Let's get right to it, shall we?
1st Place--JAMIE FORD, "GIVING HER THE BIRD" (#19).
$25 Amazon gift certificate and an 8x10 print of the contest photograph or any other photograph in the gallery.
2nd Place--ESTHER AVILA, Entry #6.
$10 Amazon gift certificate and an 8x10 print of the contest photograph or any other photograph in the gallery.
3rd Place--J.T. ELLISON, "You Say Monet, I Say Manet" (#14).
An 8x10 print of the contest photograph or any other photograph in the gallery.
Honorable Mention--S.F. JOHNSTON, "Every Hope and Dream" (#33).
Honorable Mention--ZARA CALVENTE, "Too Well Illumined" (#31).
Congratulations to the winners!! I would ask the 1st, 2nd, and 3rd place winners to email me with their contact information so I can arrange for delivery of their prizes. Also, please select either the contest photograph or any other photograph from [the gallery] for your prize.
Now for a word about the judging:
In order to better manage the process, I developed a scoring system I named "P.E.T.S. Voice." I awarded points (up to the maximum indicated) for each of these five elements: Pacing (10), Enjoyment (10), Technical (10), Storytelling (10), and Voice (5)*. I then set aside the eight top scorers for a fresh review and selection of the winners. Although all entries stood out in one or more categories, the winners succeeded in all five with exceptional skill.
Starting Monday (I will be away for the weekend), I will comment on each entry about what I liked best. If you are also interested in constructive comments, drop me an email, and I would be happy to offer whatever suggestions I might have.
Thank you again for such an amazing contest. During the course of this week, your entries generated 5,362 hits! WOW! I was also very impressed by how supportive this community of writers has been.
I hope to see all of you back here and on your own blogs. Drop me a note if you'd like to trade links.
Happy writing, and have a great weekend!
--Jason
[*Scoring was reduced for voice, since it is difficult to establish a unique voice in so short a piece.]
Friday, April 28, 2006
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Hallways
Hallways linger
Not beholden to night
Heed the prickling whispers
As you race between the lights
**The "Two Lights" Short Fiction Contest is now closed.**
First, my friends, let me say that I've been humbled by your response. Amazing writing, amazing comments, and amazing creativity! From one sliver of time captured in an image, we saw the explosion of different approaches, writing styles, voices, perspectives, and ideas. I've learned from what I've seen here. I'm sure you have too. Thank you for making this contest a raging success.
Tomorrow around 12:00 p.m. Eastern Time-U.S., I will announce the winners (please note I moved the time earlier). I will also say a bit about how I judged the entries. Be assured, though, that every piece demonstrated skill and power.
For all of you who are new to The Clarity of Night, I hope you will stick around! If something in the mood of these photographs spoke to you, if twilight is a time you treasure like no other, you may find this to be a cozy spot for reflection. I also invite you to browse the "Finding Your Way in the Night" index to the right and check out some of my own writing, expecially my latest short story, Diamond Shoals.
Lastly, look for future contests! I will be sponsoring them every couple of months. And if the number of entries matches this one, I will be sure to increase the number and amount of prizes!
Have a good night. See you all tomorrow!
--Jason
"Two Lights" Short Fiction Contest
Click HERE for information and rules.
Click HERE for the winners announcement.
Index of Entries:
Agnew, J P: "Two Lights" (#5)
Allen, Robin: "Reality" (#8)
Allison, Andrea: "The Night" (#38)
2ND PLACE--Avila, Esther: Entry #6
Baker, Robert J.: "The Dark Hallway" (#39)
Beaufort, Marie: Entry #37
Berdahl, Myron: "Two Lights" (#28)
Bodayla, Keith: "Katrina's Legacy" (#34)
HONORABLE MENTION--Calvente, Zara: "Too Well Illumined" (#31)
Dufresne, Jerilyn: Entry #15
Ellis, Scott: "Hard Love" (#17)
Ellis, Scott: "Chip Off the Old Block" (Entry to Share)
3RD PLACE--Ellison, J.T.: "You Say Monet, I Say Manet" (#14)
Erre, Anne: "Hard Day's Night" (#23)
1ST PLACE--Ford, Jamie: "Giving Her the Bird" (#19)
Ghosh, Bhaswati: Entry #9
Hammel, John: "Leave the Lights On" (#35)
Harris, Bernita: "Beacon" (#2)
James, Erik Ivan: "Death, Away" (#7)
Janice, Lucretia: "Lights Extinguished" (#16)
HONORABLE MENTION--Johnston, SF: "Every Hope and Dream" (#33)
Lady M: "Waking Light" (#30)
Landry, Forrest: "Headlight" (#27)
Leone, Tsavo: "Images, Portents" (#25)
Leone, Tsavo: "Room Service" (Entry to Share)
Liadis, Paul: "Do Not Touch" (#36)
Long, Chong Yen: "Two Lights" (#29)
McAuley, John: "Dawn and Twilight" (#22)
Mishra, Sanjaya: "The Attraction" (#40)
Nain, Paul: "Exit Eden" (#11)
Neale, Jeff: "Rekindled" (#3)
Perry, Lyndon: "The Twin Lights of Life and Liberty" (#24)
Sathyamurthy, Jayaprakash: Entry #41
Seamans, Sandra: "A Wealth of Love" (#1)
Simard, Ann Marie: "Two Lights with No Beacon (#10)
Stitzel, Jim: Entry #18
Thornquist, John: "Midnight Rendezvous" (#21)
Vax, Flood: "The Widower's Light" (#4)
Warner, Bethany K.: "Blinded by the Light" (#12)
Welch, Terri: "Two Lamps" (#26)
Wells, Jaye: "Emancipation" (#13)
Wilson, John: "Beacons" (#20)
Wood, Daniel Marshall: "An Unexpected Invitation" (#32)
Entry #41
This entry had some problems on the trip overseas. I'll count it as an entry since the first attempt to send it was well within the deadline.
Entry #41
by Jayaprakash Sathyamurthy
'The lights help you to aim. When you eat the root and recite the chant, your vision will blur – this is temporary. Do not worry. Find the glowing lights, and align yourself in between and a little above them. Take a deep breath, and run towards this point as fast as you can, leaping up just as you come abreast of the table.'
'What's in the picture?'
'The painting itself is unimportant. A bucolic landscape in pre-industrial Europe, a close up of fungal growths on a dead bison – it makes no difference. For this moment, the canvas is a membrane, and one that you may penetrate.'
'What's on the other side?'
'A dying world circled with debris-rings, dwarfed by an immense red star, an archaic space where warring celestial factions loom ominous over a cowed populace, a gleaming, automated future where steel servitors nurture a fleshy elite, or a world just a sideways-step askew from our own – who knows? Others have seen these places, and more. You must tell us what you see, for we cannot tell you what you will see.'
'The chant is silly. What kind of mumbo-jumbo is that?'
'If it helps you focus, you can even chant the words to 'Louie Louie'. Our aesthetic sense is not that fragile.'
'What if I don't want to come back?'
'Oh, we'll get to you. An assailant in the park, a person from Porlock, a woman in a velvet mask – we'll get to you.'
'Oh.'
'So, are you ready?'
Entry #41
by Jayaprakash Sathyamurthy
'The lights help you to aim. When you eat the root and recite the chant, your vision will blur – this is temporary. Do not worry. Find the glowing lights, and align yourself in between and a little above them. Take a deep breath, and run towards this point as fast as you can, leaping up just as you come abreast of the table.'
'What's in the picture?'
'The painting itself is unimportant. A bucolic landscape in pre-industrial Europe, a close up of fungal growths on a dead bison – it makes no difference. For this moment, the canvas is a membrane, and one that you may penetrate.'
'What's on the other side?'
'A dying world circled with debris-rings, dwarfed by an immense red star, an archaic space where warring celestial factions loom ominous over a cowed populace, a gleaming, automated future where steel servitors nurture a fleshy elite, or a world just a sideways-step askew from our own – who knows? Others have seen these places, and more. You must tell us what you see, for we cannot tell you what you will see.'
'The chant is silly. What kind of mumbo-jumbo is that?'
'If it helps you focus, you can even chant the words to 'Louie Louie'. Our aesthetic sense is not that fragile.'
'What if I don't want to come back?'
'Oh, we'll get to you. An assailant in the park, a person from Porlock, a woman in a velvet mask – we'll get to you.'
'Oh.'
'So, are you ready?'
Entry #40
"The Attraction"
by Sanjaya Mishra
I could see her ambling across to the wall with the candles in hand. As the matchstick flashed and candles flickered one after another, I could feel the stream of overpowering urge running through my body. Isn’t it the time I have been waiting for it?
Leaving my cool, cozy and secure abode amidst the decks of books, I proceeded with gingerly footwork over the pen-stand, across the shelf, past the ticking table-clock and looked up. By now, to my eyes, the two candles had become a single source of light, and beyond that I could see the painting hanging on the wall and I knew for sure, behind it hidden somewhere lay my nemesis.
But should I stop? Can I withdraw...?
I fluttered my wings and they responded with amazing intensity. Powered by the uncontrolled ecstasy brewing up inside me, I dashed off. Picking up speed, I buzzed around the lighted candles - my only source of exultation. I hit the painting and fell on the table.
The damaged wings again picked me up.
Beneath the painting, I could see the protruding head with the flashing eyes and the darting pink tongue. It didn’t matter to me now. I had already accomplished my desire – my seventh heaven.
Suddenly I got stuck and the wings got sucked in.
But unmindful and detached of the impending death, I still kept on looking at the candles, - a sense of contentment in my eyes and the rest of my still undecomposed body.
[Sanjaya Mishra works as a geologist in India and is engaged in finding out source of drinking water in remote villages. Apart from geological works, the author likes to write mostly fiction in the form of short stories. His works have been published in local papers and some one line in the sites like www.ocareview.com.]
by Sanjaya Mishra
I could see her ambling across to the wall with the candles in hand. As the matchstick flashed and candles flickered one after another, I could feel the stream of overpowering urge running through my body. Isn’t it the time I have been waiting for it?
Leaving my cool, cozy and secure abode amidst the decks of books, I proceeded with gingerly footwork over the pen-stand, across the shelf, past the ticking table-clock and looked up. By now, to my eyes, the two candles had become a single source of light, and beyond that I could see the painting hanging on the wall and I knew for sure, behind it hidden somewhere lay my nemesis.
But should I stop? Can I withdraw...?
I fluttered my wings and they responded with amazing intensity. Powered by the uncontrolled ecstasy brewing up inside me, I dashed off. Picking up speed, I buzzed around the lighted candles - my only source of exultation. I hit the painting and fell on the table.
The damaged wings again picked me up.
Beneath the painting, I could see the protruding head with the flashing eyes and the darting pink tongue. It didn’t matter to me now. I had already accomplished my desire – my seventh heaven.
Suddenly I got stuck and the wings got sucked in.
But unmindful and detached of the impending death, I still kept on looking at the candles, - a sense of contentment in my eyes and the rest of my still undecomposed body.
[Sanjaya Mishra works as a geologist in India and is engaged in finding out source of drinking water in remote villages. Apart from geological works, the author likes to write mostly fiction in the form of short stories. His works have been published in local papers and some one line in the sites like www.ocareview.com.]
Entry #39
"The Dark Hallway"
by Robert J. Baker
I lay, gasping for breath, bleeding from a sucking chest wound, face down on the floor, just below my favorite Monet painting. I felt the cold wood floor against my cheek and tasted something bitter and metallic as the puddle of blood reached and surrounded my face and lips. Bathed in the dim light by two antique Victorian lamps, my vision blurred as life began to leave my body.
The painting had been purchased at a Sotheby’s Auction in New York after I had won my biggest divorce case several years ago, my lover’s case. This pleasant memory ebbed and flowed as my breathing became more ragged and I started to loose consciousness; I struggled to take in air but my lungs wouldn’t cooperate. I tried to stand only to feel the icy steel of the blade that had been shoved into my chest only moments before against my neck.
I slumped back to the floor, resting now on my side facing the light, to look up at my attacker. Haloed by light, her golden hair shimmered as her curls gently framed her face, an angry face, and a face I knew very well. I looked into her eyes as she shoved the knife again into my chest. My gaze fell on the painting, the painting that I loved, killed by the woman I loved, as life left darkness and silence encased me.
With my last breath, I forced out my final word, “Why?”
“Liar!” She whispered.
by Robert J. Baker
I lay, gasping for breath, bleeding from a sucking chest wound, face down on the floor, just below my favorite Monet painting. I felt the cold wood floor against my cheek and tasted something bitter and metallic as the puddle of blood reached and surrounded my face and lips. Bathed in the dim light by two antique Victorian lamps, my vision blurred as life began to leave my body.
The painting had been purchased at a Sotheby’s Auction in New York after I had won my biggest divorce case several years ago, my lover’s case. This pleasant memory ebbed and flowed as my breathing became more ragged and I started to loose consciousness; I struggled to take in air but my lungs wouldn’t cooperate. I tried to stand only to feel the icy steel of the blade that had been shoved into my chest only moments before against my neck.
I slumped back to the floor, resting now on my side facing the light, to look up at my attacker. Haloed by light, her golden hair shimmered as her curls gently framed her face, an angry face, and a face I knew very well. I looked into her eyes as she shoved the knife again into my chest. My gaze fell on the painting, the painting that I loved, killed by the woman I loved, as life left darkness and silence encased me.
With my last breath, I forced out my final word, “Why?”
“Liar!” She whispered.
Entry #38
"The Night"
by Andrea Allison
I brushed a lock of Chestnut hair from Kyle's eyes. We gazed at each other, not missing on second of our living portraits. Darkness blanketed our figures. Only the dim glow of two antique lamps illuminated our sight. My heart skipped a beat as Kyle slid closer to me on the couch.
"I have been waiting for this night all week," I whispered.
"I hope it's everything you hoped for." His baritone voice gave me chills with every word he spoke.
My hand trembled as I reached for my glass of Apple Cider. "That and much more," I said, sipping the beverage.
He took the glass from my hands and replaced it with his. I could hold those velvet hands for the rest of my life.
"Chelsea, there's something I've been wanting to tell you for a long while."
I moved closer to him. "Yes, Kyle." I eagerly awaited his reply. He leaned closer. Our lips only inches apart.
"I've never felt this way about anyone before."
I lingered on every word; every movement; every silent breathe. Kiss me please. Then.
"I think it is time for Kyle to go home," my mom interrupted, raising the volume of brightness of the lamps.
Oh my God. I can't believe she couldn't wait another five minutes.
by Andrea Allison
I brushed a lock of Chestnut hair from Kyle's eyes. We gazed at each other, not missing on second of our living portraits. Darkness blanketed our figures. Only the dim glow of two antique lamps illuminated our sight. My heart skipped a beat as Kyle slid closer to me on the couch.
"I have been waiting for this night all week," I whispered.
"I hope it's everything you hoped for." His baritone voice gave me chills with every word he spoke.
My hand trembled as I reached for my glass of Apple Cider. "That and much more," I said, sipping the beverage.
He took the glass from my hands and replaced it with his. I could hold those velvet hands for the rest of my life.
"Chelsea, there's something I've been wanting to tell you for a long while."
I moved closer to him. "Yes, Kyle." I eagerly awaited his reply. He leaned closer. Our lips only inches apart.
"I've never felt this way about anyone before."
I lingered on every word; every movement; every silent breathe. Kiss me please. Then.
"I think it is time for Kyle to go home," my mom interrupted, raising the volume of brightness of the lamps.
Oh my God. I can't believe she couldn't wait another five minutes.
Entry #37
Entry #37
by Marie Beaufort
It was a stormy night. The rain was drumming against the windows. Only two small lamps lighted the living room.
"Anna!" Niamh called. Her voice sounded hollow.
A door opened and a girl came down the stairs. Niamh started. Anna had been a year younger than her. Now she was perhaps two years older. Had Niamh come too late?
When she saw Niamh, Anna dropped the flashlight she was carrying. Her mouth fell open. "I thought you were dead!"
"I am," Niamh said. "I've walked a long, dark road and learned many things since I died. I cannot stay long. But I need to talk to you."
The day she died, Anna had told her that she was in love with her. At the time, Niamh had not known how to deal with it. She had just turned and run away.
Ten minutes later, a car had run her over.
"I've come to tell you that I love you, too."
For a long minute, Anna just stared at her. A tear rolled down her cheek.
"And, I don't know how you feel about me today, but if you want to, there are ways that we could see each other. I..."
"I thought I'd killed you," Anna finally said, her voice quivering. "I've thought about you every day. I never stopped loving you." She reached for Niamh's hand. "I think I never will."
Suddenly, the room started to fade around Niamh.
"Then I'll be back," she said. "I promise."
by Marie Beaufort
It was a stormy night. The rain was drumming against the windows. Only two small lamps lighted the living room.
"Anna!" Niamh called. Her voice sounded hollow.
A door opened and a girl came down the stairs. Niamh started. Anna had been a year younger than her. Now she was perhaps two years older. Had Niamh come too late?
When she saw Niamh, Anna dropped the flashlight she was carrying. Her mouth fell open. "I thought you were dead!"
"I am," Niamh said. "I've walked a long, dark road and learned many things since I died. I cannot stay long. But I need to talk to you."
The day she died, Anna had told her that she was in love with her. At the time, Niamh had not known how to deal with it. She had just turned and run away.
Ten minutes later, a car had run her over.
"I've come to tell you that I love you, too."
For a long minute, Anna just stared at her. A tear rolled down her cheek.
"And, I don't know how you feel about me today, but if you want to, there are ways that we could see each other. I..."
"I thought I'd killed you," Anna finally said, her voice quivering. "I've thought about you every day. I never stopped loving you." She reached for Niamh's hand. "I think I never will."
Suddenly, the room started to fade around Niamh.
"Then I'll be back," she said. "I promise."
Entry #36
"Do Not Touch"
by Paul Liadis
“Do not touch” were the words Mark and Elizabeth heard repeatedly regarding the painting that now hung illuminated in the hallway between their bedrooms. Much to Mark’s chagrin, the artwork had accompanied them to their new house. Though Mark took great care to hide it in the back yard while they packed, his parents had somehow found the painting. Something about the picture made Mark feel uneasy, as though its composition was more than mere canvas and paint. One night in their previous house Mark was on his way to get a glass of water and was sure he heard a girl laugh inside the painting. He now runs past the painting, not willing to chance even a glance at it.
It was Elizabeth who made sure the painting hung in their new house, fishing it out of the bushes out back before they moved.
To a six year old like Elizabeth, “Do not touch” meant “Touch, but make sure Mom and Dad don’t see you.” The sight of Elizabeth mere inches from the painting, softly clutching Winnie the Pooh’s worn hand, startled Mark.
“Elizabeth, you know we’re not supposed to touch that,” Mark whispered forcefully as he approached his sister.
“It’s ok,” answered Elizabeth. “I touched it before.”
Mark ran toward his sister, hoping to stop her from touching the painting. Unfortunately, he was too late. All that remained of his sister was a lonely teddy bear and a giggle from inside the painting.
by Paul Liadis
“Do not touch” were the words Mark and Elizabeth heard repeatedly regarding the painting that now hung illuminated in the hallway between their bedrooms. Much to Mark’s chagrin, the artwork had accompanied them to their new house. Though Mark took great care to hide it in the back yard while they packed, his parents had somehow found the painting. Something about the picture made Mark feel uneasy, as though its composition was more than mere canvas and paint. One night in their previous house Mark was on his way to get a glass of water and was sure he heard a girl laugh inside the painting. He now runs past the painting, not willing to chance even a glance at it.
It was Elizabeth who made sure the painting hung in their new house, fishing it out of the bushes out back before they moved.
To a six year old like Elizabeth, “Do not touch” meant “Touch, but make sure Mom and Dad don’t see you.” The sight of Elizabeth mere inches from the painting, softly clutching Winnie the Pooh’s worn hand, startled Mark.
“Elizabeth, you know we’re not supposed to touch that,” Mark whispered forcefully as he approached his sister.
“It’s ok,” answered Elizabeth. “I touched it before.”
Mark ran toward his sister, hoping to stop her from touching the painting. Unfortunately, he was too late. All that remained of his sister was a lonely teddy bear and a giggle from inside the painting.
Entry #35
"Leave the Lights On"
by John Hammel
(3:47 A.M., The Parker Residence)
8-year-old Jimmy Parker should have been asleep. Instead, he was very much awake, his blankets tightly clenched and pulled up over his nose. He tried to be brave like his father told him, but the voices were back again. And they were getting louder. The mournful screams of the damned.
Many times Jimmy summoned his parents, and each time reaped the same result: nothing.
“For the last time, Jimmy, the desperate cries of lost souls are not bellowing from your closet. But if it helps you to sleep, I’ll leave the lights in the hall on, okay?”
Like it’s that simple. Jimmy knew better. As far as he could tell, there were at least two ghosts inhabiting his closet. The first one was a young woman, who must have been murdered in this house many years ago. Her wailing kept him up all night, but it was her killer who he really feared. Night after night, Jimmy could hear them reliving her brutal slaughter. Thump! Thump! Moan! Thump! Thump! Scream!
Jimmy peaked out from under the sheets toward the well-lit hallway.
The light would protect him. He was safe. Thump! Thump! Scream!
Jimmy shot out of bed, ran out into the hallway, into his parents’ adjacent bedroom and flipped on the lights.
Jimmy learned that there were no ghosts in his closet that night, but that’s not to say what he saw wasn’t scary. He never slept with the light on again.
by John Hammel
(3:47 A.M., The Parker Residence)
8-year-old Jimmy Parker should have been asleep. Instead, he was very much awake, his blankets tightly clenched and pulled up over his nose. He tried to be brave like his father told him, but the voices were back again. And they were getting louder. The mournful screams of the damned.
Many times Jimmy summoned his parents, and each time reaped the same result: nothing.
“For the last time, Jimmy, the desperate cries of lost souls are not bellowing from your closet. But if it helps you to sleep, I’ll leave the lights in the hall on, okay?”
Like it’s that simple. Jimmy knew better. As far as he could tell, there were at least two ghosts inhabiting his closet. The first one was a young woman, who must have been murdered in this house many years ago. Her wailing kept him up all night, but it was her killer who he really feared. Night after night, Jimmy could hear them reliving her brutal slaughter. Thump! Thump! Moan! Thump! Thump! Scream!
Jimmy peaked out from under the sheets toward the well-lit hallway.
The light would protect him. He was safe. Thump! Thump! Scream!
Jimmy shot out of bed, ran out into the hallway, into his parents’ adjacent bedroom and flipped on the lights.
Jimmy learned that there were no ghosts in his closet that night, but that’s not to say what he saw wasn’t scary. He never slept with the light on again.
Entry #34
"Katrina’s Legacy"
by Keith Bodayla
The lamps were given to Angela’s great-grandmother by her slave owner on the day that he freed her. They had burned kerosene long ago but Angela’s mother had seen a greater future for them and had them turned into electric lamps that burned small flame-like bulbs. They were given to Angela when she got married with instructions to do the same for the daughter she would one day have.
Now the lamps were worthless. The frosted glass and bulbs broken, the shards carried miles away by flood waters. Tears welled up in Angela’s eyes and finally burst through, running down her dark cheeks.
David came over and put his one good arm around his wife. At her feet were the two lamps – the prized possessions of her family, passed from mother to daughter for generations.
“At least they’re here,” he said. “We can have them fixed.” His wife began to cry harder and he knew it had been a dumb thing to say.
“I don’t care about them. It’s not worth it anymore,” she said between sobs. Then, she stopped abruptly and looked at her husband. “I only would have cared about them if I still had someone to pass them on to.”
David thought for a moment that his wife almost smiled at the irony of it all. But the moment passed and he continued to hold his crying wife into the night as they waited for a new day to come.
by Keith Bodayla
The lamps were given to Angela’s great-grandmother by her slave owner on the day that he freed her. They had burned kerosene long ago but Angela’s mother had seen a greater future for them and had them turned into electric lamps that burned small flame-like bulbs. They were given to Angela when she got married with instructions to do the same for the daughter she would one day have.
Now the lamps were worthless. The frosted glass and bulbs broken, the shards carried miles away by flood waters. Tears welled up in Angela’s eyes and finally burst through, running down her dark cheeks.
David came over and put his one good arm around his wife. At her feet were the two lamps – the prized possessions of her family, passed from mother to daughter for generations.
“At least they’re here,” he said. “We can have them fixed.” His wife began to cry harder and he knew it had been a dumb thing to say.
“I don’t care about them. It’s not worth it anymore,” she said between sobs. Then, she stopped abruptly and looked at her husband. “I only would have cared about them if I still had someone to pass them on to.”
David thought for a moment that his wife almost smiled at the irony of it all. But the moment passed and he continued to hold his crying wife into the night as they waited for a new day to come.
Entry #33
"Every Hope and Dream"
by SF Johnston
My wife Rebecca is down the hall behind that door. Her best friend Heather came over tonight, and they were going to drink Chardonnay and watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s and talk all the way through it. She’ll be singing Moon River to herself.
But there’s blood on the front of my Jag, and a startled face burning itself onto my retinas. I have to go in there and–
And all I can do is stare at the two table lamps that Heather gave us at our wedding. My God, I never meant to hurt anybody.
Every hope and dream I ever had came true tonight. I made partner. Haute Medoc with dinner, single malt in the bar, and then she stepped out in front of me. I was going too fast, especially for our neighborhood. But it’s a Jag.
And what did I do? I sped away like a rabbit from a wolf. Like a coward.
Anyway, forensics. There aren’t any other cars like mine around here, and they’ll be coming for me with broken headlight glass in their little bags.
So I’ll go in and shatter Rebecca’s world. Then she’ll hold my hand and we’ll go down to the police station and I’ll end up in prison. I’ll last about a minute.
But I can’t stop staring at our beautiful yellow lamps, and thinking about the very last thing Heather saw before I hit her. Two yellow lamps racing through the black to snuff out every hope and dream.
by SF Johnston
My wife Rebecca is down the hall behind that door. Her best friend Heather came over tonight, and they were going to drink Chardonnay and watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s and talk all the way through it. She’ll be singing Moon River to herself.
But there’s blood on the front of my Jag, and a startled face burning itself onto my retinas. I have to go in there and–
And all I can do is stare at the two table lamps that Heather gave us at our wedding. My God, I never meant to hurt anybody.
Every hope and dream I ever had came true tonight. I made partner. Haute Medoc with dinner, single malt in the bar, and then she stepped out in front of me. I was going too fast, especially for our neighborhood. But it’s a Jag.
And what did I do? I sped away like a rabbit from a wolf. Like a coward.
Anyway, forensics. There aren’t any other cars like mine around here, and they’ll be coming for me with broken headlight glass in their little bags.
So I’ll go in and shatter Rebecca’s world. Then she’ll hold my hand and we’ll go down to the police station and I’ll end up in prison. I’ll last about a minute.
But I can’t stop staring at our beautiful yellow lamps, and thinking about the very last thing Heather saw before I hit her. Two yellow lamps racing through the black to snuff out every hope and dream.
Entry #32
"An Unexpected Invitation"
by Daniel Marshall Wood
It lay on the corner of the foyer table, atop mail stacked neatly by the housekeeper, hidden in friendly shadows cast by two small etched crystal lamps, lovely souvenirs of a long-planned Cooperstown jaunt.
Decisive, unhurried calligraphy. ‘Mr. and Mrs. Craighton Hollingsworth’ never looked more beautiful. Heavy ivory bond, worthy of the monogrammed paper knife, an indulgence from St. James’s silver stalls in London. Craig never understood the allure of other people’s monograms.
The flap offered little resistance. Instinctively, fingers traced tiny embossed letters, braille to the socially knowledgeable: MRS. JOHN L STRONG, NEW YORK. Heaven! Definitely worthy of the entwined S F R on beaded-edge sterling.
An engraved house name – PEMBROKE HALL – stood resolutely at the card’s top, presiding over details of a dinner party three weeks hence, hosts unknown, the street vaguely familiar in a nearby village. A thrilling summons in black tie.
Of course they’d attend. Unfamiliar hosts, but dress-up, so they couldn’t possibly be axe murderers amid dashing guests drinking Champagne and tossing off witty rejoinders in an unforgettable evening.
What to wear? Unquestionably grandmother’s black velvet and her pearls. So simple, Ã la Audrey Hepburn in the 60s. No one could fault that look. Craighton’s tuxedo long awaited a social opportunity. Yes, heaven!
**********
Craig had been reluctant, unable to risk, even as it beckoned engraved. Shamefully, their regrets had not been sent last fall. Edwina replaced the envelope in her dressing table drawer, still wondering if that had been the right decision.
[Daniel Marshall Wood leads a double life – as proprietor of Edgefield bed and breakfast in Sharon Springs, New York, and as an executive assistant in New York City. He has written umpteen short stories (several published on the Internet magazines Reflection’s Edge, T-Zero, Crime and Suspense and HandHeld Crime, and an upcoming issue of Silver Moon.). Daniel has also written several plays and a manuscript on how to start and run a B&B. He is twin to the five-minutes-older David Michael, a New York interior decorator.]
by Daniel Marshall Wood
It lay on the corner of the foyer table, atop mail stacked neatly by the housekeeper, hidden in friendly shadows cast by two small etched crystal lamps, lovely souvenirs of a long-planned Cooperstown jaunt.
Decisive, unhurried calligraphy. ‘Mr. and Mrs. Craighton Hollingsworth’ never looked more beautiful. Heavy ivory bond, worthy of the monogrammed paper knife, an indulgence from St. James’s silver stalls in London. Craig never understood the allure of other people’s monograms.
The flap offered little resistance. Instinctively, fingers traced tiny embossed letters, braille to the socially knowledgeable: MRS. JOHN L STRONG, NEW YORK. Heaven! Definitely worthy of the entwined S F R on beaded-edge sterling.
An engraved house name – PEMBROKE HALL – stood resolutely at the card’s top, presiding over details of a dinner party three weeks hence, hosts unknown, the street vaguely familiar in a nearby village. A thrilling summons in black tie.
Of course they’d attend. Unfamiliar hosts, but dress-up, so they couldn’t possibly be axe murderers amid dashing guests drinking Champagne and tossing off witty rejoinders in an unforgettable evening.
What to wear? Unquestionably grandmother’s black velvet and her pearls. So simple, Ã la Audrey Hepburn in the 60s. No one could fault that look. Craighton’s tuxedo long awaited a social opportunity. Yes, heaven!
**********
Craig had been reluctant, unable to risk, even as it beckoned engraved. Shamefully, their regrets had not been sent last fall. Edwina replaced the envelope in her dressing table drawer, still wondering if that had been the right decision.
[Daniel Marshall Wood leads a double life – as proprietor of Edgefield bed and breakfast in Sharon Springs, New York, and as an executive assistant in New York City. He has written umpteen short stories (several published on the Internet magazines Reflection’s Edge, T-Zero, Crime and Suspense and HandHeld Crime, and an upcoming issue of Silver Moon.). Daniel has also written several plays and a manuscript on how to start and run a B&B. He is twin to the five-minutes-older David Michael, a New York interior decorator.]
Entry #31
"Too Well Illumined"
by Zara Calvente
Jasmine, Re: your urgent e-mail.
The photos of the painting prior to its theft from Aurora Barden's insured Anchorage condo are, indeed, highly illuminating. Likewise, your quotes from her detailed explanation of the photographs intrigue me.
Aurora said, "Immediately after hanging the painting on the twenty first of June, I took a few photos. (Sadly, the painting was stolen several hours later.) I had deliberately hung the painting in a spot that would attract one's eye from any corner of our sunlit living room. But by the time I finished hanging the picture, it was evening. The resulting photos in the darkened room hardly do justice to the irreplaceable work of art. "
Well, Jasmine, if you want to see justice done in this case, tell your employer not to pay out the insurance claim check. As a native Alaskan, I assure you that this photo was not taken in Anchorage on the evening of June twenty first. While the sun rises on that date in Anchorage around four twenty in the morning, it sets only around eighteen minutes before midnight. No one who claims to have a "sunlit" living room would need to put on the lights in the middle of the day or in the evening.
I applaud your instincts as a skilled investigator. You are right; something is definitely "off" here!
Regards, Sasha.
by Zara Calvente
Jasmine, Re: your urgent e-mail.
The photos of the painting prior to its theft from Aurora Barden's insured Anchorage condo are, indeed, highly illuminating. Likewise, your quotes from her detailed explanation of the photographs intrigue me.
Aurora said, "Immediately after hanging the painting on the twenty first of June, I took a few photos. (Sadly, the painting was stolen several hours later.) I had deliberately hung the painting in a spot that would attract one's eye from any corner of our sunlit living room. But by the time I finished hanging the picture, it was evening. The resulting photos in the darkened room hardly do justice to the irreplaceable work of art. "
Well, Jasmine, if you want to see justice done in this case, tell your employer not to pay out the insurance claim check. As a native Alaskan, I assure you that this photo was not taken in Anchorage on the evening of June twenty first. While the sun rises on that date in Anchorage around four twenty in the morning, it sets only around eighteen minutes before midnight. No one who claims to have a "sunlit" living room would need to put on the lights in the middle of the day or in the evening.
I applaud your instincts as a skilled investigator. You are right; something is definitely "off" here!
Regards, Sasha.
Entry to Share
Thanks to Tsavo for stepping up to the challenge again! As with the earlier entry to share, only Tsavo's first entry will be considered in the judging. Thanks Tsavo!
"Room Service"
by Tsavo Leone
“...the elevator to the third floor, turn left, and it’s the room just after the portrait, on the left hand side of the corridor.”
Clara already knew exactly which room she was looking for, and where it was, but the receptionist had caught her off-guard. Fortunately, the hotel already had a well-deserved reputation and, considering her choice of clothing for the day, she fitted in well enough to be able to bluff her way through their exchange. The man she was looking for had booked into the same room in this hotel every other Thursday for the better part of two years, and each time he did he made use of the local escort agencies.
Clara chose the stairs rather than the elevator – maybe she was simply putting the moment off – and found her calves ached by the time she reached the third floor. Her high heels pinched at her ankles and her short skirt had ridden up almost indecently. She took a moment to compose herself before stepping into the corridor, and then walked straight passed the elevator and onto the portrait.
A deep breath. A forced smile. She knocked on the door.
As the door handle began to turn she reached into her handbag.
As the door began to open she removed the gun.
As her husband’s face greeted her she pulled the trigger.
The prostitute on the bed didn’t even blink.
Clara had left the hotel before her husband finally died.
"Room Service"
by Tsavo Leone
“...the elevator to the third floor, turn left, and it’s the room just after the portrait, on the left hand side of the corridor.”
Clara already knew exactly which room she was looking for, and where it was, but the receptionist had caught her off-guard. Fortunately, the hotel already had a well-deserved reputation and, considering her choice of clothing for the day, she fitted in well enough to be able to bluff her way through their exchange. The man she was looking for had booked into the same room in this hotel every other Thursday for the better part of two years, and each time he did he made use of the local escort agencies.
Clara chose the stairs rather than the elevator – maybe she was simply putting the moment off – and found her calves ached by the time she reached the third floor. Her high heels pinched at her ankles and her short skirt had ridden up almost indecently. She took a moment to compose herself before stepping into the corridor, and then walked straight passed the elevator and onto the portrait.
A deep breath. A forced smile. She knocked on the door.
As the door handle began to turn she reached into her handbag.
As the door began to open she removed the gun.
As her husband’s face greeted her she pulled the trigger.
The prostitute on the bed didn’t even blink.
Clara had left the hotel before her husband finally died.
Entry #30
"Waking Light"
by Lady M
Sometimes I wonder if I will ever wake from this darkness.
I don't know how long I've been here. Has it been more than a week? More than a year?
I see through the black void of my mind - the lights in the hallway - from when I was a child.
Those lights were forever my protection against the evil monsters that crept out from underneath my bed at night. They gave me freedom to dart down the hallway to my parent's room to certain sanctuary.
And now, they are all that I have - a glimmer of hope that I will wake - instead of endlessly traversing the bleak, empty corridors of my coma ridden soul.
I pray every moment that they will never burn out or fade away. For, if they should, I know I will never find my way back home.
by Lady M
Sometimes I wonder if I will ever wake from this darkness.
I don't know how long I've been here. Has it been more than a week? More than a year?
I see through the black void of my mind - the lights in the hallway - from when I was a child.
Those lights were forever my protection against the evil monsters that crept out from underneath my bed at night. They gave me freedom to dart down the hallway to my parent's room to certain sanctuary.
And now, they are all that I have - a glimmer of hope that I will wake - instead of endlessly traversing the bleak, empty corridors of my coma ridden soul.
I pray every moment that they will never burn out or fade away. For, if they should, I know I will never find my way back home.
Entry #29
"Two Lights"
by Chong Yen Long
I ACCIDENTALLY walked into the wrong room in the budget hotel named Nilai (in Malay it means "Value") as I was tired from a four-hour outing, consisting of exploring the nearby Mantin town and savouring its gastronomic delights. The last course of "fishhead curry" shared with two long-lost friends as I had just returned from abroad after a long absence, must have induced my wandering into Room 007 (when my registered was 008).
I saw the two lights on the reading table -- dim as if not to disturb the rest, perhaps, of a dainty maiden? It's an hour past midnight -- only the sound of soft running water exited from an adjoining bathroom, due to a tap not completely closed by a tired soul, I surmised.
Above the table was a portrait, and what seemed a ray of light emitting from a smile, flirting on the face of yet another beauty? My head had lately been obsessed with beauties from unknown landscapes -- they visited me in my dreams, and even at daytime reverie during tea-breaks.
Or the two beauties could be related -- even twin sisters? My writer's imaginings becoming richer by the second-- maybe it's the rice wine, or the fishhead, especially its brains said to contain aphrodisiac and sublimal values.
Two lights, dim and shy, hiding some secrets. Perhaps One of apparitional delight. And the Other, I'll find out, tomorrow, should I have the pleasure of meeting the living delight.
by Chong Yen Long
I ACCIDENTALLY walked into the wrong room in the budget hotel named Nilai (in Malay it means "Value") as I was tired from a four-hour outing, consisting of exploring the nearby Mantin town and savouring its gastronomic delights. The last course of "fishhead curry" shared with two long-lost friends as I had just returned from abroad after a long absence, must have induced my wandering into Room 007 (when my registered was 008).
I saw the two lights on the reading table -- dim as if not to disturb the rest, perhaps, of a dainty maiden? It's an hour past midnight -- only the sound of soft running water exited from an adjoining bathroom, due to a tap not completely closed by a tired soul, I surmised.
Above the table was a portrait, and what seemed a ray of light emitting from a smile, flirting on the face of yet another beauty? My head had lately been obsessed with beauties from unknown landscapes -- they visited me in my dreams, and even at daytime reverie during tea-breaks.
Or the two beauties could be related -- even twin sisters? My writer's imaginings becoming richer by the second-- maybe it's the rice wine, or the fishhead, especially its brains said to contain aphrodisiac and sublimal values.
Two lights, dim and shy, hiding some secrets. Perhaps One of apparitional delight. And the Other, I'll find out, tomorrow, should I have the pleasure of meeting the living delight.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Entry #28
"Two Lights"
by Myron Berdahl
I see a pair of lights filtering through the fog. I had been on the makeshift raft for days, maybe weeks.
The sea was calm as night came to a close; the gentle waves lulled me in and out of a transparent slumber. The food had long since run out, and I had to wonder if my mind was playing tricks on me. The night before, the crest of a passing wave disguised itself has the dorsal fin of a man-eating great white. I knew that sharks rarely exposed their dorsal fins. But, the romantic fear born out of one too many viewings of “Jaws” as a child wasn’t lessened by my higher education.
I felt the emptiness from the hunger within fill ever so slightly with the nourishment of hope. I squinted toward my salvation, hoping to get a clearer glimpse. The two beacons expanded vertically, creating twin columns of light that bordered some growing indistinguishable form. I squinted further. What was it? And then, I saw it. A whale about to swallow me whole! No, a fishing boat, and I’m to be saved!
**********
“Honey, could you turn the lights out before coming to bed!?”, yelled my wife from upstairs.
I awoke on the couch - “It was only a dream”. I smile as I stare at a picture on the wall, situated above and between two table lamps; the great battle between man, beast, and nature – Moby Dick and Captain Ahab battling it out on the stormy high seas.
by Myron Berdahl
I see a pair of lights filtering through the fog. I had been on the makeshift raft for days, maybe weeks.
The sea was calm as night came to a close; the gentle waves lulled me in and out of a transparent slumber. The food had long since run out, and I had to wonder if my mind was playing tricks on me. The night before, the crest of a passing wave disguised itself has the dorsal fin of a man-eating great white. I knew that sharks rarely exposed their dorsal fins. But, the romantic fear born out of one too many viewings of “Jaws” as a child wasn’t lessened by my higher education.
I felt the emptiness from the hunger within fill ever so slightly with the nourishment of hope. I squinted toward my salvation, hoping to get a clearer glimpse. The two beacons expanded vertically, creating twin columns of light that bordered some growing indistinguishable form. I squinted further. What was it? And then, I saw it. A whale about to swallow me whole! No, a fishing boat, and I’m to be saved!
**********
“Honey, could you turn the lights out before coming to bed!?”, yelled my wife from upstairs.
I awoke on the couch - “It was only a dream”. I smile as I stare at a picture on the wall, situated above and between two table lamps; the great battle between man, beast, and nature – Moby Dick and Captain Ahab battling it out on the stormy high seas.
Entry #27
"Headlight"
by Forrest Landry
The twin images were different, for all their sameness. And upside-down. He looked closer and saw they were coming from two pin-pricks in the wallpaper.
Intrigued, he stooped and stared, finally closing one eye and squinting. Through one tiny hole he saw into the next room. Two antique kerosene lamps burned on a sideboard.
Their light illuminated a severed head, eyes closed, mouth a painful rictus. A dark glint, probably blood, cascaded down the front of the piece of furniture.
There was nothing else to see, through the minute hole.
Then, because he was so close, he heard the sound of labored breathing and something dragging.
My God, he thought, what if someone’s hurt and trying to get help?
Then his instinct for self-preservation asserted itself. He disregarded the urge.
A woman in a Victorian-style dress with a lace bodice came into view as she passed one of the lamps. The white garment was bright red all down the front. Her hands and arms looked as though she’d plunged them into a vat of blood.
Suddenly she turned and stared directly at him, as though she somehow knew he was watching her. Startled, he pulled back sharply, frightened.
As he stood there shaking, wondering if she’d seen him somehow, he heard the TV playing the soundtrack to NYPD Blue, as the re-run came on.
The wall he was looking through faced a brightly-lit hallway – not a room.
by Forrest Landry
The twin images were different, for all their sameness. And upside-down. He looked closer and saw they were coming from two pin-pricks in the wallpaper.
Intrigued, he stooped and stared, finally closing one eye and squinting. Through one tiny hole he saw into the next room. Two antique kerosene lamps burned on a sideboard.
Their light illuminated a severed head, eyes closed, mouth a painful rictus. A dark glint, probably blood, cascaded down the front of the piece of furniture.
There was nothing else to see, through the minute hole.
Then, because he was so close, he heard the sound of labored breathing and something dragging.
My God, he thought, what if someone’s hurt and trying to get help?
Then his instinct for self-preservation asserted itself. He disregarded the urge.
A woman in a Victorian-style dress with a lace bodice came into view as she passed one of the lamps. The white garment was bright red all down the front. Her hands and arms looked as though she’d plunged them into a vat of blood.
Suddenly she turned and stared directly at him, as though she somehow knew he was watching her. Startled, he pulled back sharply, frightened.
As he stood there shaking, wondering if she’d seen him somehow, he heard the TV playing the soundtrack to NYPD Blue, as the re-run came on.
The wall he was looking through faced a brightly-lit hallway – not a room.
Entry #26
"Two Lamps"
by Terri Welch
The house is so quiet now, Dear. The glow from those two old lamps we bought at the flea market so many years ago is the only light here. Do you remember the woman who sold us those lamps? You felt compelled to buy something from her stand. Her patched frock and worn shoes somehow betrayed the aristocratic gentleness of her manner. We paid more than the lamps were worth and then wandered arm in arm along the pier in the sunshine, telling each other her story. You said she was a widow whose husband had lost all in the crash of '29, before she lost him. You loved to think up these tragic, romantic stories about strangers.
We were so young then, and so in love.
Now I am the widow. What story will they make up about me? The sad, rich woman who lives alone in the big house on the hill…
Tomorrow our home will be filled with people. The children are coming, and the grandchildren. Maude will bring a quiche, bless her heart.
But tonight nothing stirs. I have only my memories for company. The dark rooms echo with traces of you. The smell of your pipe tobacco lingers with the last scent of your aftershave, but I fear that, too, will soon be gone.
Shaking herself out of her thoughts, the old woman turned off the lamps and creaked slowly upstairs, to bed.
I will see you again soon, my love.
by Terri Welch
The house is so quiet now, Dear. The glow from those two old lamps we bought at the flea market so many years ago is the only light here. Do you remember the woman who sold us those lamps? You felt compelled to buy something from her stand. Her patched frock and worn shoes somehow betrayed the aristocratic gentleness of her manner. We paid more than the lamps were worth and then wandered arm in arm along the pier in the sunshine, telling each other her story. You said she was a widow whose husband had lost all in the crash of '29, before she lost him. You loved to think up these tragic, romantic stories about strangers.
We were so young then, and so in love.
Now I am the widow. What story will they make up about me? The sad, rich woman who lives alone in the big house on the hill…
Tomorrow our home will be filled with people. The children are coming, and the grandchildren. Maude will bring a quiche, bless her heart.
But tonight nothing stirs. I have only my memories for company. The dark rooms echo with traces of you. The smell of your pipe tobacco lingers with the last scent of your aftershave, but I fear that, too, will soon be gone.
Shaking herself out of her thoughts, the old woman turned off the lamps and creaked slowly upstairs, to bed.
I will see you again soon, my love.
Entry #25
"Images, Portents"
by Tsavo Leone
Day and night he lets the lights burn, afraid of what he might otherwise see.
Constant light is needed, lest the images shift once more. The glow of a full moon or shafts of noonday sun; the glare of a TV in another room: each of these and more might change the painting.
Faces come forth within the trees, tortured and prophetic. Their gaze follows all who pass by, their whispers taunting and vicious. Clouds twist and writhe, contortions wrought upon them from below, images of loved ones and the despised alike.
Each image brings certain knowledge.
Figures might be seen walking the path, familiar yet alien, their details shrouded in every changing brushstrokes as the picture re-paints itself. Nursery rhyme characters, fairy tale images, all twisted out of true, sadistic and malicious.
Three little pigs hound a wolf; Grandma looks on, feasting on Little Red Riding Hood’s finest wears, the Woodsman having felled her with one blow...
The wind can still be heard blowing through the trees, despite the lights burning bright. The clouds still seem to move before the breeze, the trees and bushes still seem to sway. Somewhere in the wooded glen, beyond the image that can be plainly seen, there is a cottage; smoke from the fire in it’s hearth drifts slowly upwards, it’s scent hanging in the hallway above the lights.
And so, day and night, he lets the lights burn, afraid of what he might otherwise see.
by Tsavo Leone
Day and night he lets the lights burn, afraid of what he might otherwise see.
Constant light is needed, lest the images shift once more. The glow of a full moon or shafts of noonday sun; the glare of a TV in another room: each of these and more might change the painting.
Faces come forth within the trees, tortured and prophetic. Their gaze follows all who pass by, their whispers taunting and vicious. Clouds twist and writhe, contortions wrought upon them from below, images of loved ones and the despised alike.
Each image brings certain knowledge.
Figures might be seen walking the path, familiar yet alien, their details shrouded in every changing brushstrokes as the picture re-paints itself. Nursery rhyme characters, fairy tale images, all twisted out of true, sadistic and malicious.
Three little pigs hound a wolf; Grandma looks on, feasting on Little Red Riding Hood’s finest wears, the Woodsman having felled her with one blow...
The wind can still be heard blowing through the trees, despite the lights burning bright. The clouds still seem to move before the breeze, the trees and bushes still seem to sway. Somewhere in the wooded glen, beyond the image that can be plainly seen, there is a cottage; smoke from the fire in it’s hearth drifts slowly upwards, it’s scent hanging in the hallway above the lights.
And so, day and night, he lets the lights burn, afraid of what he might otherwise see.
Entry to Share
I salute Scott for embracing the spirit of this "contest." Yes, there are prizes to juice it up a litte, but the real point is the amazing camaraderie we've been seeing. Scott did this second piece to further challenge himself. He posts it here to share. Only his first entry will be considered in the judging, though. Thanks Scott!
"Chip Off the Old Block"
By Scott Ellis
Marla knelt before him and looked up. Mascara rills meandered away from her red puffed eyes. "He's crazy I tell you. Your dad is crazy!"
Steven put his hands on the backs of her white-knuckled hands, which were gripping his knees as he sat on the edge of the chair by her makeup stand. He blinked back his own tears.
"I can't marry him, he's psychotic," she continued. "But you are so sweet, unspoiled. Stay with me."
"He's my dad Marla," Steven said in labored, broken pieces. "And he needs me."
"It's too late for him, but you... I'll be the kind of parent you deserve, send you to good schools--"
From the front door erupted a thunderous crash, as if the door would splinter. Then came a furious yell from without, "Where is my son!"
"Oh Jesus," Marla cried, "wait here." She ran to the front door and screamed, "Go away Jack, or I'll call the police."
"Not without my son! Steven, open this door."
Steven rounded the corner and faced Marla, with a bag hoisted on his shoulder. "I have to go. I'm sorry."
Marla sagged and tenderly wiped a tear from his eye with her thumb. "If you ever need me."
Steven hugged her then opened the door, then hopped into the truck with his father.
His father said, "Did you get them?"
Steven unzipped the bag that rested between them. Inside were two ceramic lamps. "How much can we get for them?"
"Chip Off the Old Block"
By Scott Ellis
Marla knelt before him and looked up. Mascara rills meandered away from her red puffed eyes. "He's crazy I tell you. Your dad is crazy!"
Steven put his hands on the backs of her white-knuckled hands, which were gripping his knees as he sat on the edge of the chair by her makeup stand. He blinked back his own tears.
"I can't marry him, he's psychotic," she continued. "But you are so sweet, unspoiled. Stay with me."
"He's my dad Marla," Steven said in labored, broken pieces. "And he needs me."
"It's too late for him, but you... I'll be the kind of parent you deserve, send you to good schools--"
From the front door erupted a thunderous crash, as if the door would splinter. Then came a furious yell from without, "Where is my son!"
"Oh Jesus," Marla cried, "wait here." She ran to the front door and screamed, "Go away Jack, or I'll call the police."
"Not without my son! Steven, open this door."
Steven rounded the corner and faced Marla, with a bag hoisted on his shoulder. "I have to go. I'm sorry."
Marla sagged and tenderly wiped a tear from his eye with her thumb. "If you ever need me."
Steven hugged her then opened the door, then hopped into the truck with his father.
His father said, "Did you get them?"
Steven unzipped the bag that rested between them. Inside were two ceramic lamps. "How much can we get for them?"
Entry #24
"The Twin Lights of Life and Liberty"
by Lyndon Perry
Today, Life and Liberty stand guard at the door – two lights that bear witness to that fateful Friday when one dimmed and the other fought to uphold their hard won victory. This is a scene from their ongoing story.
Familiar with the actor who walked their hall, two lights cast a friendly spotlight on the man who entered the State Box earlier that day. They wondered about his examination, but knowing they would welcome an important guest that evening the lights simply glowed in silence.
When the patrons arrived for Our American Cousin, Life and Liberty shone brightly in anticipation. In high spirits, the President's party and police escort entered Ford's Theatre at 8:30. In the hallway, two lamps seemed to join in the applause of the audience.
The bodyguard eventually left his post abandoning the two lights to stand watch by themselves. Then, at 10:15, the actor returned.
Slowly, he opened the door and, hidden in flickering shadows, strode to Lincoln's chair. Laughter masked his entry and nearly drowned the derringer's report. The lights blazed in alarm as they witnessed John Wilkes Booth kill the President of the United States.
With a shout it was over. The actor leapt to the stage and made his escape. Life faded quickly that night while Liberty took up the struggle against tyranny once more. The outcome was not guaranteed, but in the end Liberty would own the actor's boast: "Sic Semper Tyrannis."
Thus Life and Liberty still shine...for now.
by Lyndon Perry
Today, Life and Liberty stand guard at the door – two lights that bear witness to that fateful Friday when one dimmed and the other fought to uphold their hard won victory. This is a scene from their ongoing story.
Familiar with the actor who walked their hall, two lights cast a friendly spotlight on the man who entered the State Box earlier that day. They wondered about his examination, but knowing they would welcome an important guest that evening the lights simply glowed in silence.
When the patrons arrived for Our American Cousin, Life and Liberty shone brightly in anticipation. In high spirits, the President's party and police escort entered Ford's Theatre at 8:30. In the hallway, two lamps seemed to join in the applause of the audience.
The bodyguard eventually left his post abandoning the two lights to stand watch by themselves. Then, at 10:15, the actor returned.
Slowly, he opened the door and, hidden in flickering shadows, strode to Lincoln's chair. Laughter masked his entry and nearly drowned the derringer's report. The lights blazed in alarm as they witnessed John Wilkes Booth kill the President of the United States.
With a shout it was over. The actor leapt to the stage and made his escape. Life faded quickly that night while Liberty took up the struggle against tyranny once more. The outcome was not guaranteed, but in the end Liberty would own the actor's boast: "Sic Semper Tyrannis."
Thus Life and Liberty still shine...for now.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Entry #23
"Hard Day's Night"
by Anne Erre
Walk in the door, head straight to the bar and pour a stiff drink, maybe even drink the whole day into oblivion — that was the plan.
When he turned on the hallway lights, one of them was flickering. Would the hassle ever stop? Why did he need two lights in the hallway anyway?
The plan held. He would take care of the lamp after the first drink.
He kept the first sip of bourbon on his tongue a while, anticipating the rush of alcohol, looking forward to the light-headedness that would come with the second drink. No food all day would help ensure that.
Second drink down. Nice.
He poured himself a third one and went to have a look at the lamp.
He screwed the bulb tighter and turned the light back on. Still flickering.
For crying out loud.
He set his drink on the table, and under he went, fiddling with the outlet. No good. Maybe a wire was loose in the cord. He couldn’t be bothered with it now though. He felt nice and cozy under the table, like a child’s comfort place. And comfort was exactly what the doctor had ordered just now.
Startled by the phone, he jumped up and knocked himself cold against the sharp angle of the table, spilling his drink in the process. When the dripping bourbon touched the outlet, a spark flared up, and the flickering briefly worsened. The fire was quick to spread.
His last day could have been better.
by Anne Erre
Walk in the door, head straight to the bar and pour a stiff drink, maybe even drink the whole day into oblivion — that was the plan.
When he turned on the hallway lights, one of them was flickering. Would the hassle ever stop? Why did he need two lights in the hallway anyway?
The plan held. He would take care of the lamp after the first drink.
He kept the first sip of bourbon on his tongue a while, anticipating the rush of alcohol, looking forward to the light-headedness that would come with the second drink. No food all day would help ensure that.
Second drink down. Nice.
He poured himself a third one and went to have a look at the lamp.
He screwed the bulb tighter and turned the light back on. Still flickering.
For crying out loud.
He set his drink on the table, and under he went, fiddling with the outlet. No good. Maybe a wire was loose in the cord. He couldn’t be bothered with it now though. He felt nice and cozy under the table, like a child’s comfort place. And comfort was exactly what the doctor had ordered just now.
Startled by the phone, he jumped up and knocked himself cold against the sharp angle of the table, spilling his drink in the process. When the dripping bourbon touched the outlet, a spark flared up, and the flickering briefly worsened. The fire was quick to spread.
His last day could have been better.
Entry #22
"Dawn and Twilight"
by John McAuley
There used to be four of these lights--two in our bedroom and one in each of our sons rooms.
Our oldest boy, Joshua, died in 1991. He was a long way from home when it happened.
When they sent him back to us Jenny and I agreed to place the light in his casket because he'd always been afraid of the dark. It was a symbolic thing I guess, but it made us feel better.
Our second son, Kevin, was killed last month. I wasn't home with Jenny when the young soldiers with tight faces and immaculate uniforms came to our door again.
Kevin wasn't afraid of anything--but when we buried him we did the same for him as we'd done for his brother.
Jenny's wasting away now. I think she's ready to leave. But I'm not going to let her go alone like our children had to.
The last two lights will be out before morning.
by John McAuley
There used to be four of these lights--two in our bedroom and one in each of our sons rooms.
Our oldest boy, Joshua, died in 1991. He was a long way from home when it happened.
When they sent him back to us Jenny and I agreed to place the light in his casket because he'd always been afraid of the dark. It was a symbolic thing I guess, but it made us feel better.
Our second son, Kevin, was killed last month. I wasn't home with Jenny when the young soldiers with tight faces and immaculate uniforms came to our door again.
Kevin wasn't afraid of anything--but when we buried him we did the same for him as we'd done for his brother.
Jenny's wasting away now. I think she's ready to leave. But I'm not going to let her go alone like our children had to.
The last two lights will be out before morning.
Entry #21
"Midnight Rendezvous"
by John Thornquist
Pretty Lady Faxton had had her eye on the new footman for several weeks now. He possessed a body only the sculptor Phidias could have created; in his eyes there swirled the color and endless depth of the Caribbean, and his marvelously leonine face was framed by a luxuriant mane of golden curls. She absolutely had to have him.
One day, while old Lord Faxton was off inspecting the stables, she discreetly approached the footman.
“You there! Can you remember something?”
“I think so.”
“On the second floor of the west wing there are a pair of lamps under a painting. They’ll be our signal. ‘If the lamp be one, choose the room painted plum. If the lamps be two, choose the room painted blue.’ Midnight tonight.” And with that she stepped off.
Midnight approached and the poor footman had the whole thing muddled. There were seven rooms and he couldn’t remember which color rhymed with what number. Arriving, he saw two lamps burning and scratched his head in perplexity. “‘Two’ rhymes with…” and then he remembered with delight, “…blue!”
He quickly entered the blue room.
The next day, he found his mistress in the morning room much displeased. “I waited in the plum room for two hours!” she complained.
“But madame…!” he began, when they were interrupted by the appearance of Mrs. Pitts, the scullery maid. She breezed by them looking quite content.
“If the lamps be two, choose the room painted blue,” she sang sweetly to herself.
by John Thornquist
Pretty Lady Faxton had had her eye on the new footman for several weeks now. He possessed a body only the sculptor Phidias could have created; in his eyes there swirled the color and endless depth of the Caribbean, and his marvelously leonine face was framed by a luxuriant mane of golden curls. She absolutely had to have him.
One day, while old Lord Faxton was off inspecting the stables, she discreetly approached the footman.
“You there! Can you remember something?”
“I think so.”
“On the second floor of the west wing there are a pair of lamps under a painting. They’ll be our signal. ‘If the lamp be one, choose the room painted plum. If the lamps be two, choose the room painted blue.’ Midnight tonight.” And with that she stepped off.
Midnight approached and the poor footman had the whole thing muddled. There were seven rooms and he couldn’t remember which color rhymed with what number. Arriving, he saw two lamps burning and scratched his head in perplexity. “‘Two’ rhymes with…” and then he remembered with delight, “…blue!”
He quickly entered the blue room.
The next day, he found his mistress in the morning room much displeased. “I waited in the plum room for two hours!” she complained.
“But madame…!” he began, when they were interrupted by the appearance of Mrs. Pitts, the scullery maid. She breezed by them looking quite content.
“If the lamps be two, choose the room painted blue,” she sang sweetly to herself.
Entry #20
"Beacons"
by John Wilson
Walking slowly up the familiar staircase, I silently counted the steps like I had so many times before as a child. The eighth step still creaked and I smiled at that. As I reached the top of the landing, the warm light of the old hallway lamps enveloped me in their soft glow. Kate, already upstairs and lost in thought, drifted out of her old bedroom. Seeing me she sent a sad knowing smile my way, her face accented by the twin lamps.
We wandered through the empty farmhouse that late afternoon just as the day was ending and dusk began its short shadowy work. We paused, touched things and privately watched memories play short, long ago scenes in our minds. Occasionally we quietly looked and smiled at each other, recalling the same things. We shared and smiled, laughed and cried.
Our parents were now both gone, mother joining father and this was our final walk through before auction day. We had worked for days deciding what to keep, and work it was. So much we wanted to keep, so much we cherished.
We’d come back for one last thing. The two glass lamps. They had guided us to the safety of each others rooms after bad dreams, provided light during bad storms with no electricity, beckoned to us while driving home late at night. They had lighted our young lives. Night having fallen, we finally left our safe harbor for the last time, each with a beacon in hand.
by John Wilson
Walking slowly up the familiar staircase, I silently counted the steps like I had so many times before as a child. The eighth step still creaked and I smiled at that. As I reached the top of the landing, the warm light of the old hallway lamps enveloped me in their soft glow. Kate, already upstairs and lost in thought, drifted out of her old bedroom. Seeing me she sent a sad knowing smile my way, her face accented by the twin lamps.
We wandered through the empty farmhouse that late afternoon just as the day was ending and dusk began its short shadowy work. We paused, touched things and privately watched memories play short, long ago scenes in our minds. Occasionally we quietly looked and smiled at each other, recalling the same things. We shared and smiled, laughed and cried.
Our parents were now both gone, mother joining father and this was our final walk through before auction day. We had worked for days deciding what to keep, and work it was. So much we wanted to keep, so much we cherished.
We’d come back for one last thing. The two glass lamps. They had guided us to the safety of each others rooms after bad dreams, provided light during bad storms with no electricity, beckoned to us while driving home late at night. They had lighted our young lives. Night having fallen, we finally left our safe harbor for the last time, each with a beacon in hand.
Entry #19
"Giving Her the Bird"
by Jamie Ford
Margie couldn’t stand the smell of turkey. It made her puke. Literally. One whiff and she’d be heaving. When she was preggers with Thomas she had terrible morning sickness all through the holidays. The stretch marks had almost faded, but one peculiar scar remained. One whiff of a fat bird roasting––and you’d think it was syrup of ipecac.
"I thought we were having ham?" Margie asked in a way that was front-loaded with accusation.
"I’m tired of ham." Herb feigned innocence. Or at least ignorance.
"You know I can’t eat turkey!"
"It’s not turkey. It’s goose."
"That’s the same thing. Roasted bird smell equals me throwing up on your shoes. You want that for Thanksgiving?"
"I want something I can stuff. I can’t stuff a ham. You don’t like turkey. So I got another bird. What’s the big deal?"
"I’m gonna puke. That’s the big deal!"
"How was I to know a goose would make you sick? This is just a slight misunderstanding. Besides, since when is every bird now forbidden in my oven?"
"A misunderstanding?"
Herb shrugged a "yeah".
"Maybe a few antiques your mother gave you are going to have a misunderstanding."
Little Thomas was yammering in his crib. Margie screwed up her face and steam-rolled out the kitchen and down the hall.
Herb heard glass breaking against the wall. Then Margie in the distance chirping, "Sorry, I just had a misunderstanding."
Herb smiled, kept basting and added more sage.
[Jamie Ford grew up near Seattle’s Chinatown and is busy writing his first novel, Surefire. He hangs out at www.jamieford.com and has been known to eat jellyfish, sea cucumber and chicken feet on occasion.]
by Jamie Ford
Margie couldn’t stand the smell of turkey. It made her puke. Literally. One whiff and she’d be heaving. When she was preggers with Thomas she had terrible morning sickness all through the holidays. The stretch marks had almost faded, but one peculiar scar remained. One whiff of a fat bird roasting––and you’d think it was syrup of ipecac.
"I thought we were having ham?" Margie asked in a way that was front-loaded with accusation.
"I’m tired of ham." Herb feigned innocence. Or at least ignorance.
"You know I can’t eat turkey!"
"It’s not turkey. It’s goose."
"That’s the same thing. Roasted bird smell equals me throwing up on your shoes. You want that for Thanksgiving?"
"I want something I can stuff. I can’t stuff a ham. You don’t like turkey. So I got another bird. What’s the big deal?"
"I’m gonna puke. That’s the big deal!"
"How was I to know a goose would make you sick? This is just a slight misunderstanding. Besides, since when is every bird now forbidden in my oven?"
"A misunderstanding?"
Herb shrugged a "yeah".
"Maybe a few antiques your mother gave you are going to have a misunderstanding."
Little Thomas was yammering in his crib. Margie screwed up her face and steam-rolled out the kitchen and down the hall.
Herb heard glass breaking against the wall. Then Margie in the distance chirping, "Sorry, I just had a misunderstanding."
Herb smiled, kept basting and added more sage.
[Jamie Ford grew up near Seattle’s Chinatown and is busy writing his first novel, Surefire. He hangs out at www.jamieford.com and has been known to eat jellyfish, sea cucumber and chicken feet on occasion.]
Entry #18
Entry #18
by Jim Stitzel
“Choose the lamp on the left, see visions of the future. Choose the one on the right, taste of true madness for a spell.” The crone’s words burned in the girl’s mind like festering sores. She held her hands over the lamps but felt no heat from them, despite the frigid temperature of the small chamber. No shadows, nothing to indicate they even sat before her, despite what her eyes told her.
What kind of choice was this? Madness versus prophecy? The choice itself was madness.
Still, she plunged her hand into the light of the left-hand lamp and felt warmth from it at last as it gripped her arm and invaded her body. But then it grew bitterly cold as it wrenched her mind with visions of an impossibly terrible future. She screamed with the pain and terror of it and knew that this was far worse.
Her last thought before she succumbed to the black madness was, I should have chosen the other lamp.
*****
Shuffling steps. A hunched figure in the shadows. The girl was half-curled in a fetal position, eyes wide and unseeing. She could have been dead, but for the tears streaming from her eyes and the trembling lower lip.
“Your problem, girl, is that you have no imagination, no ability to see the consequences of your choices. So very typical. Arrogance of youth.”
She spat and the rancid spittle slid down the girl’s cheek as the crone shuffled back into the shadows.
[Jim Stitzel is a data analyst who fancies himself an amateur SF&F author. He blogs about real-life things at Writer's Blog and has just recently started sharing his practice fiction in a more public place.]
by Jim Stitzel
“Choose the lamp on the left, see visions of the future. Choose the one on the right, taste of true madness for a spell.” The crone’s words burned in the girl’s mind like festering sores. She held her hands over the lamps but felt no heat from them, despite the frigid temperature of the small chamber. No shadows, nothing to indicate they even sat before her, despite what her eyes told her.
What kind of choice was this? Madness versus prophecy? The choice itself was madness.
Still, she plunged her hand into the light of the left-hand lamp and felt warmth from it at last as it gripped her arm and invaded her body. But then it grew bitterly cold as it wrenched her mind with visions of an impossibly terrible future. She screamed with the pain and terror of it and knew that this was far worse.
Her last thought before she succumbed to the black madness was, I should have chosen the other lamp.
*****
Shuffling steps. A hunched figure in the shadows. The girl was half-curled in a fetal position, eyes wide and unseeing. She could have been dead, but for the tears streaming from her eyes and the trembling lower lip.
“Your problem, girl, is that you have no imagination, no ability to see the consequences of your choices. So very typical. Arrogance of youth.”
She spat and the rancid spittle slid down the girl’s cheek as the crone shuffled back into the shadows.
[Jim Stitzel is a data analyst who fancies himself an amateur SF&F author. He blogs about real-life things at Writer's Blog and has just recently started sharing his practice fiction in a more public place.]
Entry #17
“Hard Love”
by Scott Ellis
Rudy heaved himself onto the kitchen counter as quietly as he could, then crouched over the top of the refrigerator and lifted the lid from a ceramic, pale green cookie jar and took out a chocolate chip and a peanut butter with cross-hatches pressed with a dinner fork. Gingerly, with all the skill he could recall from playing Operation with his little brother, he set the lid back, but still did not avoid a hollow, tinkling report as it settled into place. Rudy cringed and hopped down to the floor and peered around the corner into the living room, where his step-mother lay on the couch, immersed in the world of the evening news.
He tried his best to walk casually, padding softly on the shag carpet, palming the cookies at his side as he passed in front of a stand upon which two floral lamps cast irregular light over a cherry wood mounted portrait, yet leaving it mostly in shadow.
“Hold it mister.” Rudy recoiled and crashed into the stand, jarring the lights that rattled and fizzled out. The television flicked his step-mother’s shadow at him like a dark tongue as she advanced, fists clenched, face dark, featureless. “Show me.”
He raised a sweaty, trembling hand that gripped the remains of his ruined plunder; bits and crumbs fell away as a sob arose from his chest.
“Do you have any idea how hard it is to love you?”
“I’m s-s-sorry,” Rudy began to wail.
“No, but you will be.”
by Scott Ellis
Rudy heaved himself onto the kitchen counter as quietly as he could, then crouched over the top of the refrigerator and lifted the lid from a ceramic, pale green cookie jar and took out a chocolate chip and a peanut butter with cross-hatches pressed with a dinner fork. Gingerly, with all the skill he could recall from playing Operation with his little brother, he set the lid back, but still did not avoid a hollow, tinkling report as it settled into place. Rudy cringed and hopped down to the floor and peered around the corner into the living room, where his step-mother lay on the couch, immersed in the world of the evening news.
He tried his best to walk casually, padding softly on the shag carpet, palming the cookies at his side as he passed in front of a stand upon which two floral lamps cast irregular light over a cherry wood mounted portrait, yet leaving it mostly in shadow.
“Hold it mister.” Rudy recoiled and crashed into the stand, jarring the lights that rattled and fizzled out. The television flicked his step-mother’s shadow at him like a dark tongue as she advanced, fists clenched, face dark, featureless. “Show me.”
He raised a sweaty, trembling hand that gripped the remains of his ruined plunder; bits and crumbs fell away as a sob arose from his chest.
“Do you have any idea how hard it is to love you?”
“I’m s-s-sorry,” Rudy began to wail.
“No, but you will be.”
Entry #16
“Lights Extinguished”
by Lucretia Janice
I remember the antique shop window, as clearly as if it were yesterday. Bric-a-brac arranged in ordered chaos and in the centre, those iridescent lamps, sparkling like treasure in the early evening light. How I coveted and dreamt of owning them! Every afternoon, I would hold my breath, as I neared the shop, praying they were still there and over time, my desire to own them became an obsession.
That we both arrived simultaneously one blustery Saturday morning to purchase them, was a rare miracle - something we marveled over for months. It became our binding story, our myth, which cemented the fathomless mystery of fate and our part in it.
Afterwards those twins became apostrophes on either side of our bed, enclosing ‘us’ together, forever until death do us part, in an ethereal embrace, like moonlight beacons in a sea of endless love.
I can’t recall when you brought that oppressive painting into our house. It was purchased in a guilty moment and presented to me as compensation for all the lonely days and cold nights apart, the times away from me that you could never fully explain. I accepted it with uneasiness and a sense of foreboding but no matter how many peace offerings were given, the breaks and tears became gaping holes in the fabric of our life and eventually, they were moved to the table.
That you should choose to leave just these three possessions behind, is a twist more cruel than fate should ever allow.
by Lucretia Janice
I remember the antique shop window, as clearly as if it were yesterday. Bric-a-brac arranged in ordered chaos and in the centre, those iridescent lamps, sparkling like treasure in the early evening light. How I coveted and dreamt of owning them! Every afternoon, I would hold my breath, as I neared the shop, praying they were still there and over time, my desire to own them became an obsession.
That we both arrived simultaneously one blustery Saturday morning to purchase them, was a rare miracle - something we marveled over for months. It became our binding story, our myth, which cemented the fathomless mystery of fate and our part in it.
Afterwards those twins became apostrophes on either side of our bed, enclosing ‘us’ together, forever until death do us part, in an ethereal embrace, like moonlight beacons in a sea of endless love.
I can’t recall when you brought that oppressive painting into our house. It was purchased in a guilty moment and presented to me as compensation for all the lonely days and cold nights apart, the times away from me that you could never fully explain. I accepted it with uneasiness and a sense of foreboding but no matter how many peace offerings were given, the breaks and tears became gaping holes in the fabric of our life and eventually, they were moved to the table.
That you should choose to leave just these three possessions behind, is a twist more cruel than fate should ever allow.
Monday, April 24, 2006
Entry #15
Entry #15
by Jerilyn Dufresne
I smiled before I even opened the door. The two lights on the table were lit, just as they'd been every night for as long as I could remember.
Mom's theory was that we'd always know how much she loved us by looking at the lights. No matter what, those lights were turned on. And no fancy-schmancy, automatic switch. Without fail, when darkness descended, a human turned those lights on.
It wasn't always Mom who did it. Sometimes she was unavailable, but she always made sure the lights were turned on.
I remember the first time she entrusted the job to me. I was all of 16, and she was taking a trip to visit an old friend and wouldn't be back until late. She must have called me three times to make sure I didn't forget. I didn't. It was too important a task, and I felt so grown up being the "one."
Now, I'm home again. My smile faded as I started up the stairs to sit with my mom who would never again walk down those stairs. My tears were a mixture of sad and happy as I felt the warm glow of those lamps accompany me on my journey upward.
"Mom loves me," I thought as I walked. And I straightened up, smiled, and opened her bedroom door, knowing that in my own home my child was ensuring the lights are lit tonight.
by Jerilyn Dufresne
I smiled before I even opened the door. The two lights on the table were lit, just as they'd been every night for as long as I could remember.
Mom's theory was that we'd always know how much she loved us by looking at the lights. No matter what, those lights were turned on. And no fancy-schmancy, automatic switch. Without fail, when darkness descended, a human turned those lights on.
It wasn't always Mom who did it. Sometimes she was unavailable, but she always made sure the lights were turned on.
I remember the first time she entrusted the job to me. I was all of 16, and she was taking a trip to visit an old friend and wouldn't be back until late. She must have called me three times to make sure I didn't forget. I didn't. It was too important a task, and I felt so grown up being the "one."
Now, I'm home again. My smile faded as I started up the stairs to sit with my mom who would never again walk down those stairs. My tears were a mixture of sad and happy as I felt the warm glow of those lamps accompany me on my journey upward.
"Mom loves me," I thought as I walked. And I straightened up, smiled, and opened her bedroom door, knowing that in my own home my child was ensuring the lights are lit tonight.
Entry #14
"You Say Monet, I Say Manet"
by J.T. Ellison
The funeral was over. Gran was in the ground. The twins were listless on the chintz sofa.
“Let the light guide you.” The rest of the family received cash, or property. The twins got a cryptic message and a string of numbers. Gran loved riddles. After hours of searching, they couldn’t figure it out.
Matt got excited as a patch of sunlight crept closer and closer to the sofa, but Mark scoffed.
“This isn’t the DaVinci Code, dummy. It’s not that kind of secret.”
“How do you know? Gran might’ve been a spy.”
Mark leaned back into a dusty afghan. They didn’t have much time. The apartment went on the market tomorrow. The treasure was here, he just knew it.
Shadows lengthened. An audible click made them both jump; the lights on Gran’s desk turned on. A timer. Mark glanced at the wall. The painting was a cheap print, yellowed with age. Gran’s favorite.
“Let the light guide you.” He heard the voice in his head, was up in a flash. Matt, his identical twin, had the same thought. Together they approached the framed poster.
Mark touched a finger to the print. Dust rose from the frame. With a quick glance at his brother, he pulled the print off the wall. There was a safe, with a combination lock.
“Get the numbers.” Matt read them off. The safe unlocked. Mark pulled it open.
Inside was a painting and a note. “Monet should take care of you. Love, Gran.”
[J.T. Ellison is a thriller writer based in Nashville, Tennessee. She blogs at Murderati.com. For more information on her work, visit Publisher’s Marketplace.]
by J.T. Ellison
The funeral was over. Gran was in the ground. The twins were listless on the chintz sofa.
“Let the light guide you.” The rest of the family received cash, or property. The twins got a cryptic message and a string of numbers. Gran loved riddles. After hours of searching, they couldn’t figure it out.
Matt got excited as a patch of sunlight crept closer and closer to the sofa, but Mark scoffed.
“This isn’t the DaVinci Code, dummy. It’s not that kind of secret.”
“How do you know? Gran might’ve been a spy.”
Mark leaned back into a dusty afghan. They didn’t have much time. The apartment went on the market tomorrow. The treasure was here, he just knew it.
Shadows lengthened. An audible click made them both jump; the lights on Gran’s desk turned on. A timer. Mark glanced at the wall. The painting was a cheap print, yellowed with age. Gran’s favorite.
“Let the light guide you.” He heard the voice in his head, was up in a flash. Matt, his identical twin, had the same thought. Together they approached the framed poster.
Mark touched a finger to the print. Dust rose from the frame. With a quick glance at his brother, he pulled the print off the wall. There was a safe, with a combination lock.
“Get the numbers.” Matt read them off. The safe unlocked. Mark pulled it open.
Inside was a painting and a note. “Monet should take care of you. Love, Gran.”
[J.T. Ellison is a thriller writer based in Nashville, Tennessee. She blogs at Murderati.com. For more information on her work, visit Publisher’s Marketplace.]
Entry #13
"Emancipation"
By Jaye Wells
The only items my mother left me upon her death were a pair of antique lamps. Starting with my great-great grandmother, who received them as wedding gifts, the lamps were handed down to the eldest daughter of each generation.
While beautiful, I hated them. They sat on a side table in my foyer, taunting me each time I walked past. Many times, I contemplated donating them to Good Will. But my ingrained Catholic guilt, along with a displaced sense of duty prevented me.
Why was it that thirty-two years, a funeral and hours of therapy could not severe the umbilical cord of guilt that tightened like a noose around my psyche?
When alive, mother (never mom or mommy) kept me in constant fear that one day she would withdraw her love. In actuality, she never loved me--I didn't realize that until much later.
As I aged, the threat of withdrawing love became the threat of withdrawing monetary support. She decided my college major(accounting) and even the men I dated ("Darling, he's new money--how gauche"). I followed her dictates like an addict, needing that next fix of approval.
Then she died in her sleep. And I found out that playing by the rules had gotten me nothing but a pair of fucking lamps.
But now they symbolize something different. They're a reminder of the day the light finally clicked on inside me and I was free—the day my mother died.
By Jaye Wells
The only items my mother left me upon her death were a pair of antique lamps. Starting with my great-great grandmother, who received them as wedding gifts, the lamps were handed down to the eldest daughter of each generation.
While beautiful, I hated them. They sat on a side table in my foyer, taunting me each time I walked past. Many times, I contemplated donating them to Good Will. But my ingrained Catholic guilt, along with a displaced sense of duty prevented me.
Why was it that thirty-two years, a funeral and hours of therapy could not severe the umbilical cord of guilt that tightened like a noose around my psyche?
When alive, mother (never mom or mommy) kept me in constant fear that one day she would withdraw her love. In actuality, she never loved me--I didn't realize that until much later.
As I aged, the threat of withdrawing love became the threat of withdrawing monetary support. She decided my college major(accounting) and even the men I dated ("Darling, he's new money--how gauche"). I followed her dictates like an addict, needing that next fix of approval.
Then she died in her sleep. And I found out that playing by the rules had gotten me nothing but a pair of fucking lamps.
But now they symbolize something different. They're a reminder of the day the light finally clicked on inside me and I was free—the day my mother died.
Entry #12
“Blinded by the Light”
by Bethany K. Warner
The sideboard lights, I decided, would be the test.
A one-if-by-land-two-if-by-sea-Paul-Revere sort of thing. Only for me, it was on if he's faithful, off if he's not.
I turned on the lights as I wheeled my suitcase down the hall. I never did that. He always did, letting them burn all night if I didn't shut them off.
My father's voice rang in my head when I left them on, a phantom from my childhood about how nobody knows how to use a light switch and how would I like to pay the electric bill.
The cost of electricity was the last thing on my mind. I paid for the airfare that I wouldn't use so I could make him think I was traveling on business this weekend.
I had a rental car on reserve so he wouldn't spot my red car parked down the block where I would keep surveillance.
I would meet him at the airport restaurant for a last meal.
I would check in and then I'd turn back to the rental car desk, drive home and wait.
Wait for them to return from the martini bar-- it was those receipts that first made me suspicious. And he would nibble her ear in the hallway and wrap his arms around her waist.
So the neighbors wouldn't see, or because she heard her father yelling about leaving lights on unnecessarily, she would reach for the lamps' switches.
Sometimes, vision is better in the dark.
by Bethany K. Warner
The sideboard lights, I decided, would be the test.
A one-if-by-land-two-if-by-sea-Paul-Revere sort of thing. Only for me, it was on if he's faithful, off if he's not.
I turned on the lights as I wheeled my suitcase down the hall. I never did that. He always did, letting them burn all night if I didn't shut them off.
My father's voice rang in my head when I left them on, a phantom from my childhood about how nobody knows how to use a light switch and how would I like to pay the electric bill.
The cost of electricity was the last thing on my mind. I paid for the airfare that I wouldn't use so I could make him think I was traveling on business this weekend.
I had a rental car on reserve so he wouldn't spot my red car parked down the block where I would keep surveillance.
I would meet him at the airport restaurant for a last meal.
I would check in and then I'd turn back to the rental car desk, drive home and wait.
Wait for them to return from the martini bar-- it was those receipts that first made me suspicious. And he would nibble her ear in the hallway and wrap his arms around her waist.
So the neighbors wouldn't see, or because she heard her father yelling about leaving lights on unnecessarily, she would reach for the lamps' switches.
Sometimes, vision is better in the dark.
Entry #11
“Exit Eden”
by Paul Nain
A single bed, a lonely house. Simply furnished, with practical kitchen and teak floors that creak at night. Small enclosed patio leading to quaint, well-maintained garden. One owner, for eternity.
The only thing that looks slightly out of place is the bedraggled recliner; circular indentations in the floor betraying its original location next to the large bay windows. His favoured chair, surveying all of creation. But not now.
He has since moved it closer to the large painting occupying the opposite wall and keeps the windows firmly shut. The curtains are drawn, their dark, red velvet a vigilant and unforgiving guard against the infiltration of light.
The orchestrator of these recent changes sits huddled beneath a thick blanket, his eyes fixed firmly on the painting. Just beneath it, two lamps infuse the room with a soft light. They are perhaps his favourite pieces; gifted existence by his own hands.
His gaze traces the intricate detail as the painter's brush might have, passing over the massive tree that dominates the background, the rich colours conveying an improbable tactility. Life bursts forth from this garden, barely constrained by canvas and frame. Yet in the foreground, beneath the sweeping branches of the great tree, an odd emptiness. A vague outline of what may have been two figures. A betrayal.
His eyes shimmering with the deepest sadness, the old man rises, lingers a final moment before the lamps, then exits. The echo, as a lock clicks into place, seems to ring out for eternity.
[Paul Nain is a religiously unaffiliated creature of the wheel. He'd like to think that he writes to get to the end of his first novel, but in actuality he writes because it's just so much fun.]
by Paul Nain
A single bed, a lonely house. Simply furnished, with practical kitchen and teak floors that creak at night. Small enclosed patio leading to quaint, well-maintained garden. One owner, for eternity.
The only thing that looks slightly out of place is the bedraggled recliner; circular indentations in the floor betraying its original location next to the large bay windows. His favoured chair, surveying all of creation. But not now.
He has since moved it closer to the large painting occupying the opposite wall and keeps the windows firmly shut. The curtains are drawn, their dark, red velvet a vigilant and unforgiving guard against the infiltration of light.
The orchestrator of these recent changes sits huddled beneath a thick blanket, his eyes fixed firmly on the painting. Just beneath it, two lamps infuse the room with a soft light. They are perhaps his favourite pieces; gifted existence by his own hands.
His gaze traces the intricate detail as the painter's brush might have, passing over the massive tree that dominates the background, the rich colours conveying an improbable tactility. Life bursts forth from this garden, barely constrained by canvas and frame. Yet in the foreground, beneath the sweeping branches of the great tree, an odd emptiness. A vague outline of what may have been two figures. A betrayal.
His eyes shimmering with the deepest sadness, the old man rises, lingers a final moment before the lamps, then exits. The echo, as a lock clicks into place, seems to ring out for eternity.
[Paul Nain is a religiously unaffiliated creature of the wheel. He'd like to think that he writes to get to the end of his first novel, but in actuality he writes because it's just so much fun.]
Entry #10
“Two Lights with No Beacon”
by Ann Marie Simard
She had seen the hotel so many times. The old centennial building, its sturdy Victorian frame, a lot like a mansion, a second place to call home. These business trips were subject to whims, as some would want it - calm atmosphere, the right papers to read, no tourists, please. Marleen - the assistant's name - knew that it was less expensive, by the way, and never asked where to book.
The two lights in the corridor before entering the room were still calmly incandescent with their soothing light. But this time was different. This time she had not come home to herself, in between meetings with Rochas and Dior. This was the time it had lost its lonely retreat magic, maybe forever.
It was their 6th honeymoon. But there was no moon to be mentioned. It was a sky of stark light, cloudy, and those two candles seemed to accuse all of what was wrong. The tense, past tense asymmetrical couple they had become. The symmetry seemed to call for a more appropriate mood, a song in harmony, not in minor keys. A cruise ambiance, a restaurant, France maybe. But two is sometimes such a lonely number. As is six. Maybe past the moon in the seventh house they would have made it.
She downloaded the divorce papers calmly and said she had some thinking to do. Alone, she walked barefoot on the beach. There was no beacon. The stark sky had turned into a starry, starry night.
by Ann Marie Simard
She had seen the hotel so many times. The old centennial building, its sturdy Victorian frame, a lot like a mansion, a second place to call home. These business trips were subject to whims, as some would want it - calm atmosphere, the right papers to read, no tourists, please. Marleen - the assistant's name - knew that it was less expensive, by the way, and never asked where to book.
The two lights in the corridor before entering the room were still calmly incandescent with their soothing light. But this time was different. This time she had not come home to herself, in between meetings with Rochas and Dior. This was the time it had lost its lonely retreat magic, maybe forever.
It was their 6th honeymoon. But there was no moon to be mentioned. It was a sky of stark light, cloudy, and those two candles seemed to accuse all of what was wrong. The tense, past tense asymmetrical couple they had become. The symmetry seemed to call for a more appropriate mood, a song in harmony, not in minor keys. A cruise ambiance, a restaurant, France maybe. But two is sometimes such a lonely number. As is six. Maybe past the moon in the seventh house they would have made it.
She downloaded the divorce papers calmly and said she had some thinking to do. Alone, she walked barefoot on the beach. There was no beacon. The stark sky had turned into a starry, starry night.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Entry #9
Entry #9
By Bhaswati Ghosh
“Coffee?” He exclaimed, without waiting for my reply, then jived his way to the kitchen, a song on his lips. I smiled. The rugged terrain and the daily dance of death had failed to harden him.
I finished the painting with a smudge of blue. He joined me, holding his drink. For an infantryman fighting seven thousand miles away, a four-day trip back home was luxury.
After discussing his health, the kitties, and the weather, I told him about the divorce and Mark remarrying. Was he upset for being kept in the dark? His lips clipped with unsaid words. Was it the heat when he yelped at gulping a large sip of coffee?
Caffeine over, he was back to his ebullient self. “Let’s see how the masterpiece looks.” He placed the canvas on the wall. “I’m gonna steal this one once I start living on my own. Make sure you sign it.”
“It’s yours,” I said with a weak grin.
“Well, aren’t you a sweetheart?” He hugged me.
Then, he gave me the gift; two beautiful crystal lights. He positioned them at the ends of the chest, just below the painting.
Three days later, a day before his nineteenth birthday, I received his death notice. Today, he would have been twenty.
I stepped into the room that had remained unlit for a year. I turned on the two lights and glanced at the painting.
“May the light shine for you, my son,” I whispered, before a lump blocked my throat.
[Bhaswati Ghosh is a freelance writer, living in New Delhi, India. Her work has appeared in electronic zines such as Chowk (www.chowk.com), Runes Magazine (www.runesmag.com), Seven Seas (www.sevenseasmagazine.com), and in the newsletter of the online writing forum, Writers4Writers (www.writers4writers.com). She has also been published in Teenage Buzz, a U.S. publication. Her debut book, Making Out in America is slated for release in 2006. The book is a humorous, anecdotal account of the author’s experiences with American slang and colloquialisms as an outsider. Bhaswati’s other interests include singing, cooking, and traveling. Visit her by clicking the link above.]
By Bhaswati Ghosh
“Coffee?” He exclaimed, without waiting for my reply, then jived his way to the kitchen, a song on his lips. I smiled. The rugged terrain and the daily dance of death had failed to harden him.
I finished the painting with a smudge of blue. He joined me, holding his drink. For an infantryman fighting seven thousand miles away, a four-day trip back home was luxury.
After discussing his health, the kitties, and the weather, I told him about the divorce and Mark remarrying. Was he upset for being kept in the dark? His lips clipped with unsaid words. Was it the heat when he yelped at gulping a large sip of coffee?
Caffeine over, he was back to his ebullient self. “Let’s see how the masterpiece looks.” He placed the canvas on the wall. “I’m gonna steal this one once I start living on my own. Make sure you sign it.”
“It’s yours,” I said with a weak grin.
“Well, aren’t you a sweetheart?” He hugged me.
Then, he gave me the gift; two beautiful crystal lights. He positioned them at the ends of the chest, just below the painting.
Three days later, a day before his nineteenth birthday, I received his death notice. Today, he would have been twenty.
I stepped into the room that had remained unlit for a year. I turned on the two lights and glanced at the painting.
“May the light shine for you, my son,” I whispered, before a lump blocked my throat.
[Bhaswati Ghosh is a freelance writer, living in New Delhi, India. Her work has appeared in electronic zines such as Chowk (www.chowk.com), Runes Magazine (www.runesmag.com), Seven Seas (www.sevenseasmagazine.com), and in the newsletter of the online writing forum, Writers4Writers (www.writers4writers.com). She has also been published in Teenage Buzz, a U.S. publication. Her debut book, Making Out in America is slated for release in 2006. The book is a humorous, anecdotal account of the author’s experiences with American slang and colloquialisms as an outsider. Bhaswati’s other interests include singing, cooking, and traveling. Visit her by clicking the link above.]
Entry #8
“Reality”
by Robin Allen
“Damned storm!”
The lights blink out after a great flash of lightning. She fumbles her way to the fireplace mantle to fetch the matches. Several old photographs are toppled by her blind hands until she at last locates the long matchbox.
She carefully feels her way to the entry hall table to light candles. Her husband will be home soon, and these should provide enough light to get him comfortably inside.
The first match is struck, the first candle lit. She is caught by her reflection in the mirror hanging above the table. The image enchants her. Her face is warm, almost dewy, in the soft glow. Her eyes, rich pools of blue, brim with depth and romance. She smooths her fine, dark hair back into place. Her lips, slightly parted, are full and inviting. She admires her beauty.
The second match is struck, the second candle lit. She studies her reflection again, numerous years have suddenly passed. Her skin is rather sallow and wrinkled with tiny spots from all those summers in the sun. Her blue eyes are faded, the color so faint to express only weariness. Her hair, pulled back, is more salt than pepper, with each gray glimmering in the candlelight. Her lips are thinned and deeply creviced, too many cigarettes. She despises her age.
She considers the two images and the stormy night.
“Who knows how long the electricity will be out?”
The second flame is quickly extinguished.
by Robin Allen
“Damned storm!”
The lights blink out after a great flash of lightning. She fumbles her way to the fireplace mantle to fetch the matches. Several old photographs are toppled by her blind hands until she at last locates the long matchbox.
She carefully feels her way to the entry hall table to light candles. Her husband will be home soon, and these should provide enough light to get him comfortably inside.
The first match is struck, the first candle lit. She is caught by her reflection in the mirror hanging above the table. The image enchants her. Her face is warm, almost dewy, in the soft glow. Her eyes, rich pools of blue, brim with depth and romance. She smooths her fine, dark hair back into place. Her lips, slightly parted, are full and inviting. She admires her beauty.
The second match is struck, the second candle lit. She studies her reflection again, numerous years have suddenly passed. Her skin is rather sallow and wrinkled with tiny spots from all those summers in the sun. Her blue eyes are faded, the color so faint to express only weariness. Her hair, pulled back, is more salt than pepper, with each gray glimmering in the candlelight. Her lips are thinned and deeply creviced, too many cigarettes. She despises her age.
She considers the two images and the stormy night.
“Who knows how long the electricity will be out?”
The second flame is quickly extinguished.
Entry #7
"Death, Away"
by Erik Ivan James
Tonight, she stood in front of the two hallway lights, engaged in quiet conversation with the same gentleman. Edward skirted by the couple--pretending not to notice her brief smile--making the way to his rented room. The soft background of light emitting from the twin globes outlined a silhouette of temptation through her garment of thin white. The quick glance and sharp pang in his heart told of something familiar about the couple. She, a former lover maybe? One from a different place? Edward continued on to his rented room, haunted by her presence and his struggle to attach the fleeting recognition.
Edward lay in bed, unable to purge the picture drawn by the two lights in the hall. He saw his memory’s shadow of her play across the ceiling, but cloaking reminiscence. He had known her before? The question burned in his mind. He wanted sleep, he didn’t feel well.
A soft knocking on his door, or someone walking on the floor above, he wasn’t sure, but a like sound had stirred him. He listened for more. Yes, on the door, the soft knock of a feminine hand. He knew it would be her, from another time and place. He would know her again.
With the hotel’s white robe loosely tied, Edward opened the door. The hallway empty, she was not there. A short ways down the hall he saw only the two lights, a misty movement, the lights flickered, then dark, death. She, his angel, was there.
by Erik Ivan James
Tonight, she stood in front of the two hallway lights, engaged in quiet conversation with the same gentleman. Edward skirted by the couple--pretending not to notice her brief smile--making the way to his rented room. The soft background of light emitting from the twin globes outlined a silhouette of temptation through her garment of thin white. The quick glance and sharp pang in his heart told of something familiar about the couple. She, a former lover maybe? One from a different place? Edward continued on to his rented room, haunted by her presence and his struggle to attach the fleeting recognition.
Edward lay in bed, unable to purge the picture drawn by the two lights in the hall. He saw his memory’s shadow of her play across the ceiling, but cloaking reminiscence. He had known her before? The question burned in his mind. He wanted sleep, he didn’t feel well.
A soft knocking on his door, or someone walking on the floor above, he wasn’t sure, but a like sound had stirred him. He listened for more. Yes, on the door, the soft knock of a feminine hand. He knew it would be her, from another time and place. He would know her again.
With the hotel’s white robe loosely tied, Edward opened the door. The hallway empty, she was not there. A short ways down the hall he saw only the two lights, a misty movement, the lights flickered, then dark, death. She, his angel, was there.
Entry #6
Entry #6
By Esther Avila
Chelsea lay in bed, unable to sleep. She could hear a clock ticking in the hallway. What time was it? She didn't know. Hours earlier her father had called from the hospital. His last words had frightened her.
"I'm sorry, honey. I know you wanted to be here but it all happened so fast. I would come for you but your mother is not doing well. I can't leave her. I'll call you soon," her father had said. "And, honey? Say a prayer, please."
She was 16 and yet, at that moment, Chelsea wanted to cry. For her father's sake, she didn't. Instead, she assured him that she would be fine.
Walking into the hallway, she turned on a small lamp and said a prayer for her mother before returning to her bedroom.
She was exhausted but she also knew she wouldn't sleep. Through the open doorway, she could see the lamp. The clock, striking every quarter hour, also kept her company.
Had it really been four hours since she had heard from her father?
Returning to the hallway, Chelsea paused at the lamp. Reaching across, she turned on a second lamp. It didn't matter to her that dawn was approaching.
"Please, God," she whispered, "Please do not take my mother or my baby sister away from us."
By Esther Avila
Chelsea lay in bed, unable to sleep. She could hear a clock ticking in the hallway. What time was it? She didn't know. Hours earlier her father had called from the hospital. His last words had frightened her.
"I'm sorry, honey. I know you wanted to be here but it all happened so fast. I would come for you but your mother is not doing well. I can't leave her. I'll call you soon," her father had said. "And, honey? Say a prayer, please."
She was 16 and yet, at that moment, Chelsea wanted to cry. For her father's sake, she didn't. Instead, she assured him that she would be fine.
Walking into the hallway, she turned on a small lamp and said a prayer for her mother before returning to her bedroom.
She was exhausted but she also knew she wouldn't sleep. Through the open doorway, she could see the lamp. The clock, striking every quarter hour, also kept her company.
Had it really been four hours since she had heard from her father?
Returning to the hallway, Chelsea paused at the lamp. Reaching across, she turned on a second lamp. It didn't matter to her that dawn was approaching.
"Please, God," she whispered, "Please do not take my mother or my baby sister away from us."
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Entry #5
"Two Lights"
by J P Agnew
There was always one light turned on at the summer cottage because he said that he knew I loved him but he couldn’t feel it in his soul.
He had not been very well the past couple of months but he knew it was time. We packed our things in the city and moved to the summer cottage.
I would lie next to him as he cried himself to sleep and I would hold his hand against my heart while he slept so he could feel me next to him. As I lay in bed the last night before he died I remembered the horrible day when the doctor told him he would not have much longer to live. The thought startled me and I woke abruptly and sat up in bed.
I turned to notice he was awake and holding out his hand for me to come closer. I lay back down next to him and this time he held my hand to his heart. He wanted me to feel his heart beating because it wasn’t his life that was stopping, but it was his soul excepting my love.
When I walked out of the bedroom into the hallway that night, I turned to the side table to turn off the light and noticed there were two lights on.
One for my love in his heart and the other for my love in his soul.
by J P Agnew
There was always one light turned on at the summer cottage because he said that he knew I loved him but he couldn’t feel it in his soul.
He had not been very well the past couple of months but he knew it was time. We packed our things in the city and moved to the summer cottage.
I would lie next to him as he cried himself to sleep and I would hold his hand against my heart while he slept so he could feel me next to him. As I lay in bed the last night before he died I remembered the horrible day when the doctor told him he would not have much longer to live. The thought startled me and I woke abruptly and sat up in bed.
I turned to notice he was awake and holding out his hand for me to come closer. I lay back down next to him and this time he held my hand to his heart. He wanted me to feel his heart beating because it wasn’t his life that was stopping, but it was his soul excepting my love.
When I walked out of the bedroom into the hallway that night, I turned to the side table to turn off the light and noticed there were two lights on.
One for my love in his heart and the other for my love in his soul.
Entry #4
"The Widower's Light"
by Flood Vax
I am sorry to tell you your wife has died.
In a funeral home, under some stairs, Dobson is crouched in an alcove.
She had a good life.
The funeral director is closing up. He listens as she makes her way through the building, turning off lights and closing doors. The ceiling lights of the corridor in which he hides go out. The only source of light are twin lamps, set on a table opposite his alcove.
I cannot leave Frances alone in here.
Footsteps approach. He tries to hold his breath as she walks past. His lungs betray him. He tries to catch his breath but he is caught instead.
'Hello? Who's there?' The startled director turns his way, blocking light shed by the lamps. He waves his hand dismissively. Only an old man...but nothing escapes his coughing fit.
Frances has never been alone at night since we were married.
'Mr. Dobson! Are you-?' Dobson lurches into the corridor. Stumbling, he knocks over one lamp. It flickers out, in shards.
She would have lived if I didn't panic.
Unstable, he reaches for the director. She backs away, confused. Dobson, still fighting for air, is panicked. Reaching for the table, the second light falls. The director tries to pass him to get to a phone. They collide; he collapses.
Darkness.
'Mr. Dobson?'
Find a way to live without her now, Dad.
The director blindly feels for vital signs. Finding none, she goes back to her office to use the phone.
[Flood is a new blogger to the internet and a wanna-be author. With no experience and nothing published, Flood relies on a "Fake-it-til-you-make-it" attitude.]
by Flood Vax
I am sorry to tell you your wife has died.
In a funeral home, under some stairs, Dobson is crouched in an alcove.
She had a good life.
The funeral director is closing up. He listens as she makes her way through the building, turning off lights and closing doors. The ceiling lights of the corridor in which he hides go out. The only source of light are twin lamps, set on a table opposite his alcove.
I cannot leave Frances alone in here.
Footsteps approach. He tries to hold his breath as she walks past. His lungs betray him. He tries to catch his breath but he is caught instead.
'Hello? Who's there?' The startled director turns his way, blocking light shed by the lamps. He waves his hand dismissively. Only an old man...but nothing escapes his coughing fit.
Frances has never been alone at night since we were married.
'Mr. Dobson! Are you-?' Dobson lurches into the corridor. Stumbling, he knocks over one lamp. It flickers out, in shards.
She would have lived if I didn't panic.
Unstable, he reaches for the director. She backs away, confused. Dobson, still fighting for air, is panicked. Reaching for the table, the second light falls. The director tries to pass him to get to a phone. They collide; he collapses.
Darkness.
'Mr. Dobson?'
Find a way to live without her now, Dad.
The director blindly feels for vital signs. Finding none, she goes back to her office to use the phone.
[Flood is a new blogger to the internet and a wanna-be author. With no experience and nothing published, Flood relies on a "Fake-it-til-you-make-it" attitude.]
Entry #3
"Rekindled"
by Jeff Neale
Shawn and Melanie agreed to make one last attempt to salvage their fifteen-year marriage by renting a room at a quaint twentieth century Bed & Breakfast for the weekend. The idea was to spend the entire time together without outside interruption and see if the dying flame could be rekindled. The agreement included no cell phones, television, or laptops.
Their room, Victorian Dream, was located on the second floor.
They climbed the stairs and followed the beautiful hardwood floor to their room. Beside their door stood an antique oak table supporting a matching pair of small Victorian candle lamps.
Once inside, Melanie sat down and ran her hand along the coverlet of the king size four-poster bed, while Shawn stepped out onto the balcony.
Later she stood beside him watching the setting sun bathe the hills beyond in a splendid array of colors.
"Is this going to work?" Melanie said, breaking the silence.
"You mean us?" Shawn said.
"Yes"
"Maybe" he said. "If we're both willing to try I think it can."
Leaving their room for dinner, they noticed one of the two candles on the hallway table had gone out.
Melanie held the globe as Shawn relit the candle. Now two lights joined as one again.
"Do you think relighting that candle was a sign?" Melanie said, cautiously watching for his reaction.
"I was just wondering the same thing," Shawn said.
Then Melanie did something she had not done for a long time . . . she smiled.
by Jeff Neale
Shawn and Melanie agreed to make one last attempt to salvage their fifteen-year marriage by renting a room at a quaint twentieth century Bed & Breakfast for the weekend. The idea was to spend the entire time together without outside interruption and see if the dying flame could be rekindled. The agreement included no cell phones, television, or laptops.
Their room, Victorian Dream, was located on the second floor.
They climbed the stairs and followed the beautiful hardwood floor to their room. Beside their door stood an antique oak table supporting a matching pair of small Victorian candle lamps.
Once inside, Melanie sat down and ran her hand along the coverlet of the king size four-poster bed, while Shawn stepped out onto the balcony.
Later she stood beside him watching the setting sun bathe the hills beyond in a splendid array of colors.
"Is this going to work?" Melanie said, breaking the silence.
"You mean us?" Shawn said.
"Yes"
"Maybe" he said. "If we're both willing to try I think it can."
Leaving their room for dinner, they noticed one of the two candles on the hallway table had gone out.
Melanie held the globe as Shawn relit the candle. Now two lights joined as one again.
"Do you think relighting that candle was a sign?" Melanie said, cautiously watching for his reaction.
"I was just wondering the same thing," Shawn said.
Then Melanie did something she had not done for a long time . . . she smiled.
Entry #2
"Beacon"
by Bernita Harris
His prayer changed.
"Please God, let me make it," he said into the night and the rain, fixing his eyes on the pin-point of light half a mile away.
The light that means warm hands, carbolic and bandages. The light that meant help.
That light, the shimmering bead in the shouting night, the tiny glow that dimmed and refracted in halos before his rain-drenched eyes, he counted to keep him true.
Keep him steady in spite of the pain and the seeping blood.
Keep him away from the laboring, swollen river that shouldered and undercut the bank along his passage, beside his heavy feet.
Sometime in the sodden, staggering journey along the river path, the only path, his prayer changed.
"Please, Lena, please don't douse the lamps."
by Bernita Harris
His prayer changed.
"Please God, let me make it," he said into the night and the rain, fixing his eyes on the pin-point of light half a mile away.
The light that means warm hands, carbolic and bandages. The light that meant help.
That light, the shimmering bead in the shouting night, the tiny glow that dimmed and refracted in halos before his rain-drenched eyes, he counted to keep him true.
Keep him steady in spite of the pain and the seeping blood.
Keep him away from the laboring, swollen river that shouldered and undercut the bank along his passage, beside his heavy feet.
Sometime in the sodden, staggering journey along the river path, the only path, his prayer changed.
"Please, Lena, please don't douse the lamps."
Friday, April 21, 2006
Entry #1
"A Wealth of Love"
by Sandra Seamans
We sat in the dark hallway, both of us wrapped in our own thoughts and prayers. Only the soft glow from the antique lamps offered us any comfort in the blackness that surrounded us.
I could hear my mother’s voice drifting across the years, "You can take the girl out of the trailer park but...well, never mind. Just remember this one thing, marrying up don’t make a woman’s life easier, just gives her more expensive choices."
Poor Daniel, my sweet innocent son, was curled up under the hall table. Just a shadow, hidden out of sight. His mind closed to the sight of his father resting in a puddle of blood, a butcher knife plunged into his chest, his mother rescued from his father's savage blows.
I cradled my battered head in my blood soaked hands, sobbing out my fears. I needed to pull myself together enough to make that damming call to the police. One call that would decide our fate.
That night proved the truth my mother's words . Folks should keep to their own kind. Climbing out of a trailer park into a rich man’s house didn’t make my life better. My upbringing just gave my wealthy husband an edge. He could beat his poor white trash wife half to death without giving any thought to the consequences, but when he died...the jail cell door slammed tight behind me. And Daniel, my sweet boy, was free to live his life without fear.
by Sandra Seamans
We sat in the dark hallway, both of us wrapped in our own thoughts and prayers. Only the soft glow from the antique lamps offered us any comfort in the blackness that surrounded us.
I could hear my mother’s voice drifting across the years, "You can take the girl out of the trailer park but...well, never mind. Just remember this one thing, marrying up don’t make a woman’s life easier, just gives her more expensive choices."
Poor Daniel, my sweet innocent son, was curled up under the hall table. Just a shadow, hidden out of sight. His mind closed to the sight of his father resting in a puddle of blood, a butcher knife plunged into his chest, his mother rescued from his father's savage blows.
I cradled my battered head in my blood soaked hands, sobbing out my fears. I needed to pull myself together enough to make that damming call to the police. One call that would decide our fate.
That night proved the truth my mother's words . Folks should keep to their own kind. Climbing out of a trailer park into a rich man’s house didn’t make my life better. My upbringing just gave my wealthy husband an edge. He could beat his poor white trash wife half to death without giving any thought to the consequences, but when he died...the jail cell door slammed tight behind me. And Daniel, my sweet boy, was free to live his life without fear.
"Two Lights" Short Fiction Contest Information
My friends, I'm very pleased to announce the opening of The "Two Lights" Short Fiction Contest!
The challenge is simple. Using the photograph above for inspiration, compose a short fiction piece of no more than 250 words. All genres are welcome.
The prizes are:
--1st Place, a $25 Amazon gift certificate + a signed 8x10 print of the "Two Lights" photo or any other photo from [the Gallery]
--2nd Place, a $10 Amazon gift certificate + a signed 8x10 print (see above)
--3rd Place (if I get at least 10 entries), a signed 8x10 print (see above)
I will judge the entries and announce the winners on Friday evening, April 28th.
E-mail your entry to jevanswriter at yahoo dot com no later than 8:00 p.m. (eastern time), Thursday April 27th. If you'd like, you can add either a link to your website/blog or a short bio with your entry.
All entries will be posted here and indexed for easy access. I encourage everyone to read and comment on each other's entries. Beyond just competitions, these contests are wonderful opportunities to discuss writing and learn from each other.
Spread the word! Have fun and good luck!!
UPDATE in response to questions:
1. Titles (optional) do not count toward the 250 words.
2. After the winners are announced, I will add a comment on each entry saying what I liked best about it.
3. Although you consent to having your piece posted here by entering the contest, all rights to your entry remain with you, the author.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Diamond Shoals, Part 4, Final (Fiction)
(Just joining us? Go back to Part 1)
Old Jacob hurled the rope into the wind. It uncurled and slapped the water. A close throw. But the man adrift didn't see it.
"Grab it!" Old Jacob yelled, shaking his end. "Grab it!"
Barely able to spare his hands, the man groped in the gloom. The boat dropped behind the next swell, and the man disappeared.
The rope zipped tight.
"He's on!"
Old Jacob hauled while Patrick rowed against the drag. They towered high, and man splashed beneath them. The ocean rolled, and their positions reversed.
Jacob's strength plowed him closer through the storm.
They reached out. Up and over the side, the soaking man flopped into the boat. He coughed and wheezed.
"How many more? How many aboard?" Old Jacob said.
"Gone," he croaked.
The decks of the burning schooner caved. The appetite of the fire was dwindling.
"Where? In the water?"
Strings ran from the man's mouth and nose. He gagged and spit water.
"The life boat," he said. "Told them not to go."
He pointed to the bowels of Diamond Shoals. Madness. The sea witches danced their lethal dance.
"They didn't make it far."
Old Jacob nodded, peering across the shoals. The others watched him.
He turned to Patrick.
"Give it back to your father, son."
Patrick pried his cramped hands from the wood. His father retook the seat.
"We're going in!" Jacob bellowed. "Keep a strong hand!"
The oars dug in.
"There!" Jacob said, pointing the course. "Keep that angle! Stretch out those seas!"
Old Jacob sized the next wave. He timed it's approach.
"Now! Turn to!"
The boat swung toward land. A mountain rose up behind them. Patrick gripped the gunwales. It pushed them, but the oars fought the desire to turn.
Grasping and grasping, the wave finally released them, and they fell down the back side.
Already, the next assault approached. Patrick felt the boat's confusion, it's itch to swerve in every direction.
Patrick's father battled. He clawed and strained and almost conquered the sea. But halfway to shore, they landed in breakers. So difficult to spot from behind.
Too late.
Shallow water nipped their feet. The next wave behind them leaned.
The stern dug in. The boat surfed forward.
Patrick saw it coming.
The prow dipped and burrowed. They careened sideways and broached.
Seven men clattered into the icy ocean. The boat tumbled on.
Seven men fought. Cursed the paradise below. But one by one, the stillness reached out, and soothed them.
* * * * *
A roaring wind consumed the sea. Driving. Furious. Mountains of water rose from the deep and smashed the land.
Patrick shivered. The sand rumbled beneath his feet.
The voices sang, and he listened.
His father. Old Jacob. The men of the town. The lonely sailor whose name he never knew.
The wind thrashed his greying hair and carried them.
"Father? What do you see?"
Patrick's son. A stout man of eighteen.
Patrick gazed out. Another wreck kneeled in the delirium of Diamond Shoals.
His fingers squeezed the sandy gunwale of the rescue boat.
"Are you ready?"
Five men waited for his command. He had walked the sea the longest. His skin was gnawed by the salty years.
The surf pounded in a dangerous rhythm. Patrick's mind wove with the whispering. Men calling beneath the waves.
He straightened. Blinked away his own heirloom of loss on the seas.
"Hup!" he shouted.
He watched, and the waves opened for him.
"Hup ho!"
Back to Part 3
Old Jacob hurled the rope into the wind. It uncurled and slapped the water. A close throw. But the man adrift didn't see it.
"Grab it!" Old Jacob yelled, shaking his end. "Grab it!"
Barely able to spare his hands, the man groped in the gloom. The boat dropped behind the next swell, and the man disappeared.
The rope zipped tight.
"He's on!"
Old Jacob hauled while Patrick rowed against the drag. They towered high, and man splashed beneath them. The ocean rolled, and their positions reversed.
Jacob's strength plowed him closer through the storm.
They reached out. Up and over the side, the soaking man flopped into the boat. He coughed and wheezed.
"How many more? How many aboard?" Old Jacob said.
"Gone," he croaked.
The decks of the burning schooner caved. The appetite of the fire was dwindling.
"Where? In the water?"
Strings ran from the man's mouth and nose. He gagged and spit water.
"The life boat," he said. "Told them not to go."
He pointed to the bowels of Diamond Shoals. Madness. The sea witches danced their lethal dance.
"They didn't make it far."
Old Jacob nodded, peering across the shoals. The others watched him.
He turned to Patrick.
"Give it back to your father, son."
Patrick pried his cramped hands from the wood. His father retook the seat.
"We're going in!" Jacob bellowed. "Keep a strong hand!"
The oars dug in.
"There!" Jacob said, pointing the course. "Keep that angle! Stretch out those seas!"
Old Jacob sized the next wave. He timed it's approach.
"Now! Turn to!"
The boat swung toward land. A mountain rose up behind them. Patrick gripped the gunwales. It pushed them, but the oars fought the desire to turn.
Grasping and grasping, the wave finally released them, and they fell down the back side.
Already, the next assault approached. Patrick felt the boat's confusion, it's itch to swerve in every direction.
Patrick's father battled. He clawed and strained and almost conquered the sea. But halfway to shore, they landed in breakers. So difficult to spot from behind.
Too late.
Shallow water nipped their feet. The next wave behind them leaned.
The stern dug in. The boat surfed forward.
Patrick saw it coming.
The prow dipped and burrowed. They careened sideways and broached.
Seven men clattered into the icy ocean. The boat tumbled on.
Seven men fought. Cursed the paradise below. But one by one, the stillness reached out, and soothed them.
* * * * *
A roaring wind consumed the sea. Driving. Furious. Mountains of water rose from the deep and smashed the land.
Patrick shivered. The sand rumbled beneath his feet.
The voices sang, and he listened.
His father. Old Jacob. The men of the town. The lonely sailor whose name he never knew.
The wind thrashed his greying hair and carried them.
"Father? What do you see?"
Patrick's son. A stout man of eighteen.
Patrick gazed out. Another wreck kneeled in the delirium of Diamond Shoals.
His fingers squeezed the sandy gunwale of the rescue boat.
"Are you ready?"
Five men waited for his command. He had walked the sea the longest. His skin was gnawed by the salty years.
The surf pounded in a dangerous rhythm. Patrick's mind wove with the whispering. Men calling beneath the waves.
He straightened. Blinked away his own heirloom of loss on the seas.
"Hup!" he shouted.
He watched, and the waves opened for him.
"Hup ho!"
Back to Part 3
Monday, April 17, 2006
Diamond Shoals, Part 3 (Fiction)
(This one is dedicated to Kelly Parra, who sent me a link to a picture and challenged me to make it come alive. Just joining us? Go back to Part 1)
The boat rose and fell. From peaks scoured by wind to dark valleys blinded from the world. Never resting.
Never safe.
Shivers ate Patrick's bones. Only low in the caverns of water could he duck the driving cold.
Old Jacob slapped Patrick's father on the back. Shouted in his ear.
"Rest! We'll need you later!"
The huge man nodded and released the oars. Old Jacob slipped into his place. He resumed the slow rhythm.
Patrick's mind swam in blackness. In the distance, the land leapt and hid behind swells. It's stability forgotten. His inborn senses fought to keep him upright, but the ocean was too fierce. His body flung in every direction. His reality peeled away.
"You see her?"
The water surged, and they crested again on the roof of the seas. Howling rain raked them.
"Off the port bow!" the lookout yelled back. "Under a mile!"
Patrick wiped the water from his eyes to see the schooner. Listing hard, it's decks washed with the sea.
They sheared another wave. Salty foam drenched Patrick's hair.
"Her sails are under! She's capsized!"
They all craned forward. Except the oarsman.
Patrick shielded his eyes. Mystified, he stared. He caught a wondrous glimpse of color. Sparkling orange. Like diamonds fluttering through air.
He couldn't cry out. He didn't have the words.
They rolled down into darkness. Patrick waited. The sky raced toward them once more.
"She's burning!" the lookout screamed.
Patrick's wonder stiffened. Not diamonds. Flames illuminated the spray.
His spirit withered at the horrible sight. Fire too delirious for the rain to quench. She would burn to the waterline.
"Patrick!"
The veins in Old Jacob's neck pounded. His mouth hung open. His lungs were spent.
"It's up to you, boy!"
He was the next. A stout man for eighteen. He gripped the oars. The wood was blotched red with blood.
"Row like the devil!"
The paddles bit water, and he shouldered the weight. He left nothing behind.
"That's it! Long strokes! Give 'er hell!
He pulled. And pulled. He ignored the pain.
He snapped to commands. Adjusting course. Swinging the bow to treacherous waves. The world faded. He beat to the thumping of his heart.
"No! We can't cross the shoals!"
"But we can't turn to!"
Old Jacob and the lookout were arguing.
Patrick turned to see their progress. The schooner loomed north, just a couple hundred yards away.
"Look at those breakers! It's nothing but white! The angels will take you in there!"
"But we can't show our stern to these seas! We'll broach!"
The other four men looked to Old Jacob. He walked the seas the longest. His words carried authority.
The lookout dropped his eyes.
"Starboard, Patrick! Away from the shoals!" he said. "Be easy now! We'll try to tack in!"
The wood rolled in Patrick's hands. His palms blazed with fire. Skin ripped raw with splinters and dripping blood.
They crept closer. The gale billowed sparks and ash off the deck.
"Wait! Did you hear it?" someone shouted.
Patrick rowed.
"Listen!"
Tip-toeing across the tumult. A sound. Like a bird beating wings against the cyclone.
"There! A man on the figurehead!"
Patrick turned. A man clutched the arching beauty of a woman on the prow.
"Ahoy! Ahoy there, man!"
Old Jacob bellowed through cupped hands.
The man waved. A brief and weak gesture.
The wooden hulk rolled with each blow of water.
"That's it Patrick! Bring us under!"
The fire gnawed loud enough to hear. Old Jacob coiled rope in his hands.
"Do it man! Jump!"
The dark figure let go. He plunged into the battering sea.
Much too small to make a sound.
On to Part 4
Back to Part 2
The boat rose and fell. From peaks scoured by wind to dark valleys blinded from the world. Never resting.
Never safe.
Shivers ate Patrick's bones. Only low in the caverns of water could he duck the driving cold.
Old Jacob slapped Patrick's father on the back. Shouted in his ear.
"Rest! We'll need you later!"
The huge man nodded and released the oars. Old Jacob slipped into his place. He resumed the slow rhythm.
Patrick's mind swam in blackness. In the distance, the land leapt and hid behind swells. It's stability forgotten. His inborn senses fought to keep him upright, but the ocean was too fierce. His body flung in every direction. His reality peeled away.
"You see her?"
The water surged, and they crested again on the roof of the seas. Howling rain raked them.
"Off the port bow!" the lookout yelled back. "Under a mile!"
Patrick wiped the water from his eyes to see the schooner. Listing hard, it's decks washed with the sea.
They sheared another wave. Salty foam drenched Patrick's hair.
"Her sails are under! She's capsized!"
They all craned forward. Except the oarsman.
Patrick shielded his eyes. Mystified, he stared. He caught a wondrous glimpse of color. Sparkling orange. Like diamonds fluttering through air.
He couldn't cry out. He didn't have the words.
They rolled down into darkness. Patrick waited. The sky raced toward them once more.
"She's burning!" the lookout screamed.
Patrick's wonder stiffened. Not diamonds. Flames illuminated the spray.
His spirit withered at the horrible sight. Fire too delirious for the rain to quench. She would burn to the waterline.
"Patrick!"
The veins in Old Jacob's neck pounded. His mouth hung open. His lungs were spent.
"It's up to you, boy!"
He was the next. A stout man for eighteen. He gripped the oars. The wood was blotched red with blood.
"Row like the devil!"
The paddles bit water, and he shouldered the weight. He left nothing behind.
"That's it! Long strokes! Give 'er hell!
He pulled. And pulled. He ignored the pain.
He snapped to commands. Adjusting course. Swinging the bow to treacherous waves. The world faded. He beat to the thumping of his heart.
"No! We can't cross the shoals!"
"But we can't turn to!"
Old Jacob and the lookout were arguing.
Patrick turned to see their progress. The schooner loomed north, just a couple hundred yards away.
"Look at those breakers! It's nothing but white! The angels will take you in there!"
"But we can't show our stern to these seas! We'll broach!"
The other four men looked to Old Jacob. He walked the seas the longest. His words carried authority.
The lookout dropped his eyes.
"Starboard, Patrick! Away from the shoals!" he said. "Be easy now! We'll try to tack in!"
The wood rolled in Patrick's hands. His palms blazed with fire. Skin ripped raw with splinters and dripping blood.
They crept closer. The gale billowed sparks and ash off the deck.
"Wait! Did you hear it?" someone shouted.
Patrick rowed.
"Listen!"
Tip-toeing across the tumult. A sound. Like a bird beating wings against the cyclone.
"There! A man on the figurehead!"
Patrick turned. A man clutched the arching beauty of a woman on the prow.
"Ahoy! Ahoy there, man!"
Old Jacob bellowed through cupped hands.
The man waved. A brief and weak gesture.
The wooden hulk rolled with each blow of water.
"That's it Patrick! Bring us under!"
The fire gnawed loud enough to hear. Old Jacob coiled rope in his hands.
"Do it man! Jump!"
The dark figure let go. He plunged into the battering sea.
Much too small to make a sound.
On to Part 4
Back to Part 2
Friday, April 14, 2006
Recurring Dreams
_i dreamed i drove
__important destinations
___roads and stops and people and jobs
____i drove but never got there
_____they eat my alarm like poison
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Diamond Shoals, Part 2 (Fiction)
(Just joining us? Go back to Part 1)
The wave rushed them. Patrick's father hauled hard on the oars, and the boat pitched skyward.
"Hold on!"
With the surge forward, the keel sliced the ridge, and they plunged over the other side. Patrick was dragged, fluttering in the surf. Behind him, the wave exploded.
Through the chaos, he heard orders shouted.
"Dig in! Push us!"
He flailed for the bottom. Feet running over nothingness. Kicking. Kicking. His toe scraped, but he had water to his neck.
"Faster! Hurry!"
He tried to shove the boat farther from shore. No time. The next wave loomed. The sandy floor dropped away, and the boat soared.
The crest slapped the prow and heavy spray drenched Patrick's face. Again, they plummeted. Patrick's feet flipped out of the water, but he held on.
Too fast. Not enough time to recover. The prow dug in, bit water. He cracked his skull into the side of the boat. His hands flinched open.
"Patrick!" his father yelled.
The current sucked him down. A blanket of cold hugged him.
"Patrick!"
He sensed the lift of the next wave. Something blocked him. Denied him air.
"Pull him up!"
A fist grappled his collar and pulled him from under the boat. He gasped, but a breaker rumbled into his face. His nose and mouth flooded. Chilly ice hit his lungs. He gagged.
Ahead, the water churned with torn sand. An inshore sandbar. Ferocious breakers.
"We're going to lose him!"
Three men groped, sending the boat perilously close to spilling.
"Get back!"
A wave crashed on their doorstep. Angry water poured over the bow.
"Bail it! Bail it!"
The muscles of Patrick's father bulged on the oars. A race to the sandbar. They sliced two smaller waves. The third would be a monster.
"You got him?"
Patrick dangled half in the boat. The gunwale cut into his waist. One more heave sent him to the bottom. Coughing seawater, he hit six more inches sloshing under the benches.
"We're too heavy!"
A rush of hands splashed out as much water as they could. Bare hands. Only the bailer flung bucket-fulls downwind.
"We're not going to make it!"
Patrick lifted his head. The horizon bowed to a twenty foot beast, black as night.
The shallows provoked it, curling, ready to fall.
"Go! Go! Go!"
Patrick's father screamed with exertion. A vertical wall met them. They were going to flip.
Two men leapt forward and landed on the bow. The force pierced the wall, and the water rolled from under them. They fell through yards of open air and hit with a gigantic splash. The impact pounded breath from the sprawled men.
The sandbar passed underneath them.
Patrick stared out into the deep. Into the march of living mountains.
On to Part 3
The wave rushed them. Patrick's father hauled hard on the oars, and the boat pitched skyward.
"Hold on!"
With the surge forward, the keel sliced the ridge, and they plunged over the other side. Patrick was dragged, fluttering in the surf. Behind him, the wave exploded.
Through the chaos, he heard orders shouted.
"Dig in! Push us!"
He flailed for the bottom. Feet running over nothingness. Kicking. Kicking. His toe scraped, but he had water to his neck.
"Faster! Hurry!"
He tried to shove the boat farther from shore. No time. The next wave loomed. The sandy floor dropped away, and the boat soared.
The crest slapped the prow and heavy spray drenched Patrick's face. Again, they plummeted. Patrick's feet flipped out of the water, but he held on.
Too fast. Not enough time to recover. The prow dug in, bit water. He cracked his skull into the side of the boat. His hands flinched open.
"Patrick!" his father yelled.
The current sucked him down. A blanket of cold hugged him.
"Patrick!"
He sensed the lift of the next wave. Something blocked him. Denied him air.
"Pull him up!"
A fist grappled his collar and pulled him from under the boat. He gasped, but a breaker rumbled into his face. His nose and mouth flooded. Chilly ice hit his lungs. He gagged.
Ahead, the water churned with torn sand. An inshore sandbar. Ferocious breakers.
"We're going to lose him!"
Three men groped, sending the boat perilously close to spilling.
"Get back!"
A wave crashed on their doorstep. Angry water poured over the bow.
"Bail it! Bail it!"
The muscles of Patrick's father bulged on the oars. A race to the sandbar. They sliced two smaller waves. The third would be a monster.
"You got him?"
Patrick dangled half in the boat. The gunwale cut into his waist. One more heave sent him to the bottom. Coughing seawater, he hit six more inches sloshing under the benches.
"We're too heavy!"
A rush of hands splashed out as much water as they could. Bare hands. Only the bailer flung bucket-fulls downwind.
"We're not going to make it!"
Patrick lifted his head. The horizon bowed to a twenty foot beast, black as night.
The shallows provoked it, curling, ready to fall.
"Go! Go! Go!"
Patrick's father screamed with exertion. A vertical wall met them. They were going to flip.
Two men leapt forward and landed on the bow. The force pierced the wall, and the water rolled from under them. They fell through yards of open air and hit with a gigantic splash. The impact pounded breath from the sprawled men.
The sandbar passed underneath them.
Patrick stared out into the deep. Into the march of living mountains.
On to Part 3
Monday, April 10, 2006
Little Windows--The Birthday Party
When I was growing up (the 70's mainly), my family took Super 8 movies. Laughable compared to now. Films were silent, lasted about five minutes, and had to be shown on a projector. A while back, I transferred our old Super 8's onto VHS and dubbed in 70's music. Now I'm moving those to DVD.
They're an odd record of the past. More vibrant than photos, but still distant and imperfect. I thought it might be fun now and again to share some of these "little windows" into my past.
The Birthday Party
I was six years old. I didn't want a birthday party.
My parents threw one anyway. Friends came. Cousins. Aunts. Grandparents. Neighbors. You name it. I remember shrinking from the attention. I remember hoping it would end.
Then, came the cake. Time to cut. Time to sing. The kids waited, but I wouldn't come over.
"Hey, where is he?"
Um, standing over there in the corner.
My grandfather tried to pull me over. Not pretty. My mother decided to bring the cake to me. Cornered me with it.
It could've gone rather badly. Have you ever seen cake combat? Thankfully, it didn't hit the floor.
I never had a true birthday party again. And I'm glad.
(Fascinating to see your personality develop on film. I easily form close rapports one-on-one or in small groups. The attention of crowds, however, I find forced and fake, almost aggressive. I stand before crowds now by playing a role: lawyer, lecturer, etc. Standing up only as myself, however, would still be struggle.)
They're an odd record of the past. More vibrant than photos, but still distant and imperfect. I thought it might be fun now and again to share some of these "little windows" into my past.
The Birthday Party
I was six years old. I didn't want a birthday party.
My parents threw one anyway. Friends came. Cousins. Aunts. Grandparents. Neighbors. You name it. I remember shrinking from the attention. I remember hoping it would end.
Then, came the cake. Time to cut. Time to sing. The kids waited, but I wouldn't come over.
"Hey, where is he?"
Um, standing over there in the corner.
My grandfather tried to pull me over. Not pretty. My mother decided to bring the cake to me. Cornered me with it.
It could've gone rather badly. Have you ever seen cake combat? Thankfully, it didn't hit the floor.
I never had a true birthday party again. And I'm glad.
(Fascinating to see your personality develop on film. I easily form close rapports one-on-one or in small groups. The attention of crowds, however, I find forced and fake, almost aggressive. I stand before crowds now by playing a role: lawyer, lecturer, etc. Standing up only as myself, however, would still be struggle.)
Sunday, April 09, 2006
Coming Attractions
Look for these attractions in the coming weeks:
Short Fiction Contest--250 word limit entries to be inspired by a photograph I post. All genres welcome. The prizes are:
--1st Place, $25 Amazon gift certificate + a signed 8x10 photo from the gallery*
--2nd Place, $10 Amazon gift certificate + signed photo
--3rd Place (if I get at least 10 entries), signed photo
(*I know someone's thinking, hey, big deal, I'll just print one off the blog. Actually, to be a responsible blogger, I reduce the resolution of the photos by 70% to reduce file size. Only I have the full resolution pictures.)
Flashlight Tag--Serial fiction (Horror). A boy is stalked by a terrifying old woman, but only when his flashlight is turned on.
The Field--Serial fiction (Mainstream/crime). A man is obsessed with the possibility of bodies buried in an abandoned industrial field.
Stayed tuned, and sharpen those pencils for the contest!!
Short Fiction Contest--250 word limit entries to be inspired by a photograph I post. All genres welcome. The prizes are:
--1st Place, $25 Amazon gift certificate + a signed 8x10 photo from the gallery*
--2nd Place, $10 Amazon gift certificate + signed photo
--3rd Place (if I get at least 10 entries), signed photo
(*I know someone's thinking, hey, big deal, I'll just print one off the blog. Actually, to be a responsible blogger, I reduce the resolution of the photos by 70% to reduce file size. Only I have the full resolution pictures.)
Flashlight Tag--Serial fiction (Horror). A boy is stalked by a terrifying old woman, but only when his flashlight is turned on.
The Field--Serial fiction (Mainstream/crime). A man is obsessed with the possibility of bodies buried in an abandoned industrial field.
Stayed tuned, and sharpen those pencils for the contest!!
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