It's been awhile I admit, and apologize. I swear I've been writing! My current projects are a bit longer these days and as such, don't seem to be coming out the gates nearly fast enough.
The good people at Crushing Hearts and Black Butterfly Publishing took this story under their wing. It's an older tale of mine and I resurrected it from my noob writing days, gave it a fresh coat of paint and sent it on its way.
Siblings Danielle and Evan Harlow have volunteered to help with mandatory evacuations in their South Carolina community in lieu of a rapidly approaching category five hurricane. Danielle finds a house at the end of a cul-de-sac on the final road of their patrol, and its inhabitants have no intention of leaving.
That's the whistle wetter version. For more, check out the book, Dark Light 3!
Dark Light 3
Sunday, July 7, 2013
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Delivery
Hi everyone!
It's been an eventful few months. I've spent three wonderful weeks poking around Asia. I had to put down one of the best dogs I've ever owned. One of my old vices, Magic the Gathering (don't laugh and pigeon hole me a nerd) has rekindled my interest to the point of playing competitive events. I got news of a couple acceptances, and a couple rejections. I'm a part of a writer's group now, a great bunch of folks from many different corners of New England are offering me feedback on my drafts, as I am for them. And, I'm revisiting the crime novel, "The Cortez Case" in the midst of it all. I haven't spent much time at the old Scratchpad lately so I thought I'd provide a short tale.
This was written as an introductory offering to my friends in the writer group. It's more of a character introduction than anything. It's called "Delivery," and I hope you like it.
Delivery
A satchel bounced against her hip as the woodland path rose into the hills. She travelled light, without steed, squire, or any other liabilities. A coin purse weighted with survival money rested below her left armpit, the strap denied her sleek mane the playful invitation of the breeze. She ventured upwards along the narrow trail until an unkempt man arrived abruptly along the path, heading in the opposite direction.
Mead-fused beard bristles did not waiver as he brushed himself off and spoke. “Good day lass.”
“Hail.” She tilted her head in a sideways bow. Traditional bows inhibited line of sight.
“
You’re a fetching young thing,” he smiled a toothless grin, spare one discolored protrusion from the lower gum. “What’s a vixen like yerself doing in these parts all by yer lonesome?”
“I’m a courier, on a delivery.”
“And to whom exactly?”
She stared him down before answering. “Who cares to know?”
“My dear lass, where are your manners. I asked you first.”
Her tone seethed of distrust. “Fine. I am en route to Strock Michaud, Duke of Covenham.”
The dirty man cackled. “Well lass you’ve come across a bit of luck. Travel no further, for I am Strock Michaud!”
She folded her arms. “You’re the Duke?”
“In the flesh.”
“What are you doing out here?”
“Out for a jaunt. Heading to village for supplies, naturally.”
“The Duke has squires for such menial tasks.”
He spread his arms, drawing attention to the woodland. “Is it wrong to enjoy the tranquility of a walk through the forest? Clears the head, cleans the lungs. You’re a traveler, don’t you agree?”
“I suppose.”
“Tell me then, sweet girl. What do you bring me this day besides yer pretty face?”
Dark hair grazed her cheeks while she searched a number of items in her satchel until landing upon a rectangular burlap package bound in a cross of frayed rope. Without breaking eye contact, she passed the package to the Duke. The sound of a twig snap mismatched the timing of her step. She rescinded her boot. No twig lay beneath.
Duke Strock threw the rope and burlap to the ground. In his hand rested a book, blue cover, purple trim. His beard remained still despite the contortion to a frown. He objected, “A book is all?”
She nodded. “Knowledge is power, Duke.”
“Of course,” he scoffed. “Which is why I must share some knowledge with you.”
Two brutes, miners by the sights of their muscle tones and coal-smudged tunics emerged from behind large trees and stood near the Duke. A large forearm reached around her neck. She gasped.
“You see lass, I am not Duke Strock Michaud. And I don’t regard a mere book a fair prize for this little game, so why don’t you give me the rest of your deliveries. I’ll take your coin pouch too.” The man revealed his lone tooth in a threatening sneer.
The steadfast forearm denied her squirming protest. “I… I must also share some knowledge with you,” she squealed.
“Oh yes? What’s that?”
Her voice turned cold, devoid of fear. “I am not a courier.”
Her hands returned from her belt, wielding twin silver daggers. She jabbed the constricting forearm and spun the blades on the encroaching brutes.
Each blade found a jugular at once.
The brutes toppled forward, wheezing and hacking. Blood gushed from piercings on their necks. She pivoted, dagger first. A rip of cloth and flesh created a diagonal scar across the torso of the flanking miner.
The large man growled and lunged.
She lodged a dagger in his upper leg. Her open palm ascended into nose cartilage.
The large man staggered, dead before his collapse. His limp body slid the decline of the path.
She turned to the faux Duke, equipped with a dagger of his own.
Both stepped to strike.
The knives clanged against the other. She deflected another blow, and elbowed a riposte. His knife dropped to the ground beside the book. She met his awestruck face with her boot, dislodging his sole tooth. Her small fist hit his bloody jaw… once… twice.
The ‘Duke’ fell upon his back.
She reclaimed his dagger, and staked his wrists into the solid ground.
He wailed and writhed, spat a mixture of blood, saliva, and tooth shards before screaming, “No! You can’t leave me here!”
“Fear not,” she said. “Between your fear and blood, the wolves will find you in no time.” She recollected and bound the book, her perfect offering to dissatisfy and provoke a suspected illiterate.
“You filthy wench,” he snapped.
Settling hair behind her ears, she offered a disturbingly tranquil smile. “The name is Meadow. And I’d probably think about being a bit quieter if I were you. Silence will buy you time. Don’t want to alert the wolves after all.”
Meadow ascended the path beyond the failed ambush and whimpering imposter; her unbridled hair accepting the invitation of the mild breeze.
It's been an eventful few months. I've spent three wonderful weeks poking around Asia. I had to put down one of the best dogs I've ever owned. One of my old vices, Magic the Gathering (don't laugh and pigeon hole me a nerd) has rekindled my interest to the point of playing competitive events. I got news of a couple acceptances, and a couple rejections. I'm a part of a writer's group now, a great bunch of folks from many different corners of New England are offering me feedback on my drafts, as I am for them. And, I'm revisiting the crime novel, "The Cortez Case" in the midst of it all. I haven't spent much time at the old Scratchpad lately so I thought I'd provide a short tale.
This was written as an introductory offering to my friends in the writer group. It's more of a character introduction than anything. It's called "Delivery," and I hope you like it.
Delivery
A satchel bounced against her hip as the woodland path rose into the hills. She travelled light, without steed, squire, or any other liabilities. A coin purse weighted with survival money rested below her left armpit, the strap denied her sleek mane the playful invitation of the breeze. She ventured upwards along the narrow trail until an unkempt man arrived abruptly along the path, heading in the opposite direction.
Mead-fused beard bristles did not waiver as he brushed himself off and spoke. “Good day lass.”
“Hail.” She tilted her head in a sideways bow. Traditional bows inhibited line of sight.
“
You’re a fetching young thing,” he smiled a toothless grin, spare one discolored protrusion from the lower gum. “What’s a vixen like yerself doing in these parts all by yer lonesome?”
“I’m a courier, on a delivery.”
“And to whom exactly?”
She stared him down before answering. “Who cares to know?”
“My dear lass, where are your manners. I asked you first.”
Her tone seethed of distrust. “Fine. I am en route to Strock Michaud, Duke of Covenham.”
The dirty man cackled. “Well lass you’ve come across a bit of luck. Travel no further, for I am Strock Michaud!”
She folded her arms. “You’re the Duke?”
“In the flesh.”
“What are you doing out here?”
“Out for a jaunt. Heading to village for supplies, naturally.”
“The Duke has squires for such menial tasks.”
He spread his arms, drawing attention to the woodland. “Is it wrong to enjoy the tranquility of a walk through the forest? Clears the head, cleans the lungs. You’re a traveler, don’t you agree?”
“I suppose.”
“Tell me then, sweet girl. What do you bring me this day besides yer pretty face?”
Dark hair grazed her cheeks while she searched a number of items in her satchel until landing upon a rectangular burlap package bound in a cross of frayed rope. Without breaking eye contact, she passed the package to the Duke. The sound of a twig snap mismatched the timing of her step. She rescinded her boot. No twig lay beneath.
Duke Strock threw the rope and burlap to the ground. In his hand rested a book, blue cover, purple trim. His beard remained still despite the contortion to a frown. He objected, “A book is all?”
She nodded. “Knowledge is power, Duke.”
“Of course,” he scoffed. “Which is why I must share some knowledge with you.”
Two brutes, miners by the sights of their muscle tones and coal-smudged tunics emerged from behind large trees and stood near the Duke. A large forearm reached around her neck. She gasped.
“You see lass, I am not Duke Strock Michaud. And I don’t regard a mere book a fair prize for this little game, so why don’t you give me the rest of your deliveries. I’ll take your coin pouch too.” The man revealed his lone tooth in a threatening sneer.
The steadfast forearm denied her squirming protest. “I… I must also share some knowledge with you,” she squealed.
“Oh yes? What’s that?”
Her voice turned cold, devoid of fear. “I am not a courier.”
Her hands returned from her belt, wielding twin silver daggers. She jabbed the constricting forearm and spun the blades on the encroaching brutes.
Each blade found a jugular at once.
The brutes toppled forward, wheezing and hacking. Blood gushed from piercings on their necks. She pivoted, dagger first. A rip of cloth and flesh created a diagonal scar across the torso of the flanking miner.
The large man growled and lunged.
She lodged a dagger in his upper leg. Her open palm ascended into nose cartilage.
The large man staggered, dead before his collapse. His limp body slid the decline of the path.
She turned to the faux Duke, equipped with a dagger of his own.
Both stepped to strike.
The knives clanged against the other. She deflected another blow, and elbowed a riposte. His knife dropped to the ground beside the book. She met his awestruck face with her boot, dislodging his sole tooth. Her small fist hit his bloody jaw… once… twice.
The ‘Duke’ fell upon his back.
She reclaimed his dagger, and staked his wrists into the solid ground.
He wailed and writhed, spat a mixture of blood, saliva, and tooth shards before screaming, “No! You can’t leave me here!”
“Fear not,” she said. “Between your fear and blood, the wolves will find you in no time.” She recollected and bound the book, her perfect offering to dissatisfy and provoke a suspected illiterate.
“You filthy wench,” he snapped.
Settling hair behind her ears, she offered a disturbingly tranquil smile. “The name is Meadow. And I’d probably think about being a bit quieter if I were you. Silence will buy you time. Don’t want to alert the wolves after all.”
Meadow ascended the path beyond the failed ambush and whimpering imposter; her unbridled hair accepting the invitation of the mild breeze.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Dark Tales of Lost Civilizations published!
Hello everyone!
Apologies for my recess, I know it's been a bit since I've offered a short story morsel for you all to chew on. Insert excuse here.
For those that have missed my tales, I have some great news. The anthology "Dark Tales of Lost Civilizations" has officially been published! And I'm proud to announce my short story "The Funeral Procession" is included! You can find the book for sale at Barnes and Nobles or Amazon. Here's the link.
Dark Tales
Currently I'm working an editing facelift of my ongoing tale, The Cortez Case. Stay tuned for redone segments and new content!
Apologies for my recess, I know it's been a bit since I've offered a short story morsel for you all to chew on. Insert excuse here.
For those that have missed my tales, I have some great news. The anthology "Dark Tales of Lost Civilizations" has officially been published! And I'm proud to announce my short story "The Funeral Procession" is included! You can find the book for sale at Barnes and Nobles or Amazon. Here's the link.
Dark Tales
Currently I'm working an editing facelift of my ongoing tale, The Cortez Case. Stay tuned for redone segments and new content!
Friday, August 5, 2011
Third (write anything challenge, August 5)
Hi all, this is my two cents for a writing prompt site. Hope you enjoy. http://wa.emergent-publishing.com/writing-prompts/
Julie walked into a room full of people. Everything went uncomfortably silent and all eyes narrowed in on her. She crossed the room, taking a seat at the hair and make-up station in the far corner. Sure, don’t talk about this week’s casualty in front of her, she thought. Georgia gave Victoria a smirk and a wink, implying the Julie-bashing would continue at a later time. Hair stylists and make-up artists scurried around the stations. She could hear the crowd through the walls; she could envision the leggy blond hostess in the wings, preparing to commence the show. The dreaded elimination show. Three girls remained. Georgia: a quirky dancer and crowd favorite since the start of the season. The tough childhood neighborhood, the abandonment from her father, the face of overwhelmed graciousness... how could the audience NOT vote for her? Then there was Victoria. Not Vickie. She was not a Vickie. She started dancing at three, no, in diapers… or was it while she was in the womb? Ballet, jazz, tap, ballroom, she’s been trained in them all. What is she now? Contemporary, naturally. She danced a hip-hop routine this week that Julie hoped would finally show a sign of weakness. Of course not. She aced it. The judges loved her. The crowd loved her. Julie was certain the voters at home loved her too. She never performed hip-hop before. Her skills were superhuman.
Victoria asked Georgia in a mutter which of two dance outfits would be a better choice for the finale show. Georgia gave her a ‘not in front of Julie’ face. At least Georgia was still humble. Julie felt her skills were par to Georgia but Julie had not once received the same level of praise from the judges. The head judge declared Georgia his favorite. Julie was never a favorite. She had outlasted seven other girls since the show began, hundreds in the pre-show cuts and tens of thousands in the initial auditions. She should be happy to have come as far as she had. Millions of Americans have helped her get this far. The week before the finals. And here she sat in the company of the two that would best her tonight. Victoria, incredible. Georgia, unstoppable. Julie, vulnerable.
Applause raised then diminished as the blond spoke her first greeting to the audience. In moments, the three girls would be called to the stage. Julie felt like she were preparing for her own execution.
Georgia hugged Julie, “you look beautiful.”
“Thanks,” Julie feigned a smile.
Victoria offered a consoling rub of Julie’s shoulder, “I hope we can still be friends after tonight.”
“Of course, Victoria. Always!” I hope you fall off a bridge, Victoria.
A rap on the door preceded a disembodied male voice. “Ladies, you’re up.”
“Good luck,” Georgia said.
“Break a leg,” Victoria added.
Julie walked in silence. A theater of thousands, several cameras, and the blond host came into view. She squinted as beaming lights of the stage met her eyes. Lights that would highlight every tear that would soon roll down her cheeks.
Julie walked into a room full of people. Everything went uncomfortably silent and all eyes narrowed in on her. She crossed the room, taking a seat at the hair and make-up station in the far corner. Sure, don’t talk about this week’s casualty in front of her, she thought. Georgia gave Victoria a smirk and a wink, implying the Julie-bashing would continue at a later time. Hair stylists and make-up artists scurried around the stations. She could hear the crowd through the walls; she could envision the leggy blond hostess in the wings, preparing to commence the show. The dreaded elimination show. Three girls remained. Georgia: a quirky dancer and crowd favorite since the start of the season. The tough childhood neighborhood, the abandonment from her father, the face of overwhelmed graciousness... how could the audience NOT vote for her? Then there was Victoria. Not Vickie. She was not a Vickie. She started dancing at three, no, in diapers… or was it while she was in the womb? Ballet, jazz, tap, ballroom, she’s been trained in them all. What is she now? Contemporary, naturally. She danced a hip-hop routine this week that Julie hoped would finally show a sign of weakness. Of course not. She aced it. The judges loved her. The crowd loved her. Julie was certain the voters at home loved her too. She never performed hip-hop before. Her skills were superhuman.
Victoria asked Georgia in a mutter which of two dance outfits would be a better choice for the finale show. Georgia gave her a ‘not in front of Julie’ face. At least Georgia was still humble. Julie felt her skills were par to Georgia but Julie had not once received the same level of praise from the judges. The head judge declared Georgia his favorite. Julie was never a favorite. She had outlasted seven other girls since the show began, hundreds in the pre-show cuts and tens of thousands in the initial auditions. She should be happy to have come as far as she had. Millions of Americans have helped her get this far. The week before the finals. And here she sat in the company of the two that would best her tonight. Victoria, incredible. Georgia, unstoppable. Julie, vulnerable.
Applause raised then diminished as the blond spoke her first greeting to the audience. In moments, the three girls would be called to the stage. Julie felt like she were preparing for her own execution.
Georgia hugged Julie, “you look beautiful.”
“Thanks,” Julie feigned a smile.
Victoria offered a consoling rub of Julie’s shoulder, “I hope we can still be friends after tonight.”
“Of course, Victoria. Always!” I hope you fall off a bridge, Victoria.
A rap on the door preceded a disembodied male voice. “Ladies, you’re up.”
“Good luck,” Georgia said.
“Break a leg,” Victoria added.
Julie walked in silence. A theater of thousands, several cameras, and the blond host came into view. She squinted as beaming lights of the stage met her eyes. Lights that would highlight every tear that would soon roll down her cheeks.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Second Chance 4 (three word Wednesday - affinity, fidget, mention)
The final installment of the "Second Chance" story. Hope you enjoy and thanks for reading.
Four young teenagers stood in blackness, their faces illuminated by a lone candle fixed in a bronze candlestick atop a centrally located altar.
“Where are we?” The blond girl asked. The thin brunette grinned evilly. The regular boy shrugged. The last boy stared at the three with icy eyes, emotionless. His aura seethed of ominous power.
The plain boy looked from Ellison to the powerful boy, “Well?”
“Interesting predicament, three have died. Three different outcomes,” the boy Death spoke in such a monotone that Russell doubted he truly found the topic interesting.
The brunette folded her arms. Russell again shrugged at Ellison.
Death positioned himself opposite the others. “To hell with you,” he waved his arm.
The brunette descended through the floor slowly, as if succumbing to quicksand. She did not protest or fight, Russell and Ellison watched her departure in amazement.
Ellison finally spoke, “that’s it for Campbell? Why did she just accept her fate?”
Death spoke, “I am returning her from whence she came. Some people are placed on earth to do great things. Others rise only to carry out evil.”
“That explains Hitler and Bin Laden,” Russell thought aloud.
“And Charlie Sheen,” Ellison added.
The emotionless Death continued, “Campbell was sent from hell to carry out a task, and her task was thwarted.”
“Thwarted,” the blonde Ellison squealed, “but, but I’ve been shot!”
Russell lowered his head. All about you, Ellison.
“Campbell was stopped before she got to her intended target,” Death turned his head, “you did well, Russell.”
“My death means nothing?”
Death’s failure to mention, or even acknowledge Ellison irritated her further. He glanced from the candle, back to Russell, “Dr. Peyton Rousseau was the intended target.”
“Doctor… Peyton?” Death spoke of the Hannah Montana clone? She becomes a doctor?
Ellison argued, “Rousseau isn’t her last name, that’s…”
Death interrupted, “Doctors Javier and Peyton Rousseau move to Ghana after medical school. They play a big part in abolishing AIDS in Western Africa.”
“Wow, that’s great,” Russell smiled.
“She marries Javier!?” Ellison scoffed.
“So does that mean I have succeeded what was asked?” Russell looked to the stoic boy with a hopeful expression. He thought he saw Death curling his lip, the faintest indication of a smirk.
“Yes, Russell, you stopped the shooting.”
Ellison’s jaw dropped, “Stop the… helllooo. I’m dead! Doesn’t anyone care I’m dead?”
Death waved his arm again. A glowing circle appeared, levitating over Russell’s head. A feeling of bliss pulsed through Russell’s body.
“The halo will grant you the power to see the light. Go towards the light.”
“What about me?”
Russell stared at his new halo until a bright light appeared over his shoulder.
Ellison fidgeted, wearing a worried expression. “So, one went to hell. One went to heaven. Where’s that leave me,” she cried.
“You’re what we call an Almost.”
“An Almost?”
Russell observed her reaction as the conversation played out similar to the one he shared with Death just days ago. Ellison slumped, facing the candle with an empty stare.
Russell leaned towards her and whispered. She straightened her posture. “Is there anything I can do?”
“I’ll pretend I did not see that,” Death said, “Russell, you are dismissed.”
Russell left Ellison in Death’s hands. The affinity to the soothing glow intensified, overtaking his entire being. He entered the kingdom of Heaven, and the dim room disappeared forever behind him.
#
Ellison snapped her head back and snorted. She must have dozed off. She examined her surroundings. A stranger sat in the seat to her right. To her left, an aisle separated herself from more strangers. The “room” was a giant sphere with many rows of occupied seats. She wiped her chin, checking for drool.
“What the…”
Her hands were aged, larger, well manicured. A black business suit covered her curvier, heavier, older body.
“I’m, like, old!”
Laughter came from all directions, then ceased with an intercom announcement, “Ladies and gentlemen we have reached our cruising altitude of thirty five thousand feet. Please remain seated while our staff provides a complimentary beverage.”
“We’re on a plane? Wow, never been on one before,” she said, facing the old gentleman alongside her. “Where are we going?”
If an expression could have called her crazy without saying a word, the gentleman wore it.
A long legged stewardess in a short skirt travelled the aisle, stopping at Ellison’s chair. “May I get you a drink,” she asked with an icy stare and monotone voice.
Four young teenagers stood in blackness, their faces illuminated by a lone candle fixed in a bronze candlestick atop a centrally located altar.
“Where are we?” The blond girl asked. The thin brunette grinned evilly. The regular boy shrugged. The last boy stared at the three with icy eyes, emotionless. His aura seethed of ominous power.
The plain boy looked from Ellison to the powerful boy, “Well?”
“Interesting predicament, three have died. Three different outcomes,” the boy Death spoke in such a monotone that Russell doubted he truly found the topic interesting.
The brunette folded her arms. Russell again shrugged at Ellison.
Death positioned himself opposite the others. “To hell with you,” he waved his arm.
The brunette descended through the floor slowly, as if succumbing to quicksand. She did not protest or fight, Russell and Ellison watched her departure in amazement.
Ellison finally spoke, “that’s it for Campbell? Why did she just accept her fate?”
Death spoke, “I am returning her from whence she came. Some people are placed on earth to do great things. Others rise only to carry out evil.”
“That explains Hitler and Bin Laden,” Russell thought aloud.
“And Charlie Sheen,” Ellison added.
The emotionless Death continued, “Campbell was sent from hell to carry out a task, and her task was thwarted.”
“Thwarted,” the blonde Ellison squealed, “but, but I’ve been shot!”
Russell lowered his head. All about you, Ellison.
“Campbell was stopped before she got to her intended target,” Death turned his head, “you did well, Russell.”
“My death means nothing?”
Death’s failure to mention, or even acknowledge Ellison irritated her further. He glanced from the candle, back to Russell, “Dr. Peyton Rousseau was the intended target.”
“Doctor… Peyton?” Death spoke of the Hannah Montana clone? She becomes a doctor?
Ellison argued, “Rousseau isn’t her last name, that’s…”
Death interrupted, “Doctors Javier and Peyton Rousseau move to Ghana after medical school. They play a big part in abolishing AIDS in Western Africa.”
“Wow, that’s great,” Russell smiled.
“She marries Javier!?” Ellison scoffed.
“So does that mean I have succeeded what was asked?” Russell looked to the stoic boy with a hopeful expression. He thought he saw Death curling his lip, the faintest indication of a smirk.
“Yes, Russell, you stopped the shooting.”
Ellison’s jaw dropped, “Stop the… helllooo. I’m dead! Doesn’t anyone care I’m dead?”
Death waved his arm again. A glowing circle appeared, levitating over Russell’s head. A feeling of bliss pulsed through Russell’s body.
“The halo will grant you the power to see the light. Go towards the light.”
“What about me?”
Russell stared at his new halo until a bright light appeared over his shoulder.
Ellison fidgeted, wearing a worried expression. “So, one went to hell. One went to heaven. Where’s that leave me,” she cried.
“You’re what we call an Almost.”
“An Almost?”
Russell observed her reaction as the conversation played out similar to the one he shared with Death just days ago. Ellison slumped, facing the candle with an empty stare.
Russell leaned towards her and whispered. She straightened her posture. “Is there anything I can do?”
“I’ll pretend I did not see that,” Death said, “Russell, you are dismissed.”
Russell left Ellison in Death’s hands. The affinity to the soothing glow intensified, overtaking his entire being. He entered the kingdom of Heaven, and the dim room disappeared forever behind him.
#
Ellison snapped her head back and snorted. She must have dozed off. She examined her surroundings. A stranger sat in the seat to her right. To her left, an aisle separated herself from more strangers. The “room” was a giant sphere with many rows of occupied seats. She wiped her chin, checking for drool.
“What the…”
Her hands were aged, larger, well manicured. A black business suit covered her curvier, heavier, older body.
“I’m, like, old!”
Laughter came from all directions, then ceased with an intercom announcement, “Ladies and gentlemen we have reached our cruising altitude of thirty five thousand feet. Please remain seated while our staff provides a complimentary beverage.”
“We’re on a plane? Wow, never been on one before,” she said, facing the old gentleman alongside her. “Where are we going?”
If an expression could have called her crazy without saying a word, the gentleman wore it.
A long legged stewardess in a short skirt travelled the aisle, stopping at Ellison’s chair. “May I get you a drink,” she asked with an icy stare and monotone voice.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Second Chance 3 (three word Wednesday x 2 - figure, juicy, stress, blink, kind, occasion)
Hello, been awhile, my apologies. The tale is a continuation of Second Chance and its sequel, the story of Russell's brush with Death. Enjoy, and thanks for reading.
“Why are you following me?”
The blond girl spun; her aggressive tone called unwanted attention from several students in the school hall. Russell lowered his head. As if being the “new kid” wasn’t already a lightning rod for stray eyes. He had scanned as many kids as possible without slowing his gait, sizing each up for hints of a concealed firearm or an unstable demeanor.
“I don’t know what you mean Ellison. I’m going this way too. You just happen to be going the same way in front of me,” he lied. She wouldn’t believe the truth. If he confessed she was not long to this world, she’d interpret him as a threat and he’d spend the morning in the principal’s office. He didn’t have that kind of time to kill. He knew Principal Louis Kerry from church, and though he was very personable to adults, had a reputation as a hard-ass to students. Russell reminded himself, he’d be welcomed as the latter.
The blonde blinked at him, at a loss of words but frustrated regardless. He allowed her to continue down the hall before pursuing at a safe distance. Russell contemplated his next move, giving a judgmental glare to a prudish teacher whose face reminded him of the surface of a walnut, a stern-faced janitor shorter than the mop he toted, and a gender confused creature from the cafeteria staff.
Could it be an adult? What if it were? He hadn’t the strength to outmuscle an adult should the occasion arise. Most of the male students stood taller or broader than he, now that he looked around. Why did Death put me in this predicament? Why could I just have died like everyone else? He frowned, realizing his last thought was more of an assumption than anything else.
Ellison trotted rudely through a conversation, nudged a student with her shoulder, and vanished into a classroom. Today isn’t the best day to be on your high horse, princess. Russell wondered how fast he’d be called out in her homeroom. He had no identification. No teachers were advised of the arrival of a new student to his knowledge. He squeezed between a stocky boy in baggy shorts and a dumpy girl with a logo tee shirt reading ‘JUICY’ to take a seat at the rear corner of the class. Position myself to watch everyone.
Ellison carried on in hushed chatter with a Hannah Montana look-alike and a brunette with an anorexic figure; their pointing and giggling clearly in ridicule of anyone showing imperfection.
God, I used to hate girls like that…
“Forget them, way out of your league,” the boy in front of him observed Russell’s interest in Ellison and crew. It was the boy with glasses from the bus.
“Huh? Oh,” Russell chuckled, “not like that junior, way too young for me.”
The boy raised an eyebrow before continuing, “I’m Javier.”
Javier? Does anyone these days give their kids normal names?
“Russell Ward,” the handshake was both unanticipated and weak on Javier’s part.
“Why are you so concerned about them?”
Noticing a teacher had entered, Russell leaned forward and lowered his tone, “Javier, you don’t know anyone that’s been under a bit of stress lately? Not-right-in-the-head, like, gonna-go-postal any minute sort of person, do you?”
Javier’s blank stare was enhanced through the contortion of his glasses.
Russell frowned, “OK then. You aren’t by any chance hiding a loaded gun, are you?”
“What’s wrong with you,” Javier asked. He turned to face the teacher before Russell could reply.
“I’m Mr. Donahue for those that don’t know me,” the thin teacher announced over diminished mutterings. ”I’m your homeroom teacher. I need everyone to take a seat for attendance.”
Students reluctantly lowered themselves into chairs, Ellison and her clique last to disperse. Russell watched with disdain. Little miss perfects think they’re above the law.
“Ellison, Campbell, Peyton when I say ‘take I seat,’ that includes you,” the teacher stepped around his desk.
What is with these names? Isn’t Peyton a boy name and Campbell a soup?
“One sec,” Ellison replied.
Wow. Bold. Russell remained vigilant, scanning the room. All students were seated, all eyes on the three young ladies.
The teacher crossed the room.
Russell sat sideways in the desk, leaning forward. He pulled up his pant leg and collected the switchblade.
Campbell, the underweight brunette, revealed a pistol from within her cardigan, “Don’t tell us what to do, Mr. Donahue.”
Peyton screamed.
Students scurried to the door. Ellison attempted to rationalize through the noise, “Campbell put it away, you don’t need to…”
“Shut up, Ell, or you’ll get some of this too,” the brunette scowled at her.
Mr. Donahue lunged to seize the weapon.
Russell sprung from the seat, knife in hand.
BANG. BANG.
“Why are you following me?”
The blond girl spun; her aggressive tone called unwanted attention from several students in the school hall. Russell lowered his head. As if being the “new kid” wasn’t already a lightning rod for stray eyes. He had scanned as many kids as possible without slowing his gait, sizing each up for hints of a concealed firearm or an unstable demeanor.
“I don’t know what you mean Ellison. I’m going this way too. You just happen to be going the same way in front of me,” he lied. She wouldn’t believe the truth. If he confessed she was not long to this world, she’d interpret him as a threat and he’d spend the morning in the principal’s office. He didn’t have that kind of time to kill. He knew Principal Louis Kerry from church, and though he was very personable to adults, had a reputation as a hard-ass to students. Russell reminded himself, he’d be welcomed as the latter.
The blonde blinked at him, at a loss of words but frustrated regardless. He allowed her to continue down the hall before pursuing at a safe distance. Russell contemplated his next move, giving a judgmental glare to a prudish teacher whose face reminded him of the surface of a walnut, a stern-faced janitor shorter than the mop he toted, and a gender confused creature from the cafeteria staff.
Could it be an adult? What if it were? He hadn’t the strength to outmuscle an adult should the occasion arise. Most of the male students stood taller or broader than he, now that he looked around. Why did Death put me in this predicament? Why could I just have died like everyone else? He frowned, realizing his last thought was more of an assumption than anything else.
Ellison trotted rudely through a conversation, nudged a student with her shoulder, and vanished into a classroom. Today isn’t the best day to be on your high horse, princess. Russell wondered how fast he’d be called out in her homeroom. He had no identification. No teachers were advised of the arrival of a new student to his knowledge. He squeezed between a stocky boy in baggy shorts and a dumpy girl with a logo tee shirt reading ‘JUICY’ to take a seat at the rear corner of the class. Position myself to watch everyone.
Ellison carried on in hushed chatter with a Hannah Montana look-alike and a brunette with an anorexic figure; their pointing and giggling clearly in ridicule of anyone showing imperfection.
God, I used to hate girls like that…
“Forget them, way out of your league,” the boy in front of him observed Russell’s interest in Ellison and crew. It was the boy with glasses from the bus.
“Huh? Oh,” Russell chuckled, “not like that junior, way too young for me.”
The boy raised an eyebrow before continuing, “I’m Javier.”
Javier? Does anyone these days give their kids normal names?
“Russell Ward,” the handshake was both unanticipated and weak on Javier’s part.
“Why are you so concerned about them?”
Noticing a teacher had entered, Russell leaned forward and lowered his tone, “Javier, you don’t know anyone that’s been under a bit of stress lately? Not-right-in-the-head, like, gonna-go-postal any minute sort of person, do you?”
Javier’s blank stare was enhanced through the contortion of his glasses.
Russell frowned, “OK then. You aren’t by any chance hiding a loaded gun, are you?”
“What’s wrong with you,” Javier asked. He turned to face the teacher before Russell could reply.
“I’m Mr. Donahue for those that don’t know me,” the thin teacher announced over diminished mutterings. ”I’m your homeroom teacher. I need everyone to take a seat for attendance.”
Students reluctantly lowered themselves into chairs, Ellison and her clique last to disperse. Russell watched with disdain. Little miss perfects think they’re above the law.
“Ellison, Campbell, Peyton when I say ‘take I seat,’ that includes you,” the teacher stepped around his desk.
What is with these names? Isn’t Peyton a boy name and Campbell a soup?
“One sec,” Ellison replied.
Wow. Bold. Russell remained vigilant, scanning the room. All students were seated, all eyes on the three young ladies.
The teacher crossed the room.
Russell sat sideways in the desk, leaning forward. He pulled up his pant leg and collected the switchblade.
Campbell, the underweight brunette, revealed a pistol from within her cardigan, “Don’t tell us what to do, Mr. Donahue.”
Peyton screamed.
Students scurried to the door. Ellison attempted to rationalize through the noise, “Campbell put it away, you don’t need to…”
“Shut up, Ell, or you’ll get some of this too,” the brunette scowled at her.
Mr. Donahue lunged to seize the weapon.
Russell sprung from the seat, knife in hand.
BANG. BANG.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Second Chance 2 (three word Wednesday x 5 - effect,immense,shimmer,absolve,hiss,ridicule,hint,lust,sheen,engulf,imminent,tamper,gait,nudge,ripen)
It has been five installments since he last entered the ring. Miss me? (Mime hug.) I pun. I'm fueled for crumping!
...is an anagram for the 15 words I have missed over my 3ww hiatus. But I know you're not here for the anagrams, so on to the story, this is a "part two" of an earlier 3ww that resulted in many requests for a sequel. You can find part one here... Second Chance ... hope you enjoy.
“This is the school bus stop right?” The young Russell approached a blond girl he had known for years as ‘the neighbor’s daughter.’
“No I’m standing here ‘cuz I feel like it,” the girl hissed, texting in fluid motion.
“Sorry for the trouble little lady, was just a question.” Russell had long ago forgotten the art of conversing with pre-teens effectively. The glare of imminent doom told him she not only was unappreciative of the ‘little lady’ comment, but also doubly irritated for interrupting her texting concentration.
“I’m Russell.”
“That’s nice.”
He frowned, “I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name?”
“I didn’t give it.”
“OK I guess I’ll call you Miss Sheen.”
“How’d you know my last name?”
Russell nudged her, pointing down the road, “You live there, don’t you? You’re Dave and Kelly’s kid.”
“Kerrie. My mom’s name is Kerrie,” confusion engulfed the girl.
“That’s right, I could never get that right…”
“Are you some kind of stalker?” The girl squirmed with the discomforting feeling her privacy had been tampered.
“Seriously Miss Sheen if I were stalking you, I’d probably know your name.”
“Don’t call me Miss Sheen. My name is Ellison.”
“Nice to meet you, Allison.”
“Ellison. With an E.”
What kind of name was Ellison? Russell forgot what an immense feat it was to get information out of girls like Ellison. She was the type of girl twelve year old minded boys lusted after, texted love notes to, had difficulty speaking in front of. Russell was long beyond such angst, and his forward approach was something little Ellison Sheen was not used to. As soon as the bus turned the corner, any shimmer of friendship vanished and she resumed her proud, snobbish gait onto the bus. That’s right, can’t be seen talking to the new guy. At the least Russell felt absolved of the stalker label. Distancing himself from the ripened sweaty odor of the overweight driver, he sat on an unoccupied bench seat in the middle of the bus.
He confirmed the switchblade was still under his right sock, playing the motion off as an itch. If he was to diffuse a threat in the school, he needed something. It wasn’t much, but he wasn’t going to be the one to bring a gun into a Middle School. The jeans were baggy enough to show no sign of a concealed weapon.
“What do you plan to do with that?” A monotone voice said beside him. Russell glanced across the aisle to find the pale boy he had met two nights ago. The boy named Death.
“Fancy meeting you here,” Russell rolled his eyes.
“You are bringing a weapon to school.”
“Self defense. You and I both know self defense will be needed today.”
A boy with glasses in the seat behind Russell leaned over the backing, “Who are you talking to?”
“Oh, uh, no one. Just thinking aloud. Sorry.” Russell stared at Death across the aisle. Death spoke indifferently, “He cannot see me, only those whose time draws near can see me.”
“You shouldn’t talk to yourself. People will think you’re crazy,” the boy with glasses ridiculed before retracting into his seat.
“They’re bringing a gun, you’re bringing a knife. I hope you have a plan,” Death stated with an eerie calmness.
“It’s better than nothing. Can you tell me anything at all about…”
“No. That would be cheating.”
Russell sighed. The bus pulled into the unloading area at the school entrance. He and Death were quick to get off the bus. Russell stopped on the curb, overwhelmed at the scene of hundreds of kids greeting one another from their returns from summer break. The boy with glasses disembarked the bus, passing right through Death as if he were air, sending a shiver up his spine.
“There’s so many kids. Can’t even give me a hint?”
Ellison stepped out of the bus glaring a disgusted look towards Russell and his pale ‘friend,’ and stepped around Death towards the school.
Death squinted at Russell. Russell swallowed hard, “Ellison, come back!”
...is an anagram for the 15 words I have missed over my 3ww hiatus. But I know you're not here for the anagrams, so on to the story, this is a "part two" of an earlier 3ww that resulted in many requests for a sequel. You can find part one here... Second Chance ... hope you enjoy.
“This is the school bus stop right?” The young Russell approached a blond girl he had known for years as ‘the neighbor’s daughter.’
“No I’m standing here ‘cuz I feel like it,” the girl hissed, texting in fluid motion.
“Sorry for the trouble little lady, was just a question.” Russell had long ago forgotten the art of conversing with pre-teens effectively. The glare of imminent doom told him she not only was unappreciative of the ‘little lady’ comment, but also doubly irritated for interrupting her texting concentration.
“I’m Russell.”
“That’s nice.”
He frowned, “I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name?”
“I didn’t give it.”
“OK I guess I’ll call you Miss Sheen.”
“How’d you know my last name?”
Russell nudged her, pointing down the road, “You live there, don’t you? You’re Dave and Kelly’s kid.”
“Kerrie. My mom’s name is Kerrie,” confusion engulfed the girl.
“That’s right, I could never get that right…”
“Are you some kind of stalker?” The girl squirmed with the discomforting feeling her privacy had been tampered.
“Seriously Miss Sheen if I were stalking you, I’d probably know your name.”
“Don’t call me Miss Sheen. My name is Ellison.”
“Nice to meet you, Allison.”
“Ellison. With an E.”
What kind of name was Ellison? Russell forgot what an immense feat it was to get information out of girls like Ellison. She was the type of girl twelve year old minded boys lusted after, texted love notes to, had difficulty speaking in front of. Russell was long beyond such angst, and his forward approach was something little Ellison Sheen was not used to. As soon as the bus turned the corner, any shimmer of friendship vanished and she resumed her proud, snobbish gait onto the bus. That’s right, can’t be seen talking to the new guy. At the least Russell felt absolved of the stalker label. Distancing himself from the ripened sweaty odor of the overweight driver, he sat on an unoccupied bench seat in the middle of the bus.
He confirmed the switchblade was still under his right sock, playing the motion off as an itch. If he was to diffuse a threat in the school, he needed something. It wasn’t much, but he wasn’t going to be the one to bring a gun into a Middle School. The jeans were baggy enough to show no sign of a concealed weapon.
“What do you plan to do with that?” A monotone voice said beside him. Russell glanced across the aisle to find the pale boy he had met two nights ago. The boy named Death.
“Fancy meeting you here,” Russell rolled his eyes.
“You are bringing a weapon to school.”
“Self defense. You and I both know self defense will be needed today.”
A boy with glasses in the seat behind Russell leaned over the backing, “Who are you talking to?”
“Oh, uh, no one. Just thinking aloud. Sorry.” Russell stared at Death across the aisle. Death spoke indifferently, “He cannot see me, only those whose time draws near can see me.”
“You shouldn’t talk to yourself. People will think you’re crazy,” the boy with glasses ridiculed before retracting into his seat.
“They’re bringing a gun, you’re bringing a knife. I hope you have a plan,” Death stated with an eerie calmness.
“It’s better than nothing. Can you tell me anything at all about…”
“No. That would be cheating.”
Russell sighed. The bus pulled into the unloading area at the school entrance. He and Death were quick to get off the bus. Russell stopped on the curb, overwhelmed at the scene of hundreds of kids greeting one another from their returns from summer break. The boy with glasses disembarked the bus, passing right through Death as if he were air, sending a shiver up his spine.
“There’s so many kids. Can’t even give me a hint?”
Ellison stepped out of the bus glaring a disgusted look towards Russell and his pale ‘friend,’ and stepped around Death towards the school.
Death squinted at Russell. Russell swallowed hard, “Ellison, come back!”
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