Blaine’s Exile

For today’s post, there is more to it in my head, so I’ll do another part someday soon.

* * * * *

From beneath his feet, Blaine could feel the small creature’s movements. It’s bony back undulated and twitched rhythmically as it impossibly carried him above the jagged canyon surface hundreds of feet below. When Blaine dared to look down, a portion of its pale, fleshy skin could be seen poking out from under his sneakers, but for the most part it remained out of view.

Blaine looked back at his companion, Levy—a squatly little man of ample paunch, stuffed like sausage into what appeared to be an early 1900’s business suit; his jowly neck spilling out of the collar. Levy absently reached into his jacket and produced a gold pocket-watch, checking the time. He looked more like he was waiting for a train, than balanced atop a hairless little monstrosity hundreds of feet in the air. Blaine found himself looking at the creature below Levy and it met his stare. It gnashed its grimy, yellow teeth; flat like those of a human but impossibly large for its fist sized head. Blaine instantly looked away and watched Levy fight for balance, nearly dropping his watch. It dangled from its chain and swung like a pendulum aside his gray trousers.

“I would advise you not to rouse the flier, sir,” he said, nervously reeling up his watch. “It’s not safe. Especially in flight, as you might expect,” he added, sounding rather annoyed.

Blaine quietly grunted to himself and kept his eyes looking forward. Ahead of them, a spire of rock stood. Its flat top was no more than five yards across, Blaine figured, and they were heading right towards it. The surface was littered with sticks and small rocks that reflected whitely in the morning sunlight.

“Why are we headed for that column?” Blaine was careful to look directly at Levy this time.

“That’s the Judgment Stone,” Levy answered with a dismissive flick of his hand. “You were told all of this, yes?”

“Well yeah, I guess I was, but…it’s empty. Where’s the judges?” He was getting nervous now. As innocent as he was, Blaine had figured all this would be a simple formality.

“Oh my…you are a bit…confused, aren’t you, my boy.” Levy looked at him with what appeared to be actual concern. “Once you land, I assure you that I will do my best to make things as clear as I can.”

“That would be nice, Levy…” Blaine’s voice fell away, and he felt all hope follow with it. As they neared the spire, what appeared to be stones revealed empty black sockets as they lay strewn amidst a tangle of bleached and brittle bone.

∞

“Each” doesn’t cut it anymore…

This is the first I’ve sat down at the computer for more than ten minutes since last Wednesday.  Obviously, Bob has not written a scene each day.  I’m going have to ease back on my commitment and shoot for “almost every” instead.  Each day just wasn’t realistic for my schedule and I should have realized that.  I am going to continue writing scenes as often as possible (and yes, sometimes still each day) and you can hold me to that.  It’s just that naming the blog with “Each” implied more commitment than I was able to keep. Sorry.

Who knows, during NaNoWriMo, I may have to change the “is” to “was” for a little while…

The Back Door, part 2

Ok, I’m back from vacation. I have to be honest, I didn’t write a damn thing the whole time. I did however have time today to work on this scene. First, I have to ask that if you haven’t read The Back Door part 1, that you do so before reading this entry. This one is a little longer than most, but I guess that makes up for my going away.

Also, I should probably give a little back story here. I wrote a story a while back that I never quite finished. It was about a guy who wrecked his car and got pinned behind the wheel. The car was on its side and his passenger, a lady named Nancy, was killed but also was pinned. She was dangling above him. Of course she comes back to life as a zombie and there’s nothing he can do.

The point of this is, that in the world of this story, the Northeastern US is plagued with the Reanimation Virus, or RAV, with a mass innoculation in the works. As of yet, there are no flesh eating zombies as we are familiar with, just people either laying there moaning and twitching after death or even the more rare Walkers. Life is almost normal, in other words. These 2 posts take place in another town, but still in a place where the RAV is not eradicated, and normal people come face to face with yet another layer of awkwardness that death can put upon us.

* * * * *

When news reached Timmy that Bobby Kane was headed for Millie’s, he went back to her house in spite of his parents.

Timmy ran around to the back door. It was true: Kane and Brock were both there, ready to pound on the door. “Hey!” Timmy yelled, “What’re you doing? Stop it!”

Kane’s wise ass grin was broad beneath his narrow eyes and freckled cheeks. “Daniels! Is it true? Old Lady Bancroft’s a Walker?”

“Millie is dead. Why don’t you show a little respect?” Timmy put himself between them and the door.

Kane’s smile faded and his lips grew thin. His eyes narrowed even more. “Why don’t you step aside, little faggot.” At nearly a foot taller, Kane leaned down, inches from Timmy’s face. “I never seen a Walker, and I ain’t gonna ask twice.” Brock just stood there, blocking Timmy’s sun.

Timmy didn’t back down. “You’ve never came here before, you got no right to come here now.” With defiance that will certainly earn him a beating, Timmy stared right into one of Kane’s best squinty-toughguy faces. “Matter of fact, why don’t you and your lard-ass boyfriend here, step aside instead?”

Brock gulped loudly; buggy-eyed and nearly choked on his Milky Way, while Kane simply flicked out an open fist and thumped Timmy on the forehead. His neck snapped back and pounded on the door so hard it rattled on its hinges. Timmy’s world swam for a moment, darkness encroached on edges of his vision, but slowly faded with the ringing in his ears.

As he tuned back into Kane’s screaming voice, Timmy could feel hot breath and spit pummel his face. “–ass-munch, little faggot! Your mommy’s not here to save you. How ’bout me and Brock beat you to death and see what you do? Maybe you’ll be a Walker like your old dried-up girlfriend in there, or maybe you’ll just come back as a Mumbler or one of those Droolies?”

With his back still to the door, Timmy rubbed his head. “I just want you to–”

A pan dropped somewhere inside the house. All three boys stopped, their little drama put on hold, and cocked their heads, listening. Millie’s chattering started up again, louder than before; sounding frustrated.

Kane stood still, wearing an expression of fascination so severe, that he looked as if his ears were working for the very first time. “That is awesome!” He looked back at Brock, who stood with both his eyes and teeth clenched; either holding his legs back from running or something from running down them. “Brock, don’t be a noob. You don’t see stupid-ass little Daniels here crapping his pants.”

“I’m not crapping, I’m choking…my candy bar…it’s–”

“Whatever,” Kane grabbed Timmy’s shoulder and dug his fingers in as deep as he could. He smiled as Timmy winced. “I just got an idea. How ’bout I don’t break your face, and you just go on inside and pinch your girlfriend on the ass?”

“How ’bout no–”

Still gripping Timmy’s shoulder, Kane gave a shove as his other hand turned the knob and the door swung open. The inside doorknob bit into the plaster wall with a crack and Timmy tumbled in, rolling backward and banging his head on a coat-tree. He lay there in a tangle of raincoats, flannel shirts and shawls, looking up at Kane’s silhouette in the doorway. A rancid-sweet smell descended on Timmy like a thick fog. It became pasted onto his tongue and clogged his nostrils, gagging him.

“Go on, Daniels,” Kane told him.

Brock held out his hand, gesturing with his thumb and forefinger, “Yeah, pinchy pinchy.”

Kane slammed the door shut and shadows filled in the hallway. With no fresh air, the stench grew worse. Timmy’s stomach wretched and his eyes watered–from around the corner, Millie’s chattering resumed. From inside, there was a wetness to it that he hadn’t heard before. A single bare foot, caked with blood and cookie dough slapped onto the wood floor of the hallway, followed by the swishing of a slippered one. The chattering sounded very frustrated now.

∞

Vacation

No, this isn’t a scene called “Vacation”, I’m taking my family up to New Hampshire for a few days. It’s a secluded cabin in the woods with no internet or modern gadgetry, so I’ll be sure to take my notepad. I imagine I’ll come up with a few ideas up there. So for the next few days (probably until next Wednesday) this will be the only post you see. In the meantime, if you haven’t already, take a look at what I’ve written so far from the beginning. You can navigate forward from there using the arrowed links at the top of each post. Thanks for taking the time to read these, by the way. Enjoy, leave a comment if you like, and I’ll be back next Wednesday.

The Etiquette of Snitchin’

Here’s today’s second post. It’s another dialogue heavy piece, as you can see. I’ve been trying different things with my dialogue; trying to get the cadence right, I suppose.

* * * * *

“Let me ask Davis.” Jones told Meeks as he stepped towards the CO.

Meeks swept his hand out. “No, you can’t do that–Davis don’t count.”

“Why the hell not?”

“‘Cause he don’t do what we do. He don’t live in our world.”

CO Davis spoke up. “I can imagine it, can’t I?”

“No, that ain’t what I mean. A dude can’t go askin’ a law abiding citizen about snitching, ’cause it’s okay for them to snitch; they follow their own code. But when you be committing crimes, you go by a different code, and snitchin’ ain’t cool. You don’t snitch.”

Jones’ bunkie, Graham, weighed in with his usual wisdom as he walked by, “Hell no. You do…you a punk.” He continued on his way towards the showers.

CO Davis leaned back in his chair, springs popping, and set his feet on the filing cabinet. “Meeks, lemme tell you something. There ain’t no code. I seen it a hundred times. A man gets busted and he’s gonna take you down with him–or instead’a him–and protect his own ass. There ain’t no code, it’s every convict for himself.”

Meeks shook his head with a knowing smile. “Trust me, CO, you don’t know. There’s a code.”

Davis continued. “Now, I can see…like the Mafia, they’re organized. If you f**k up, they’ve got real rules with a real set of consequences. But there’s all kinds a people out there committing all kinds of crimes–I mean, who sets up the rules? Who goes to the meetings? No, there ain’t no honor among thieves. It’s a myth. It ain’t true.”

“It should be.”

“Yeah, in a perfect world, maybe. But look around, Meeks, it ain’t perfect.”

“Back in the day, it wasn’t like that,” Jones piped in, “now kids are taught to tell on ey’body.”

“Good. If kids are taught to snitch instead of committing crimes, then maybe the jails would be emptier.”

“Then you’d be out of a job,” Meeks said.

“Hell, I retire in two years anyway.”

∞

A Father and Son Chat

Here’s today’s first post. I’ll get the other one up later. I could see myself taking this scene and doing something more with it.

* * * * *

Mugs in hand, father and son sat opposite each other at the family table. As the evening’s candles danced dimly between them, the flickering light softened the years on the elder’s worn features and added them to those of the boy.

Loeph asked, “What do his men look like, Father?”

“Men?” His father’s eyes widened, incredulous. “Being a man still has value in this world, son. Do not further diminish the word by calling them men. They are exactly what they seem. A horde. Nothing more, nothing less.” He brought his mug to his lips. Small droplets of sharptea sputtered onto the oaken table as he continued, “A man only fights when he needs to. He has a cause. These Menoti, this horde, they fight and die without cause. Their lives and deaths hold no meaning for them.”

Loeph thought about that for a moment, then said, “They were once men. That’s true, isn’t it?” Sitting alone at the table with Father, drinking their drinks, talking of such serious matters–they are the men of the house, after all, and men needed to discuss such things–imbued Loeph with not just a feeling of being older, but perhaps a bit more courage than he began the day with.

Jorgan gave his son an appraising look, then answered. “True, Son. They were men. They had families–some of ‘em–but they gave it all away when they joined him. To pledge yourself to him is to gouge your own eyes from their very holes,” he made a clawing gesture across his face, “for they are no longer needed. You see, sight is merely a distraction for the vision that drives the Menoti–his will. It is said, that this is why they can attack in utter blackness. He drives them forward.”

Loeph attempted a steady hand as he sipped his milk. With effort, the wavering of his voice was only slight. “Where are they now?”

“Who knows? Certainly not around here,” Jorgan lifted his arms wide, gesturing to his surroundings and chuckled bitterly, “the Gods have surely forgotten these hills, why should the Devils be any different?”

∞

umm…

Ok, I have a couple scenes written, just not transcribed onto the computer yet.  It’s 3:40 am and have to go to work now.  I was going to try to post this morning, but time ran out. I’ll make 2 posts later today to make up for the gap.

∞

Dale Needs to Get Out

No, really. Dale needs to get out.

* * * * *

Firefly was on. Having enjoyed Serenity, Dale found himself understanding why everyone was so upset about the series being canceled. What a good show. And River…he thought it best that he didn’t know how old she was, seeing that–

The phone began ringing. Dale put down his coffee and got up from the table. “Hello?”

“Dale!” A woman yelled. How did this stranger know his name? He was straining to think up something witty. “Dale, are you there? Dale?”

It was his wife. “Yes, I’m here. You okay? I didn’t recog–”

“Is Connie with you?” Her voice was raw and winded, cracking as she spoke.

“Yeah, sure, what’s wrong?”

“No, is she with you? I need to know. Can you see her?”

Dale had never heard Linda like this. “No, but she’s okay, she’s upstairs.”

A shadow skittered past the kitchen window. Somewhere, a dog began barking.

“Dammit! Dale, listen to me. You have to get her right now and you have to leave.” Dale could make out voices in the background. A horn blared and the voices grew louder.

“Leave–why? Where are you?”

“Dale, get Connie and leave now! I’m on my cell, heading north on eighty-one. You need to go south.”

“Why? What is it?” He picked up the remote and clicked channel three. Commercial…must not be too big a deal.

The cracks in her voice gave way. What came over the phone now were wheezy, tear-filled pleas. “I’ll tell you–but first, just get my baby out of there, Dale please–tell me you’ll leave now.”

“Okay honey, everything will be fine. I’ll go upstairs right now and get Connie. I’ll go south on Twelve and I’ll call you in a few minutes. You gonna be alright?”

“I’ll be fine, just call me. Hurry!”

“I will, don’t worry.” He hung up the phone and patted his pockets for the car keys. This was nuts. What the hell was going on? He walked to the kitchen window and looked out at the sky. Clear. A little ruckus from a couple dogs fighting, but that wasn’t too unusual here in town. Better get Connie, he thought. Dale left the kitchen.

From under the kitchen window, a black shape rose. With a faint tearing, it pushed itself through the screen. A long insectile limb, ending with three black fingers groped along the counter-top for purchase. Coarse hair dragged across a wooden cutting board, sweeping breadcrumbs as it went. The pointed tips of its fingers ticked on the formica. They dipped into a half-eaten bowl of Fruit Loops coating themselves with warm, souring milk. Before reaching the edge of the counter, the fingers bumped a coffee cup onto the floor. The shattering porcelain halted Dale at the bottom of the stairs.

Upstairs, Connie screamed.

∞

Darrell’s Apartment

I just wrote this one this morning. Finished it about 5 minutes ago, as a matter of fact. One thing that concerns me about doing a project like this is that the editing process, to be effective, usually requires the writer to gain a little distance from his work–meaning that it should sit for a time so that the writer doesn’t blur what is on the page with what is in his head. The result of writing, editing and publishing in such a short span as these are, is typos. I don’t have anyone acting as a first reader, so I end up giving it my best shot. I have noticed a couple typos, going over some of the earlier scenes I’ve done, and have corrected them. I guess that’ll work.

Anyway, here’s a glimpse at what Darrell did, when he stopped in to pick up a couple things…

* * * * *

I opened the apartment door and walked in. The place was a wreck, as I expected.  On the floor I saw the food encrusted cat dish and dried out water bowl.  “Mom, where’s Ginger?  What happened to her?”

“Hrmmph,” came from the couch.  My mother.  Probably wasted, drunk, or both—ain’t I lucky to have her?  She was laying on the couch, face down in a wrinkled tumble of dirty clothes, half dressed, her legs entangled with some guy I’ve never seen before.  It’s always some guy I’ve never seen before.

“Cat probably got smart and left,” I said.  They shifted on the couch and the man put his arm around my mom, his hand on her breast.  On the coffee table next to a candle, I saw a spoon and thought about jamming it into one of his closed eyelids.  Then I figured, looking at the tracks on the man’s arm, that mom deserved him.  She deserved having some strung out junkie leach off of her until she was tapped out, then he’d kick her to the curb because the dope and alcohol are always more important.  I wanted her to feel what that was like.

I bumped the coffee table trying to step over a jumbled pile of take-out boxes and knocked over a half bottle of beer.  It gurgled into the matted carpet and I didn’t care.  I wouldn’t be coming back.

I opened my bedroom door and was hit by the smell of urine and vomit.  In my bed—my bed—was another stranger, lying piss-drunk in a pool beer, both digested and undigested.  I told myself that I wouldn’t be staying; it wasn’t worth it.  I waded through dirty clothes and garbage that wasn’t my own and opened the closet door.  The inside of my closet, untouched, was the only part of my room I recognized.  I grabbed my backpack and put some clothes into it.  High on the shelf, I took down my Nike shoe box and opened it.  I grabbed my pictures of Dad, Casey, before she got sick, and even the ones of Mom, too.  When she really was Mom.  I also stuffed in my old journal and Dad’s letters from overseas.

As I shut the closet door, my old baseball bat slid along the wall and hit the floor with a clank.  The drunk on the bed stirred.

“Who th’fug are you?” he slurred.  “Ged th’fug ow my room, ahzhole!”  He sat up, shirtless and scrawny.  Jailhouse tattoos scribbled up and down both of his boney arms.  His sunken face was pasted with puked-up beer and half-chewed fried rice.

That’s when I snapped, I guess.  That’s when I picked up the bat.

∞

The Stone Floor

I live in an old house with a large basement. The basement’s floor is made up of large, square sections of bluestone that were set in place about 130 years ago. My kids and I have fantasized about what could be hidden beneath them.

* * * * *

Jeffery knelt on the bluestone floor, whisking away bits of sawdust and other debris with the side of his hand. He lightly tapped a three foot square floor stone with the rubberized handle of his hammer and looked up at his daughter. “Here?”

“Nope,” Bri told him. She stood there in her dress-up clothes–purple sequin blouse, red velvet capri pants , a pink feathered scarf dangling down and Hollywood sunglasses resting above her ginger bangs. “This one. This is where it starts,” she said, tapping the stone next to the first with her red shoe.

“Okay.” He got up and wheeled the snowblower off of the bluestone she picked. It was nearly four feet long and three feet wide. He picked up the crowbar and slid the flat end into the crack between the two sections, pausing to look up at his daughter. She was looking down at the stone, her face no longer cheerful, holding her breath. She pulled her glasses down. “Honey, you should probably go back upstairs. Maybe your brother’ll take some pictures of you in your outfit.”

“I wanna see, Daddy,” she said, her voice thoughtful, distant.

“You know what? I’m thinking maybe I’m not gonna do this,” Jeffery laid the crowbar on the center of the stone she had picked. Then he lied. “Sometimes your dreams are just that, honey. Dreams. It’s probably not a good idea to go digging up the basement floor if I don’t have to.” He wheeled the snowblower back to its spot. “Besides, that big heavy stone will probably never set back in its place right once I lift it.”

“I know its there, Daddy,” her tone was disappointed, but still shy of whining. “I’m just going to see it again, I know it.”

Jeffery led his daughter out of the basement, lifting her scarf from behind so it wouldn’t drag. “How ’bout seeing some ice cream? I’ll take you down to Skippy’s.”

“Do I have to change?”

“Heck no, I want everybody to see my daughter, the famous Hollywood starlet . “

“Daaaddy,” she giggled a little.

“Just be nice when they ask for your autograph.”

“Ok, I will,” she said.

Before shutting out the light, Jeffery looked back at the crowbar lying on the stone and thought of what he’d be doing later once Bri was tucked in, dreaming her dreams.

∞