That was why I had decided to just end the evening.”

Richard stood silent for a moment, pressing his lips into a thin line.

“But you said you were having fun.”

Lily laughed.

“I did indeed.” She paused. “I’m sorry I tried to mace you.”

“I’m sorry you’re a terrible shot.”

The two looked into the other’s eyes.

“I’m sorry I called you a bitch. Can we please start again?”

Lily bowed her head.

“Another time perhaps. But I would gladly let you walk me home.”

January 11, 2015

Let’s just say I’m not proud of this one…

This was not one of my bests. After a quick re-read I was thoroughly disappointed.  It’s either because I’m a little bit tipsy or I’m just a terrible writer.  Whatever the case may be, I promised I would do a prompt and here it is.  With massive errors and all. I could edit it and have it not suck but… Meh.

A Year of Writing Prompts by Brian A. Klems and Zachary Petit

January 10

Snow Day

“Write about a day during your elementary school years when school was cancelled due to snow. Remember waking up to the “good” news? How did you fill your newfound free time?”

My initial reaction to this prompt was that of a typical Southern Californian. We don’t experience snow days. Although it is not true. While my town is not really in an area with likely snowfall, it could happen, theoretically. That is, if the stars aligned and rain was in the forecast. While it can get below freezing in the San Joaquin Valley, unless it rains the chances of it snowing are really slim. Especially since we typically have an awful lot of sunny days. Which is why our entire state has been in a drought for some time.

The one and only snow day I ever got I remember very well. My mom woke me up at six in the morning. She whispered to me that she had something very important to show me. I was annoyed and told her I wanted to sleep. She assured me in the softest voice, that I would not be disappointed.

Rubbing the sleep from my eyes I walked across the hall to my mother’s bathroom where she had the window open. I looked through the undistorted view at the most beautiful scene I have ever witnessed.

In our backyard is a kidney shaped pool, with a large fiberglass rock waterfall at it’s head. There is even a matching fiberglass planter just to the left. In the summer it’s very beige and our backyard is typically very brown, except for the lush greenery in one corner. This particular morning every surface was covered in soft white powder. The flakes were still drifting down in small flakes.

My heart skipped a beat. “Wow” was all I could say.

In my younger years I went to a private Christian school. During the first year we moved from true southern California to the San Joaquin Valley, I would pray every day in class for snow. I drove my other classmates nuts. I distinctly remember this one morning there was a heavy layer of frost on the grass and this one classmate of mine said, “There’s your snow. Now will you stop praying?” This particular girl regularly hated me. So I just smiled and said no. (Believe me, she was a cunt of the highest order. She was one of the kind who hated me purely because I was fat.)

From my parent’s bathroom I rushed to the front door and looked out at my usually drab world covered in a glistening blanket.

The thing that sticks with me, just as vivid as the moment I stepped out the front door that day, was how silent it was. The silence was so other worldly. It was beautiful, but like the modern world tends to be, it was a true silent. Cutting through the serene silence was the snapping, cracking, of the trees. They were unfamiliar with the weight of the snow on their limbs and were growing weak as they attempted to keep them raised.

I rushed back inside and grabbed our old film camera and starting snapping photos. What came out was so very disappointing. The photos were very dark and did not, in the slightest, capture how it had looked when I took them. To make it worse, the flakes passed right in front of the lens and looked freakish in the photos. Almost like misshapen specters sailing through the air. Me being obsessed with the paranormal, fantasized that to be the case.

By some miracle, the school cancelled instruction for the day. My school typically didn’t even do fog delays like the other schools in the valley. So, it was so exciting to have a whole day to play in the snow.

The cold powder lasted until about midday and it began to melt. Our location is not conducive for the life of snow. Ultimately the only thing I did that day was build snowman cheerleaders in the formation of a two tier, pyramid. (Yeah. I wasn’t gay.)

It has been almost 20 years since that happened and the people in my town still talk about the snow day.

January 10, 2015

The Eye of God

I have to say… this is a bit risky of a short story.  I couldn’t help myself.  I want to be controversial but who doesn’t?  Supposedly it acquires you fame or infamy.  Either ay it draws readers.  So, shamelessly, my mind wouldn’t let this idea go.  Please know that I meant no harm. I just needed fictional characters for a “matchup.”

A Year of Writing Prompts by Brian A. Klems & Zachary Petit
January 9
Matchup!
“Write a scene featuring a cruise ship or a boat, a sudden change of weather, and the idiom “Fools rush in.””

The prophet Mohammed stood on the rickety dock that jutted out into the waters of the Sea of Galilee. His band of followers were busily preparing the boat to set sail to the other side. One called from the ship, beckoning the prophet forward onto the skiff. Using the gentlest of motions he stepped down and they immediately set sail.

Mohammed tried dearly not to show his uncertainty, he was the prophet from Allah, he could not show any sense of fear, but deep down he dreaded being on the open sea. The fear of being washed overboard weighed heavily in his mind and he prayed for safe passage.

Then the clouds rolled in. Those around him commented at the momentary shimmer jumping from cloud to cloud. “It’s going to be a bad one,” someone said. Mohammed did not know who had whispered, what he thought, were the final words of his life. He had to admit that none of them truly mattered to him. They were mere stepping stones in his journey to retrieve the stone of power that rested on the other side. It was known as the Eye of God and any mortal that held it would take on the powers of one not of this world.

If it were not that he feared another would retrieve the stone he would have walked around the sea or at least found some other transportation other than the sea.

If only I had the stone now, he thought, I would stop this storm before it had spread like a disease across the sky.

The waves began to grow. They lapped at the edges of the boat, lobbing spray of sea at the men. The man chosen as captain tried his best to steer the ship through the waters. Mohammed would have thrown him overboard I he didn’t need him. The man clutched to the side of the ship, trying to stabilize himself, while keeping his eyes pointed ever forward.

The winds picked up and ripped the prophets ‘Imama from his head, relinquishing the greasy, black locks beneath. It whipped at his face like angry tentacles, entangling itself in his thick beard.

The wave first rose like a mountain rising from sleep at the bow of the ship, blocking Mohammed’s view of the other side of the sea. Then with the strength of the earth it crashed over the ship and sent everyone swirling into the blackness.

He scrambled. Climbing his way through the water but he could not tell what was up or down. But soon he found himself slowly drifting ever upwards.

His head broke the thrashing surface of the water. He gasped and gulped down the salty air.

“Why have you done this,” Mohammed cried out.

His black eyes scoured the sea for any sign of his companions. He knew none of them by name and felt it ridiculous to call out for anyone. There was no room for weakness.

A wave rose and cresting over it was another, larger, boat, still surviving the rough waters. It dove down the other side of the wave. It rushed past Mohammed, spraying him with a miniscule wave compared to it’s brethren.

“Over here,” he called out.

Lightning cracked the black and he saw the silhouettes of twelve men, scrambling across the deck of the ship. There was incoherent shouting but he did not recognize any of the words against all the other noise around him.

The storm quickly subside in a cool breeze.

“Look” shouted someone on the boat.

Mohammed waved his arms above his head and shouted again, until he was submerged in the water.

A hand grasped on to his shoulder and pulled him from the water.

Mohammed looked into the face of a Hebrew man, bearded like himself, with long locks of flowing hair. He knew that face. It was the man who claimed to be the son of God.

“You,” Mohammed said.

He looked down and realized with the sense of falling, that this man was standing on the surface of the water.

“Did you-“

“Yes, cousin, I got the stone before you.” Jesus sneered. “Cause only fools don’t rush in.”

January 9, 2015

Luck is for Fools

There is a lot of myself in today’s story.  There are those who have luck and those who do not.  I am in the not category.  I’m not where near the other.  If there was a spectrum from 1 to 10, 1 being the luckiest, and 10 being the opposite of that I would be  hard 9.  It’s just a matter of life.  Although, sometimes I tell myself (because of some gut feeling) that my luck just hasn’t come up.  And right now, why would I want to waste my pot of gold on an actual pot of precious metal coins than on landing a literary agent and selling my book. (They’re a package deal, by the way.  I’m talking to you fate.)

A Year of Writing Prompts by Brian A Klems and Zachary Petit
January 8
Treasure Awaits
“You receive a letter in the mail from an out-of-town relative asking you to drop everything and meet him in Boston ASAP. He doesn’t say why, but signs off on the letter with the phrase: “Treasure Awaits.””

The letter from my Uncle Bernard Frush came sealed with wax. Embossed into the red paraffin was the symbol of our family crest, a fish jumping from a grove of rushes. The writing on the front was beautifully written in the finest calligraphy I had ever seen, or probably ever would by a human hand. My uncle was always one for the dramatic.

“Who’s that from,” My wife asked.

I lifted the letter to show her, but before she could view the address she must have caught sight of the wax seal and pinpointed the sender.

I tore it open and began to read.

“So what does ‘ol Burns have to say,” she said.

She pulled a dish from the top rack of our faulty dishwasher and dried it with a towel.

I quickly scanned the letter written in the same hand as the envelope.

It was his usual weekly catch ups, informing me, his second favorite nephew after my cousin Brandon, of his recent travels. The man had chosen at the age of forty to go hiking across the United States. For what reason, I do not know. I guess he had had enough of suburbia and wanted freedom. Before trekking out on his journey he rid himself of the everyday trappings of normal life, cell phone, his house, furniture, clothes. Anything that wasn’t paper or transportable he ditched.

My mother tried to talk him out of it but could get nowhere. The one thing you could count on when Burns made up his made there was no changing it. Even if it was the wildest of ideas.

“Come on,” my wife said, “I’m dying of anticipation.”

“He’s just saying how well his trip is going and…”

It took me a moment for it to register but at the end of the letter he commanded me to go to Boston.

“He says that treasure awaits.” I dropped the letter, clutched in one hand, to my leg.

Michelle laughed.

“I’m sure it’s all of the life lessons he’s learned on his journey.”

I turned to her, arching my eyebrow.

“How do you get that?”

“Thomas,” she said, grabbing another dish, “Be realistic. The man is insane. Who gives up everything they have-“

“What if it is actual treasure?”

Michelle stopped drying the dish.

“He set out for some reason. Maybe this was it?” I said.

“The man had a mid-life crisis. He has nothing left to live for. No job. No wife. No children.” She said, stowing the dish in the cupboard and closing it’s door. “That must be terribly lonely.”

“But think about it,” I said, rushing to the breakfast bar, “He’s always been obsessed with history and conspiracy theories.”

“Yes,” she said, “He never had a television because he was convinced that it was a tool of the government to brainwash us.”

“Well-“

“He’s not right, Thomas.”

I looked at the letter one more time.

Come immediately. Time is of the essence.

I read the sentence over and over, until it was burned into my vision. I looked up at Michelle and the words flickered across her face.

“You’re not going,” she said.

I Put the letter back in the envelope.

“Maybe-“

“Besides we don’t even have the money to buy a plane ticket right now.”

I nod, defeated. She’s right, of course. I’m not Uncle Berny. I have Michelle, a mortgage, a job, and children. There is no sense in taking off at the last moment.

The next evening she and I are cuddled up on our overstuffed sofa that has long lost it’s selling point, while the kids played hide-and-seek around us. Our old tube television is flickering as the National evening news with Brian Williams pipes up at the top of the hour. The main story told by the faces of my uncle and cousin holding a chest filled with large circular pieces of gold in a rotting chest. My jaw drops open and I turn to Michelle.

“Maybe he’ll split it with us?”