* The Short Stories Club *'s topics - tribe.net

She is transfigured now. (a short)

Ioannis — Tue, 26 Jul 2011 20:48:30 GMT

"Not everyone was meant to be a solid, you know. I myself would have made a far better liquid. What tragedy that I am captive like this! My passions all jammed up in this stiffling state....I feel like a candle lit bright and sealed into a kevlar-coated glass-jar... there are nights when i dream that I am at laying on an I am trapped on a thinning sheet of ice and I can hear my heart counting down to sweet hypothermia... "

Where did I meet you? I can't be sure.. Memory gives me the quiet-treatment whenever you are mentioned. ...He claims that it is my own selective amnesia...who knows...quite possibly He is telling the truth. I have snippets of things you may have said stored somewhere inside in my bone-marrow. Also, tucked away inside my liver are a few reels of archival footage which I keep locked in a rusty-safe. (Can you believe that I can feel it corroding? I sure can)..I gather up these puzzle-pieces of the past and form them inot an almost-authentic glimpse of you. If only for a second I fall victim to hope and grasp forth in need just i time to see you dissipate before me as inertia pulls me through the remaining atoms of you....

...Maybe it was on the subway. Maybe it was sunday, 5am. Across from nobody, sitting next to nothing,my mind grooved into the click-clack of train on track.. Doors woosh open and you slid in,a bespecaled wisp of a girl, your kaleidascopic presence flooding the space with all forms of light as colors shot out from your pores. Your nature a metaphysical one, trapped inside a vessel excluding, limiting. A sparking infinity compressed beneath an asphyxiating skin. There was no oxygen in that room. My lungs tossed out carbon dioxide and replaced it with synaesthesia.You were carrying that saq-voyage that was at least twice your size.By sleight of hand it was lowered down to become your resting place, as a branch is to a bird.. the way you sat poised, head cupped in hand, tilted to one side,soft black hair falling into the air....

"Best trick I've seen all day...self-taught?"

"All the best tricks usually are."

....For a while there, things were alright. Children of bohemia lost and not wanting to be found, fashioning a reality of our own...insulating daily ourselves from the the world outside, the world that drains us all, the one that forces people into a series of bad deals until one day, too late, you realize that there is nothing left to bargain with....any semblance of pure truth has become water spilled on hot summer pavement. Human-essence becoming vapor...I held down a job at a bookstore down the street from our apt. and you workedpart-time at trying to figure people out, trying to find a way to co-exist with the Joy-Kill Choir and its insidious depression.When you'd tire of the "human-like", you'd come by the bookshop and go on about peoples selections....

-" Strange...these customers come in and buy all this transgressive fiction and yet lead such boring lives..it's all just porn to most of them, my dear. That's what I think. They read about junkies and killers and all as if they were mythical characters..."

-"Why does everybody need to write a book chronicling their "personal" struggle? Who cares about their incestous relationship with daddy? or mommy for that matter...You think I could sell my pain for a tidy profit? I imagine it would sell like mad... Then I could buy a 100 acres of rainforest and cut it all down. You think then I would have catharsis?"

....it is night. With our tongues we map each others bodies, desire propelled by thought ...I lose myself in her neon-green eyes... if I look into them long enough I will see an entire universe being created and destroyed ad infintum.. her Mayan face conforming soft to pillow... a lull in the air alluding to an expireing eternity. Love is like this. The stars align in your favor for a short while, just long enough for you to let your guard down, long enough to smile a fools smile, long enough for you to think maybe civilization was'nt such an awful idea and then....BAM..that old bitter crone Fate let's a piano fall on your head. Afterwards, people will pass by your crushed body and laugh, stare, point....

-" I had a vision of empty stomaches being locked in cages...Endless rows of slave-labor stocked in warehouses and milk-colored men laughing at them, wishing them to tears. Why do I see these things? The world is such a sad place...Where do you think soul's come from, babe? Becuase I say they come from China. Souls made in China. It looks just like the real thing, but with no emotional-attachment required! I bet you they are made by the slave-labor I dream about. Yes, yes, souls are made in china, but the blueprint comes from the USA, of course."...

Not everyone experiences life the same way. You taught me this,There are those who absorb their environment in Hi-Def Sorround Sound. Pain, sadness, joy... all available wave-lengths of human emotion amplified, the good. The bad. And we all know it is mostly bad. This was the burden that you were born with, a stalking curse I could not understand. You would try to explain what it was like to feel everything so deeply and I would nod and hold you tight, but I had no idea. Not really. You must have felt so alone.

-"I have no yesterday and my tomorrow could be called into doubt at any time, so, really, today is the only sure thing."

-"I don't know how much longer I can hold on... What more is there to feel that is worth feeling? What can we build that They will not tear down? I feel like an apple that is rotting on atree, begging to be let go..."

-.....me, a version of me, is wasting away on some beach, taking in the whip-lash of the yellow above as it sun-dries me. Her form is floating in with the tide, saline-carressed and washing to land. She opens her eyes and slowly rises to. The sea slides off of her smooth skin in tiny droplets, mainline dives into the sharp granules of sand below. The ones that make it through the sand will be lead through a trap-door sinkhole, then slowly dripped into a pill-box that she guards in her dresser-drawer, adjacent to the painting supplies.. My eyes chart each moist trajectory. I can almost hear them crying out. She lies next to me and we seek our third-eye forth into a cumulus cloud shaped into an Ankh symbol. The crackling sun gives an encore performance,its refracted light bouncing off the earth,dressing our skin mango ....

....her body is here, but she is gone. She slipped from under the covers about 20 minutes ago, a phantasmagoric figure hovering away...inevitability will repel my body through the apartment towards the terror I will have to face.There willl be motions, I will make my effort, exchanging her breath with mine. I will call the paramedics. They will also arrive late, disinterested.Uncaring. Judging. A few day's will pass and I will leave the apartment behind, late at night with only a duffle-bag in tow. On the pulpy-wooden door of the our tomb, ther is pinned a scrawled-letter note to the landlord...

.......a bleak-light bar. Anywhere.A somewhat familiar face aproaches. My hiding place in the corner of the room discovered. I close my eyes, but I can feel his grin imposing on me and my thirst, threatening conversation on the premise of vague acquaintance...

"I am so glad to hear that all those rumors are bullshit,man.I KNEW that there was just no way you would let her go like that. Overdose my ass! People say some crazy shit...Sad to hear you all are on the rocks, though...Hey, man, you know, we all have our story about the one that got away.Hhahaa! What can you do, eh? Ain't a net been made that can catch all the fish, man. "

Yes, she is the one that got away. And I am the one who stayed behind.

When Fortune smiles, she smiles hard...

-"The fatigue of being solid is more than I can bear...Will you let me be a liquid? Or maybe I could be re-born as a pill-effervescant?A destiny to disolve in liquid..I may catch onto a precipe a faith if I became a liquid, love. The body is 2/3 liquid, right? Well that is 1/3 to little for me...I desire to be freed.I will visit you as rain"

.....It has been awhile now, since the transfiguration of you. As I coil up my body tight on a park bench in a location undisclosed to me, I realize its been 4 am for about 6 hours now. A crumbling feeling abounds all around me. Suspicion says the sky...

...There is a nibbling on my toes as a chewing descends on my body... You always said the Vicarious Ones would tear us apart given half a chance....

"We are like mal-nourished street tramps, our kind. Once in a while,They will tempt us with a feast and we will attend, because we long for sustenance. Only upon arrival do we find that the main course has already been devoured and that we are called on to be the desert." "
posted by:

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 1 reply

Tim

Sexual Jesus, The Vampire — Tue, 17 May 2011 14:37:02 GMT

Tim stepped outside, into the cold wind that was blowing from Lake Eire. Snow piled high, no one had shoveled the sidewalk.

"Lake effect." That's what they call all this goddamned snow, he muttered to himself.

"Sure, blame it on some "effect." There's no effect. This just sucks!" he said out loud.

Tim trudged to the parking lot and got in his old VW. It wouldn't start. The oil was nearly frozen, no doubt.

"Piss on this!" he yelled.

Tim trudged back to his apartment. He didn't bother to wipe the snow from his shoes. He walked up three flights of stairs, unlocked the door, and went into the bedroom where he kept his pistol in a drawer. He took it out, put the barrell to the roof of his mouth, and pulled the trigger.

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homesick

mohamed — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 12:31:26 GMT

during the flight time from that foreign country he migrated ten years ago,he began to review all the tape of events and the blues occured during that time, he remebered when he left his humble village taking his small bag gazing to his mother buisy doing something in the kitchen as usuall, she is trying to escape grom farewell moments.
when he came to the new country he felt that he is very strange he tried to find some fun in discovering the roads and places, but he felt that strong homesick is pulling him back.
he built himself step by step after huge suffering of every side of the life, at last he become a very important memeber of that society but still that thing pulling him back is appear again an again.
suddenly he waked up by the voice of capin crew girl asking him to fasten the belt because they will be landing soon.
in the house which is witness his child hood he noticed the featurs of the change,his mother is hardly moving, the old historical kitchen households replaced by new electrical devices,every one of his family, sisters and brothers using his own mobile phone and the domestic animals escaped away from development and never return, even his friends and relatives visit him for the first time and after that rarely coming.
then he realised that he has achiveed all his goals and his dreams com true, but he lost avery part of his age which will never come back

my e mail : kenooz_2008@hotmail.com

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 1 reply

Portland Oregon Writers

Joanna — Thu, 30 Sep 2010 17:54:13 GMT

I am interested in meeting other writers who live in the Portland, OR - Vancouver, WA areas.
If you a woman writer and would like to join our weekly writing practice, let me know.

Joanna

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Writing Sci Fi

Egomzez — Sun, 18 Mar 2007 16:17:49 GMT

I have started taking steps to write out the sci fi story burning in my brain for the past 20 years. I would love to find other writers to talk with about wrting, organizing, flushing and more. Not sure how many of you writers here are into sci fi, but feel free to contact me to talk further. If you live in Portland Or then hey lets go have tea or lunch.

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 8 replies

Seeking Short Stories of a Carnivorous Nature

DJ Death Squad — Tue, 29 May 2007 20:48:53 GMT

Hi guys! I'm trying to find good art/writing to put in an ezine I'm designing entitled Vociferous Union. The subject of the upcoming issue is VORE: eating, consuming, devouring, etc. Details below if you're interested/have something that might fit the bill!

"Are you as fascinated with the concept of consumption as we are? Do you have an interest in eating, food, shopping, fire, or other subjects which deal with the idea of consuming or being consumed? Perhaps you should submit your work to our E-Zine, Vociferous Union.

We are looking for:
-Video Art
-Poetry
-Short Fiction
-Prose
-Essays
-Photography
-Tunes
-Other (?)

That deals with the subject of consumption, eating, devouring and being devoured. This does not have to be in a literal sense. Works concerning fire as a destructive force are valid. Works concerning political consumption are also valid. We're trying to take a look at the concept from all angles, so if you have something that might suit do send it along!

TO SUBMIT: send something to djdeathsquad@gmail.com.

This is a small, non-corporate art project & online gallery (no ad revenue) but as we believe artists should be paid just like anyone else, we would be happy to place a paypal "donate" button next to your submission if printed so that people can give you money if they like your work. We'll also promote you with a photo, brief bio, and a link to your website/studio/myspace page.

The zine will be printed in an elegant flash format (posted on the web). Due to launch July/August. The zine will be printed quarterly and old issued will remain available to the public. We will try to respond to all entries, but please forgive us if we don't have the resources.

Thanks for reading!"

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 1 reply

multiple perspectives by multiple authors

agentwred — Thu, 09 Apr 2009 05:36:43 GMT

I've always wanted to do this experimental writing thing where once person writes a short story with multiple characters but from just one of those characters' perspective. And then someone else rewrites the story from a different character's perspective, changing as much or as little as (s)he wants. And then someone else does another version. Each person can read as much or as little of the previous story(/ies) as they want. It'd be kind of like the game telephone but with short stories. Anybody interested?

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 2 replies

New Bard and Book Club FREE with forums

sacredgoddess — Sat, 12 Apr 2008 02:18:00 GMT

Hi everyone
I have 2 sites that are dormant that I am trying to propagate with writers and book reviewers. They have forums attached as well. They are free...so the only thing I need now is people to start to network there and show some artistic impression with words...
I look forward to seeing you there.

http://www.sacredgoddessbard.com
http://www.sacredgoddessbard.com/forum

http://www.goddessbookclub.com
http://www.goddessbookclub.com/forum

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"Tom Rainmaker" A short story by MadMark.

mad mark — Wed, 26 Mar 2008 21:15:51 GMT

Tom Rainmaker had a wonderful life, a long life that now, in the cool afternoon fall was coming to an end. His wife sits now beside the medical bed set up in his room caressing his grey thin hair, her smile sad but filled with happiness of a life of great memories. Three fully grown children stand underneath the window outside amongst scrambling children talking nodding crying. The sound of the children rising up into the air wafting through the window and into Toms dying ears mixing with the magic smell of decaying leaves sparking memories of his own child life. His minds eye raced, he heard his mother calling him at this same house, she stood at the door with a dish rag in her hand wearing a golden sundress sparkling in the summer sun. He wiped his boyish hands on his muddy overalls and stuffed the frog into his breast pocket “coming,” he mumbled as is eyes fluttered in dream. His wife’s eyes filled with the ocean. Tom felt her tear on his cheek. Beneath the fluttering eyelids he stood in the drenching rain calling out to her, His muddy overalls changed for a dripping brown military uniform and black shoes. He screamed at the old farmhouse until the lights started on. His huge grin revealed his perfect white teeth. The rain fell around him, Her dad appeared on the porch, she appeared in the window. I love you” he screamed through the pouring rain. “I love you and I will marry you”. I can not die! and will not die over there! I will be back and ill marry you.” Her tears were the same as she waved from her bedroom window sad, sweet buetiful tears that fell now at his deathbed. His mind moved onto the vivid memory of the war and the scars that forever changed his entire understanding of life. His back against the dirt berm of the bunker, explosions all around his friend John from Omaha dead’s eyes staring at him, his body torn off at the waist. Awake for twenty four hours the cammand came, charge!! This is it! Run straight into the wall of bullets and cannons. As he turned to jump out of the bunker into the face of hell he didn’t think of the Charlie horse in his thigh, or the cuts all over his body, All he thought of and all he saw was her. He ran toward her. His uniform pristine and starched now black shoes polished hit the train station platform running through a glorious celebration of the survivors he dropped his bag and swooped her up in his arms spinning her around shedding all the horror right there in the train yard seeing only his wife crying shrieking as he held her caressing her head now as she sweated. “Push now! Push now! Almost there!” the doctors voice bled into the sound of the crying baby and the silence of the struggling mother. He looked at his lover you did it baby it’s a boy you did it, I love you. “
She caressed his head now looking down at her lover grey and accomplished. Their children came in the room together sorrounding their beloved father’s bed. They took his hand and their mothers hand. “Remember my fourteenth birthday when dad slipped bringing in the cake with all the candles lit singing happy birthday and the glowing confection went flying through the air splatting right on the table. They all laughed with non focused eyes, lost in the sharp smell of memories. Yeah dad laughed and laughed and stuck a couple more candles in it and lit em and started singing again, happy birthday to you… that was too funny. We ate that cake right off the table. It was alright. They all laughed. Remember the time dad went sleepwalking
Toms eyes fluttred slower and separate, then they opened to see his buetiful wife above him and his three children around his bed all crying and smiling holding on to each other and holding on to him. He took a deep breath and smiling his infamous grin reached out for his wife’s face. Touching her face caressing her cheek he looked her in the eyes solomley and said “That was fun” . his words trailed off into a whisper, his arm fell to his side and his last breath exhaled. He was dead.
Tyler opened his eyes and the blur and disorientation began to wear off he came into focus. Coming back into reality he knew his friends he had grown up with were around him, he couldn’t here them yet though, he remembered taking a huge pull of smoke from a long pipe his friend Kevin made from tuotulin tusk. He began to hear their laughter. His vision came into focus, their they were, his friends he knew so well that they were made up partially of himself. “But how, what the Holy Shit.” His friends rolled with laughter around him. “You were out man, totally fucked up by the elhorn root, I tolled you that it’s a life altering trip man.’ ‘What? A trip?” What an unreal trip. He thought. “So real. M, M , My name was Tom Rainmaker, I had a famly, I was in a war!”
“Yeah, Yeah! heavy huh!”
“I was in a war too, I lived in a place called Germany. HEAVY trip man.”
Tyler looked at his friends, he knew they were real, Kevin, Tim, and Monica all watched him smiling at him. They had all went first on this new powder root given to them by a tribe elder. “How long was I out, the last thing I remember was hitting the tusk,?”
About twenty five minutes, you hit the pipe said something about your mom and fell back into the pillows that monica kindly set up for you. We told you that it is a doozy, you never done anything like elroot. Tell us about it. What happened to you.
Well, my name was Tom Rainmaker, I had a wife and three kids…….

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The Return of Professor Jenkins. . .

~lorenzo! — Sat, 01 Mar 2008 19:25:44 GMT

I had raced on my bike to get to the lecture hall as quickly as possible, but still had arrived a little bit after the talk began. My zoology professor had strongly recommended attending the talk to her class and not quite being an A student, I felt perhaps I should attend.

As I entered the lecture hall I found all seats filled so I stood at the back of the hall and listened to the talk.

I was enthralled.

My professor had raved about Professor Jenkins from whom she had taken a class twenty some years ago, when she herself had been a student. Dr. Jenkins had had a brilliant career when he suddenly disappeared from the scene a year after the class she had taken. She told us that his class had been the crucial factor in deciding to choose zoology as a career.

I found the brief article in the campus newspaper somewhat intriguing. Jenkins’ new paper, which had been mailed to the university a few months past, was described as revolutionary and the article also said that his views about evolution were radical. Although I had not read his paper, the topic of his talk was entitled “The Evolution of Cats.” I was certain that his talk would focus on his findings in the paper.

During the talk, I found that I was both shocked and impressed. This is truly a radical idea, I thought to myself!

His theory, that cats were evolved from snakes, was incredible. He described the tail structure of cats, as compared to the tail structure of snakes, as well as offering a comparison of the eyes, the teeth, the brains and the comparative social behavior of the two animals. It was mind-blowing. Quite impressive. I began to understand the excitement of zoology, as his findings were both compelling and persuasively delivered.

The head of the Zoology Department was quoted in the article about the talk as saying, “Dr. Jenkins’ theories will turn the study of zoology on its head. After only a few minutes of the talk, I believed!

Unfortunately, after several minutes I found I could not remain in the hall. I had rushed out of my previous class, not taking time for a bathroom break, but I could not hold off any longer.

Taking care of my business as quickly as possible, I returned to the hall to find the room filled with applause. Professor Jenkins was receiving a standing ovation as he was escorted off the stage by two tall gentlemen, exiting to the side.

A little disappointed, but still excited by the talk, and quite hungry, I decided to ride off campus and get a tofu burger.

I jumped up on my bike and rode down the narrow alley beside the lecture hall and slowed as I saw a white van parked by the side exit door. Professor Jenkins was being assisted into the back of the van by one of his escorts, who buckled him in and closed the door.

I paused in the narrow space by the van to walk my bike on past, when the name on the van caught my eye. “Pinehaven,” it said.

“Excuse me, I asked the gentleman leaning against the van, who was finishing a smoke, ”is the professor going to a funeral?”

“A funeral?” said the gentleman, “Why’s that?”
“Oh,” I said, “I just saw the name on the van and thought. . .”

“You thought that Pinehaven is a cemetery,” he laughed. “That’s a good one! No, Pinehaven is a mental institution.”
“A cemetery,” he repeated, as he laughed and walked around the van to open the driver’s side door.
That was an odd exchange, I thought as I rode my bike to MacTofu’s.

Later that evening I got on the internet to learn more about Professor Jenkins. The sources all described him as a brilliant young professor, who had twin doctorates in psychology and zoology, but who was chiefly known for his contributions to zoology. Jenkins had ended his academic career early, simply vanishing from the academic arena without fanfare.

Both psychology and zoology, I thought. I was filled with excitement. My principle problem in school was that I couldn't make up my mind between sociology and zoology. I loved animals, but was fascinated by human behavior. How could I have two careers so different? It looks like Professor Jenkins had managed it. After a successful career in academic zoology, he left to enter a career as a psychologist at Pinehaven. Maybe I could do that too!

I realized that I had a strong desire to learn more about my mystery professor.

Next, I did a google search for Pinehaven and my city.

“Aha!” I said, as I found a web page that gave me a description of Pinehaven as well as directions to drive there. it was located just outside the city.

A few days later, as I drove to Pinehaven, I mused to myself. I too would like to pursue dual academic careers. While I had a great love of sociology, Imy interest in zoology was growing. Could I possibly manage having two major careers? If Professor Jenkins has done it, perhaps I could, as well. Although no one has so far described me as brilliant, I was still young in my academic career, only a sophomore.

As I pulled into the driveway for Pinehaven I was impressed by the lovely grounds. Inside the high wrought iron fence, was a green expanse of well maintained lawn, several pine trees, and lovely flowers growing near the large brick building.

At the front desk I checked in and said that I was a student of zoology at the university and had seen Professor Jenkins’ talk and wondered if I could meet with him. She looked at me for what seemed like a long minute and said, “I suppose that would be possible, but you really should have called in advance. Let me see what his schedule is for today.”

She looked down at some papers on her desk as I chattered away, a little bit excited. “Of course, if he is too busy today, I understand. If I could only have ten minutes with him and I am willing to wait, or come back another day. I found his talk really exciting, imagine that cats could be evolved from snakes!”

“We thought his paper was quite good, as well,” she said, “and we were very supportive, and pleased that the university liked it. Unfortunately the paper he is working on now seems not to be so promising.”

“Oh, what is that?” I asked.

“This one is an explanation of how horse shoes originally grew on ironwood trees,” she replied. We had hoped with the paper about cats and snakes that he was showing some signs of improvement, but now he’s back writing the loony stuff.

“But I think you can visit him this afternoon. He is just finishing up an art activity now, and after his meds you can see him for a few minutes. It might do him good."

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 4 replies

Short Story Up

kikopyeandi — Sat, 01 Mar 2008 20:44:29 GMT

Pen Noir (www.pennoir.org) has decided to put up a short story and some poems of mine on their website. Take a look if you're interested: http://www.pennoir.org/rachelolivier.html

They accept submissions year round.

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Call for Entries: A Child's Guide to Teasing Bees

mckenzee — Mon, 20 Nov 2006 01:51:18 GMT

Because I felt like doing this again.

Children’s stories this time, 100-1000 words, poetry also accepted. Think Ogden Nash, Charles Addams, Lemony Snicket.

Oh, and they must contain at least one bee.

Due by December 31, 2006.

Comment below or email me at holderfield/gmail/com

Unlike the Anthology, this one will be in B&W, so it will be cheaper. I will send a PDF version to everyone accepted, as well as making them eligible for heavily discounted print versions and limited edition Bee Shirts.

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 2 replies

Cthulhuvida, the handcarved webcomic, is now available in book form.

mckenzee — Tue, 12 Feb 2008 06:24:15 GMT

http://lulu.com/mckenzee

I adapted the Hymiskviða to Lovecraft's North America. Each chapter is illustrated with a linoblock print, also by me.

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WRITERS WANTED...

Richard — Fri, 08 Feb 2008 09:45:57 GMT

Poets, novelists, essayists, short story writers, playwrights, journalists...If you write and have a site that you would like to like to mine, then I would like to hear from you. A reciprocal link will seal the deal...PLUS you will also have access to my new blog, where you will be expected to post your excerpts and related material on a regular basis. Oh, wow! He’s got to be kidding! All of that FREE publicity and exposure!

Ayup...I have my reasons. But I’m also very interested in helping to promote my peers whenever and however possible. And my current project just worked out that way. So, if you interested, please get back to me ASAP. There will be limited space!

The 2 sites in question are as follows:

The Portfolio: http://rdklove.googlepages.com

The Portfolio Blog: http://rdkpf.blogspot.com/

Serious inquiries only, please.

RD Kennedy

For those of you who are NOT writers but enjoy quality literature, this also applies to you, because ALL visitors/readers WILL be allowed to post comments on the work they read. You may also know happen to know some writers, who are always looking for another place to promote their work and gain additional exposure. (We’re almost as bad as musicians!) Be SURE to spread the word and ask them to check this opportunity out, as well. You know how it works...

rdk1421@hotmail.com

(Please mention WRITERS WANTED in subject line!)

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Pen Noir Accepting Submissions

thecumaensybil — Tue, 05 Feb 2008 17:14:31 GMT

Pen Noir is currently accepting submissions.
We publish poetry, short fiction, and creative nonfiction with a shadowy edge. This does not mean that your work should feature mass murder, S&M or suicide (though if that's what you write about, by all means, submit it). We're looking for work permeated by a dark aesthetic or sensibility. Traditional and experimental forms are welcome.

Length for prose: 8,000 words maximum.
For poetry: Submit between 1-4 poems.
No previously published work.

Submissions are read year-round. Our editorial staff is composed of volunteers, so please allow up to 6 months for a response. Once you are notified that your work has been accepted, it will appear on the webzine for one month. Simultaneous submissions are accepted, but notify us immediately if your work is accepted elsewhere. We wish we could offer payment, but cannot at this time.

Art Submissions are greatly encouraged. Please submit art via e-mail in .jpeg form.

All submissions must be submitted in the body of an e-mail to:

pen_noir@yahoo.com
www.pennoir.org

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A Place for Short Stories -- help!

Stefano [Dilagare] — Wed, 03 Oct 2007 01:32:43 GMT

Hi There,
my name is Stefano, with a group of writer friends we put together this website: alpha.dublit.com
dublit is on online community of writers, readers & listeners of short-form literature.

I need some help to get the website bootstrapped with some good quality content... who wants to help posting one of your stories?
In case the idea thrills you we are looking for beta testers. We don't have money to pay you but we can give you one of our kickass t-shirts ;-)

The idea is.. sign up on alpha.dublit.com, click on submit audioshort and read one of your best stories (there is an online recording tool), done! At this point people can listen, rate, review your story.

Thanks for any writing contribute!!

Stefano

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 1 reply

Guilty Pleasure gets a brain

Joy — Mon, 31 Dec 2007 19:28:30 GMT

This is just to alert tribe members to a new dating site specifically for writers: www.SingleWriters.com. It emphasizes intelligence and talent over looks and status.

Some good writing posted on the site, too!

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Nature Writers?

whyvandalism — Fri, 19 Oct 2007 05:28:22 GMT

essays, poems, prose, fiction, sci-fi, other?

are there any nature writers out there today in e-space?

deadline for the november issue of Why Vandalism?
October 29th, 2007

www.whyvandalism.com/
submissions page:
http://whyvandalism.com/submissions.html

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Absence a new short story by M.R. Merris

chinacoaster — Sat, 29 Sep 2007 00:54:28 GMT

Absence

To Ms. Deborah Meyers

Before the dogs woke, before the men scraped the ice off their windshields and went off to work, before the sun got up, in the dream-before-wake did Mark Morse begin to grasp how his ex-wife, Lisa Hoodd, was still in him and how she wasn’t. And what wasn’t her was actually him and what wasn’t him was somebody, something else or God.
Before he could pee, bitterness would rise from his heart and poison what good she had imparted in him. At first he could not see the venom destroying what was left, but after many mornings where he drew the covers over his head and howled to God did he begin to see how little his bitterness was. It was then, as he held the silly and the sad, the truth and the deceit, did he feel the dynamic of the marriage. It was then he wondered if he was wrong for marrying her, wrong for leaving, or was the whole damned thing God’s will.
This suspicion slowly ate a hole in his heart. So when he was tired of the bleeding, at two and a half years, Mark took it to John Lobos, his therapist. He remembered John’s calm voice at the session when he responded to Mark’s distrust with, “It didn’t work and it won’t work and you know it. She wanted the divorce! Has she given you any indication that she wanted to try it again? Mark you didn’t respect her and you don’t trust nor respect her now. Dude wake up!”
Mark realized all his verbiage about the sacredness of family and staying together for the kids’ sake was bullshit. All he wanted was not to be alone, no matter what lies he had to live, no matter who he had to hurt or how much he was hurt.
“Why do you still try to make it work in your heart?” John said.
“Cause I love her,” he said automatically, amazed at what stumbled out.
“Yes, you might have, but it’s not that.”
“What is it?”
“We have talked about this before. She represents Mom…
“…and I want to make it right?”
All you could hear was the clocking ticking above Mark’s head.
“OK. It’s what my couple’s counselor, Barbra Bayer, said fifteen years ago. I wanted the Universal Teat and Lisa didn’t want the job. What do I do with what’s left of her in me?”
“You know.”
“Do I?” asked Mark, as he looked Jon Lobos in the eye as John glanced at the clock and intoned, “It’s time.”

* * *

A week after Mark’s session with John, Lisa called to talk about his visitation schedule for the next two months. After the scheduling was done there was a lull in the conversation, which usually meant it was time for Mark to bid his goodbye. Instead he heard himself offer. “In our absence our presence is defined.”
“What do you mean?” Lisa Hoodd said, surprised.
“The space in each of us that was filled with the other is absent. What is left now is perhaps, the essence of the other.”
He waited in the heavy stillness and through it he heard her heart beating in her breath.
“Like negative space?”
“Yeah like negative space.”
“Oh, I don’t know if I agree with you.”
“OK,” said Mark.
The silence was so pregnant with meaning and without meaning it shivered Mark’s back; he didn’t want to know its meaning so Mark broke the silence with, “I think I’d better say goodbye.”
“Goodbye Mark.”

* * *

“In our absence our presence is defined,” thought Lisa Hoodd, fresh from her bath, as she walked across the street to the Dunn’s to pick out a kitten for Mike, her younger child. Lisa chewed on Mark’s statement as she chewed chocolate: slowly, savoring every crumb, allowing the rich taste to float into her being and fill her instinctive need for solace. When she was with Mark, she allowed his words to flow threw her and she compulsively looked for hidden meanings in them. She was dedicated to always striving to be growing, always analyzing anything and everything that went on inside and outside her. She knew what he was saying and doing had a deeper meaning and that meaning had another level and her life was committed to find those levels and always be aware of where the levels were and how they came and went. Mark didn’t care. All he wanted to do was to go to work, write, make his models and take care of the kids. He didn’t mind her analyzing what was in her and what on the outside was affecting her. He would listen and, when asked, give his comment, but he didn’t want Lisa going “inside his head” and being his therapist. That was Barbra’s job, not hers. When she did it, which was often, it would drive Mark nuts. He didn’t want to live his life committed to “self realization.” In fact every time he said the word it would come out in a shell of mockery.
When they split, her need to hammer out the hidden meaning of Mark’s words vanished. So when he made the statement about absence, she was expecting it would roll over her, but it didn’t. Somehow a small hidden piece stuck in her mind and she mulled it over and over trying to see if it was true for her, and it wasn’t. There was a pain, a guilt, a remorse that something of Mark didn’t stay in her. Thirteen years of marriage and she could walk away and never think of him again. Something was sad about that, something terribly sad.
Lisa was thinking about this when Hank, Mike’s first cat, popped into her mind as she walked over to the Dunn’s, to look at a new litter of kittens. When Mark left, Lisa had promised Mike a cat, and had kept her promise. Mark, like her father, hated cats, so in the past when Mike had wanted one, the answer was always no.
Mike called Mark and they all went to SPCA together. Mike started to wander through cages of cats, and couldn’t make up his mind. Mark had found an old black male cat, scarred, beaten up and mean. He was playing with him as if he was a kitten. A young volunteer at the SPCA was watching in amazement as Mark petted the cat. He asked the volunteer if he could hold him and the kid said yes. The kid opened the cage and the cat walked out into Mark’s arms. He cuddled him and the cat purred. Mike came up to Mark and began to pet him as well. When Lisa and her older child, Joe, tried to pet him, the cat would pull away and snarl. Mike asked Mark if he could have the cat and Mark said yes on one condition: Mark could name him. Mike thought about it for a second and nodded his head, yes. Mark held the cat up over his head by the scruff and said loudly, “This is life and his name is Hank.” The boys and she turned red in embarrassment: Mark didn’t even notice.
He was always doing that, doing things that embarrassed the boys and her. It made her so mad, him embarrassing her and the boys with his strange behavior. That is another reason the marriage fell apart, besides the abuse: he wouldn’t behave as she wanted. He said he would try, do what she wanted him to do, and then act so silent and stiff that it made her angrier. He wouldn’t just be relaxed and interact with people in a relaxed way,
She never could break him of it. Mark wouldn’t conform to what Lisa thought was right. Barbra said to both of them that they were fighting for power in the relationship, and this could be true, but it sure felt like he was trying to embarrass her in front of people to prove a point. When they talked about it, Mark always blew it off and this led to her saying something and then to him saying something, and it went on and on, getting more vicious all the time. Finally, if lucky, Mark would leave the house screaming that she was not his mother. She knew that. All she wanted him to do was to behave in a way that wouldn’t embarrass her in front of people. He just couldn’t or wouldn’t do it.
After he left and he came over to see the boys, he would be very quiet and formal like a mannered guest, which he was. But she could tell that he was holding back something and she didn’t like it, still. She didn’t mention it.
All she ever wanted was for her marriage to be successful. And when it wasn’t, or when she realized that it wasn’t going to be, she became a bitter vindictive bitch, and she knew it. She had wasted 13 years of her life with a boring brute who had beaten the love for him out of her. Whenever he came over to see the boys, she cold feel her cheeks suck in as if she had eaten a dozen lemons and she would be cold and short with him.
But when Patt came over, she and the boys would play board games or listen to his stories or watch movies. Everything would be light and fun. Not the weary-gray boredom that Mark brought with him.
Hank didn’t last either. It was total Hell. Mike let Hank out at night and he fought anything with four feet. The fights kept her, Mike, and the neighbors awake every night for nearly three months. She couldn’t bring herself to take Hank back. Mike would spend hours playing with Hank as if he was a kitten. Mike could even stroke his scars and fresh wounds. Hank would sleep on Mike’s belly when Mike took a nap. Mike loved Hank and Hank loved Mike. It would break Mike’s heart and she wouldn’t do that again.
The cops had just left for the second time that week after there had been a call about Hank disturbing the peace. Lisa finally had to admit that it was better for all concerned to take Hank back to the shelter and try another cat. She was about to tell Mike that when a red Ford 150 barreled around the corner and drove over Hank as if he was a beer can and drove on with black smoke belching out the tail pipe.
Usually Hank would barely miss at getting hit by an inch but this time he didn’t. Maybe it was because his left eye was almost closed with bandages from last night’s fight or maybe it was from the vicious scar on his left hind leg he got from a fight with an opossum last week. Whatever it was, Hank froze when he heard the truck rounding the corner, looked the driver in the eye, snarled and jumped into the truck’s tires, fighting the tires with all his might.
There was a quiet that was unique for the neighborhood. No birds singing, no Harley riding up, no deep thunder of the latest Gangsta rap as their low riders full of bling hit the speed bumps. Nothing.
A young male cat across the street saw the whole thing. He came over to Hank, sniffed at what was left and then stood guard. Hank had fought him last week and he still bore the wounds of that battle. Lisa grabbed a box and ran out to the street and picked up Hank and took him back to Mike, who was stunned. The young male cat followed her up the porch steps and lay underneath the wooden bench that ran around the porch, like Hank used to do. He began to meow a fugue, a fugue for a fallen enemy.
Mike took the box from Lisa and went to his room and cried for over an hour; just like he did when his father had left. She felt so helpless: just like when Mark left.
Mike called his father later that night and Mark drove in from Benicia to comfort Mike. Mark sat on the couch with Mike and said nothing for a long time. Lisa wanted Mark to say something, ask Mike how he felt, but she knew that to say something would do more harm than good and so she stayed silent
That was a year ago. Since then Lisa asked Mike if he wanted another cat and he said no. And kept saying no until yesterday when the Dunns asked Mike if he wanted to come over and to play with some kittens. Mike went over after supper and stayed for an hour. When he came back, he had picked out a kitten and named him Mocha after the mocha coffee drink. He asked if he could have a kitten and Lisa said of course he could.
Now, they were going to pick up Mocha. She had gotten all new stuff that morning and looked forward to raising a new a kitten.
“Hi Cathy. How do you feel?” Lisa said to Cathy Dunn as she waddled down to the stairs steps, 6 months pregnant. Cathy’s hubby, Frank, had opened the garage underneath the house and let Mike play with the kittens.
“Ready to pick up Mocha?” Cathy said to Mike and he replied with a head nod of yes.
Cathy had waddled over next to Lisa and whispered to her, “Who owns the blue van that I have been seeing around lately?”
“That is Patt’s, a former student of mine.”
“Is that a perk for teaching high school?” asked Cathy.
Lisa smiled.
“Mommy can we go now?” said Mike with Mocha purring in his arms.
“Yes, we can. Thanks Cathy for the kitten.”
“Anytime, feel free Mike to come over and play with the kittens any time you want. We won’t be keeping them for long”
“Thanks Cathy,” said Mike as he held the kitten in his arm and nuzzled it with his nose.
Lisa and Mike walked out of the garage and back across Majestic. “Nosy bitch,” Lisa muttered under her breath.

* * *

The next day found Mark at the First Street Pier’s parking lot in wet cold fog so thick that he thought he heard Boggy talking about a “beautiful friendship.” He was visiting Donald and Danielle, a mallard couple he knew. They would listen to him as he dumped his woes about looking for work, missing his boys, Lisa and other assorted things; like his sensitivity about his height or when in the Hell should he do The Steps.
When he left Lisa and everything fell apart, he would go to the First Street Pier to feed the ducks. One day when he was at the pier, Danielle and Donald waddled up to him and began to eat sour dough baguette out of his hand. It struck him this might be a sign from God, so he began talking to them, when no one was around. It worked better than his humans sponsor; the ducks had less tolerance for bullshit.
He knew he was crazy, thinking ducks actually knew what he was saying, but it appeared they did. Donald would peck at him when he had his head up his ass and Danielle would nuzzle him when pain would come.
After half a loaf Donald was getting full of bread and Mark’s bullshit and was walking toward a puddle of water to relieve himself when a new steel-colored Volvo station wagon whipped into the parking lot and nearly hit him. Donald flew away squawking at the rudeness of the driver. Danielle was beside herself and yelled at Mark to do something to curb his kind.
Mark sighed as he rose and began walking over to the Volvo. He was 15 feet away when the driver’s door suddenly opened and out popped Barbra Bayer, his ex- therapist. “This is strange,” muttered Mark as Barbra hurried over to Donald.
Barbra Bayer was a small, thin woman with bright eyes and a shoulder-length auburn perm. She was quiet, read some of the same books that Mark did, and called him on his shit. Also, she was Catholic and understood the quagmire that was Mark’s relationship with God. Lisa and Mark saw Barbra before they got engaged and for the next five years as a couple and then for another five seeing her separately.
Mark ended his relationship with Barbra three years before he left Lisa by saying that he didn’t trust her anymore. Barbra asked why and Mark couldn’t say. He knew intellectually that she had his best interest at heart and was evenhanded with him and Lisa. Mark knew that she loved him and would do anything to keep the relationship together. But in the end for some unknown reason Mark’s trust in her stopped and he had to leave.
It wasn’t until he had left Lisa, for a good two years, before Mark ever found out why the trust in Barbra had left. He couldn’t live with her loving him as he was so he had to run away. Barbara saw all of him and didn’t run nor laugh, just let him be himself and loved him for him. He finally had a taste of what he dreamed about all his life and walked away from it. He couldn’t stand it , it felt as if the world pressed him into the earth.
There was something else; something that had lately come to him, Barbra didn’t understand Mark’s alcoholism. It wasn’t until Mark got back to meeting and working The Steps did he realize this. He wasn’t mad. Many in the helping professions didn’t get it either. Only those who are in recovery or a few “normies” got what it was to be an alcoholic and Barbra wasn’t one of them. Something told him it was time to go, so he left.
“Did I hit him?” Barbara said as she ran up to see Donald shitting in the water. She looked up from Donald startled and whispered, “...Mark?”
“No, you didn’t hit him,” Mark said as Donald waddled over to Danielle and began to nuzzle her.
“Friends of yours?” said Barbra.
“Yeah, they are my the-rapist,” joked Mark.
“Hmm,” said Barbra and looked Mark straight in the eye. Mark didn’t crack a smile and wasn’t going to until he thought he’d better do it or else he would end back in the hospital for more than six days this time. Barbra’s eyes lit up and she laughed, “You haven’t changed.”
“No, I have,” Mark deadpanned.
“Oh,” she said, as she looked him the eyes. He felt her just being with him.
“I better go before I make a fool out of myself,” said Mark as he turned and walked toward his car.
“It is good to see you,” said Barbra to his back
“And, it was good to see you,” Mark responded.
When Mark got to his car, he turned and watched Barbra walking to the pier in the fog. Donald and Daniel waddled after her, telling Barbra all about Mark and how much he had changed in the two and a half years he had been in Benicia. Barbra stopped and allowed the ducks to catch up, and they walked out together towards the pier. It looked like Barbra actually understood them. Mark thought to himself, “Man this is weird.”
He was about to get into his car when a thought blazed through so hard it buckled his knees. It told him to ask for a session. Mark knew it was God and he’d better do it or else shit would happen until he did it. He called out to Barbra,” Wait up,” as he ran over to her.
She stopped.
“What’s up?” She said as Mark approached.
“Is the door still open?”
“Yes it is. I don’t have my book with me.”
“I’ll call. Same number?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you,” said Mark, looking her in the eye. He had meant more and Barbra got it.
“You’re welcome,” said Barbara.

* * *

The storm exploded in a torrent as Mark parked near the corner of Shattuck and Ashby. Thru the downpour in the traffic-stream Mark saw raindrops catching headlights becoming glass drops. When they broke on the Shattuck’s shinny blackness they explode in a thousand more tears. Mark watched rain until the alarm on his cell phone went off. He took his brown plaid cap off the passenger seat and got out of his Rav4. He walked 10 feet to the outside gate, dialed in the security code and went in.
Across a patio from the entrance he dialed the same security code in the second door, walked past Barbra Bayer’s door and into the waiting room.
Wearing a big smile, Barbra came out a few minutes later in a white linen jacket and matching calf length skirt. Underneath the jacket she wore a cornflower blue silk top. A set of white pearls hung slightly below the top of her collar.
Mark rose and followed her to her office and sat down on an ocher couch that matched the carpet. He listened to those fiercely falling raindrops as his palms sweated. He stuttered.
“I need to say something about the way I left therapy. I lost trust in you because you saw me down to my bones and loved me and I couldn’t handle it. It was all I ever dreamed about, to be loved for me. Yet when I had it from you I was scared. So instead of biting the bullet and staying with you, I ran out of fear, fear that I would love you and then you would leave.”
“There is a lot to love Mark and I wouldn’t have left.”
“Then why couldn’t Lisa love me like that?”
“Ask Lisa.”
The raindrops were dancing less viciously in their dance on the windowpane while the wind whistled.
“I discovered something,” said Mark, staring down at the floor
“What is it?”
“That in our absence we define our presence.”
Barbara thought for a moment then bowed her head slightly and smiled. Mark returned her bow and felt his cheeks warm as they drew up toward his eyes in pride.
“You are proud of yourself,” said Barbra.
“Yeah, I am.”
The wind drove sheets of raindrops into the windowpane for what seemed like a long time. The wind was a Greek chorus in some forgotten play.
“You know she is not coming back,” said Barbra finally.
“Yeah. I got the final decree last week.”
‘No. The decree is just a piece of paper, Mark. Get it out of that fantasy I know you have, that she is coming back. She is done with you. It is over. If you don’t accept that, you will get sick.”
“So she discards me like a used coffee cup?”
“Mark. Does it really matter? She doesn’t want you.”
“I doubt she ever did. All she wanted were the parties and the doll house I couldn’t build for her.”
“You know it is not about her.”
“Yeah,” Mark said dejectedly. “It’s about good old Mom. The scar that won’t go away.”
“It won’t. You have to learn to live with it?”
The rain came in waves growing louder and louder until it drove them to silence. After a minute the undertow returned and they could speak. Mark sat up and put his elbows on his knees and stared down into the floor.
“You know of breath work?”
“Yes,” said Barbra.
“I went with a friend to a free workshop and found an image that gives me peace when Mom pops up. It is of me looking at my mother when I was nursing. Her head is draped in a blue veil and she is dressed in a white smock. Her skin was like a cool, pale,
off-white porcelain. I am looking in her eyes and she wasn’t seeing me, she was far away and very overwhelmed. Her breast, so full of milk, always has a drop waiting to drop from the exposed nipple. I desperately want but can’t get it, ever. At first, when I had this image, hate would come up and it would become adrenaline flowing thru my veins. My righteousness would strut out with all of its mock nobility and then I would stumble, fall and make a fool out of myself. After I would pick myself up, I would have the strength to see what Mom is and what Lisa is. Afterwards I feel empty, alone and I know that I am not going to find peace until I accept what I got and didn’t get from my mother and move on. I will always be desperate for the breast, but the breast must be mine, not my mother’s. When the hate comes now, I pray and it becomes a whisper from my past.”
“Sound like you learned a lot.”
“I have known it for a long time. I get it now on a daily basis. Why didn’t you stop the mess that was my marriage before it started?”
“I was there to support the relationship.”
“Relationship space ship. It was shit from the beginning and you know it. Lisa abused me from the very start and then I began abusing her to defend myself. Why didn’t you say something to stop the abortion before the kids came? I brought two lives into this world and scarred them permanently, trusting that you would say something when it was beyond hope. We spent a good 10 years on this fucking couch and Lisa is still here. Hell, we bought you a fucking new car. Why didn’t you say something?”
“Because you wanted it to work.”
“But it was a shit pile pretending it was a house!” Mark cried out, collapsing back, sobbing so deeply that his torso rocked the couch.
“Barbra, the kids, I wrecked their lives.”
“Kids are strong.”
Mark shot up from the couch and stood towering over the seated Barbra. “And that is bullshit and you know it. In our case the scars from divorce didn’t have to be. ”
“Mark, please sit down or leave. And quit blaming me for your mistake. You were and are responsible for your own well-being. All I am is a tool.”
“A fucking tool that didn’t work,” mumbled Mark as he sat down on the couch exhausted. He threw his head back.
The raindrops were pinging instead of pounding the windowpane. The wind hummed.
“Mark,” said Barbra. “What did Lisa leave in you?”
“Nothing,” Mark said bitterly.
“I think she gave you something that is pretty great.”
“What’s that?”
“She gave you enough love to heal you enough to see that you are worth more than a bad relationship.”
Mark didn’t say anything so Barbra continued. “And what did you give Lisa?”
“Beside a lot of shit?”
“Yes, besides that.”
Mark thought hard for a minute and said, staring down into the carpet. “She once said to me, before I left, ‘Thank you for loving me enough so I could love myself.’”
“Mark, look at me,” demanded Barbra.

Mark slowly lifted his head like a man lifting a weight that is almost too heavy for him. He stared into Barbara’s eye and saw something that he didn’t expect to see. It was Barbra without the wall of therapist. She had let her guard down for a brief second and Mark could see a frightened child being held by a scarred woman. He finally understood why she hadn’t stopped trying. She was trying to make it work for herself.
“You acted out your own past in us. You tried to make you and your parents’ failed marriage work,” said Mark in a calm voice.
Barbara’s left eye twitched. She let out a giggle. Mark observed in silence. In his heart, he knew he was right. She darted behind the therapist wall.
“Do you think that I would do that?”
“Not consciously. No”
“Why unconsciously?”
“Because on some level you wanted us to succeed where you and your parents failed.”
“How did you know that my parents’ marriage failed?”
“Lisa told me.”
“Oh, OK for boundaries.”
“Some boundaries are meant to fall,” said Mark
There was a long exhausted silence. It was time for him to leave.
“There is one more thing,” said Mark. “Thank you for being in my life. For all the anger about what you didn’t or did do for me, what you did helped me immensely. I couldn’t have survived without your work.”
“And yours too.”
“Yes and mine too. Thank you,” Mark said and looked straight into Barbra’s eyes. In that moment he felt met. “There is one more thing that I need to say. I felt you never accepted Mark as the drunk. You don’t understand alcoholism.”
“Mark, you are more than a drunk.”
“No. I am a drunk and a dope fiend. I am complete in that.”
“Mark, you are more.”
“I am a drunk and dope fiend,” Mark said, looking in her eyes.
“Mark, you are limiting yourself. You can grow out of that place into something more.”
“I am a drunk and a dope fiend,” Mark said, as he still stared into her eyes.
Neither would give an inch and Mark knew it. He got up and walked towards the door.
“Mark,” said Barbra as he had his hand on the door. He turned and looked at her. Mark could make out a tear forming in her left eye.
“Mark, I have felt your presence by your absence.
“And I am so sorry it didn’t work.”
Mark bowed and left

* * *

“I would like to talk about Mark for a minute,” said Barbra Bayer.
It was the week after the session with Mark and there was a knot in her stomach bottom that perturbed her. She didn’t know the why of it, but she knew the how of it. She must talk to Lisa about her and Mark.
“What about?” said Lisa, dressed in a white linen pantsuit. Underneath she wore a light blue silk top. Around her shoulders she had a gray wool shawl that matched the gray in her shoulder-length auburn hair.
Barbara was dressed in black jeans and a black turtleneck with a black chamois shirt over it. A dark green shawl was draped around her shoulders.
The second storm of the season had blown in the day before, and Lisa could hear the rain as Barbara spoke. She felt as if she would be sick if it rained anymore that winter. She felt cold, she always felt cold, and drew the shawl tighter around her and focused in on what Barbra was saying.
“Cold?” Said Barbra.
“Yeah. I have been cold since Halloween.”
“Yeah I know. Want me to turn the heat up?”
“No. I am OK. What about Mark?”
“Do you blame me for not telling you the marriage wouldn’t work?
“No,” said Lisa curtly. “I want to do Clear Compassion work,” Lisa whined.
“Did you ever love him for him?”
“No.”
“Do you feel that he loved you?”
“After or before he abused me?”
“Before.”
“And was it me or his mother?”
“You.”
The rain quieted down as Lisa almost whispered
“Yeah, in his own strange needy way.”
“Why did you marry him then?”
“Because I thought I loved him. All I wanted him to do was to be more acceptable, but he couldn’t. He said the wrong thing at the wrong time at parties and it was like pulling teeth to have him to take me out anywhere. We didn’t have any friends and the friends I did have never liked him after they learned about the abuse. They all thought I was a loser for staying with him.”
“Why did you?”
“The boys and what we have talked about before, I am a Four on the Ennegram and needed to make my relationships work. We have been over this and over this.”
“You told me, before you got married that you could always get a divorce if it didn’t work out. Does that seem strange to you?”
“Not given the circumstance I went through before I married him.”
“Do you believe in, ‘until death do us part’?”
“It’s nice if it happens. What is going on?”
“I just wanted to check something out for myself.”
“I don’t want to talk about my relationship with Mark. It is over and I want to go on. The girl who married him is gone and the woman who divorced him doesn’t want a boy who clings to his mother’s teat. I am not his mother. He disgusts me in his weakness, buying me flowers and saying it was from the boys.”
“He still cares.”
“I don’t want to hurt him, but it is over. It has been two and a half years. We are not getting back together. I am done with him.”
“And that is that?”
“Yes, that is that.”
“And you throw him away like a used coffee cup?”
“I didn’t say that!”
“Do you feel his presence?”
“With or without the boys?”
“Either.”
All Barbra could hear was the steady hiss of car tires on Telegraph.
“Why?”
Barbra looked away from Lisa, dropped her eyes to her left and stared at the ocher carpet for what seemed like forever.
“I ran into Mark last week on Shattuck, and the only thing he said to me was, ‘in our absence we define our presence.’ ”
“Yeah, he told the same thing a while ago.”
“And did you think about it?”
“No. I have been too busy. I had a feeling it was about us and I didn’t want to go there.”
“It is and it isn’t. What I got from it is that when we leave, we leave the best and/ or the worst of us in each other.”
“And it is not black and white.”
“No, it isn’t. It is gray like the color of your shawl. It is mixed and messy and it gets everywhere and in everything. What I am trying to say is that some of Mark is in you and some of you is in him, and no matter how hard you try to build walls around you to keep that out you, you can’t. It is there and you can’t run from it, or change it or hide from it. I suggested that you look at it. God does talk through mouth of babes.”
“ ‘… And assholes of drunks,’ I know, I heard it many times from Mark. Why bring this up now? We have worked through my wanting out of the marriage. Why two and a half years later do you bring it up? Aren’t I supposed to be moving on? Aren’t we?”
“I know, and we have, but the onion is peeled constantly and it must be honored.” The knot that was in the bottom of Barbra’s stomach eased and she knew, in time, that it would disappear but she still felt like she failed and she didn’t know why.

* * *

Barbra let the professional 10 minutes lapse after Lisa’s appointment before she locked her office and began the commute home to Walnut Creek. It was smooth and she turned on the radio to let it drive the sadness and guilt out of her heart.
She smelled her husband’s spaghetti sauce simmering on the stove as she opened the door. He must have gone into the bedroom, she thought, as she heard the bath being run. She dropped her things on the bed and went into the bathroom.
“Hi,” she said to her husband’s back as he stood up from testing the water. Soap bubbles were on his hands as he grabbed a hand towel and dried them and walked toward her.
Barbra walked into his outstretched arms and buried her face in his chest and sighed. “This feels good.”
“Yeah, it does,” sighed her husband. “How was your day?”
“OK, and yours?”
“Great! “
Barbara began to sob.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing I can talk about. Just hold me. I need to be held.”
Barbra Bayer’s husband held her as her mascara ran down the front of his white dress shirt.

* * *

Lisa walked through the door and into her ten-year-old Mike’s arms. It was Tuesday and it was Mark’s night to bed with the boys. She could smell Mark’s chicken cacciatore and as usual it smelled delicious. She held her youngest tight and looked at the curl of his hair, just like Mark’s. She looked gently into his eyes, and saw Mark’s wide face, his cleft chin. It was too much; she broke the embrace.
“Hi,” said Lisa to Mike.
Her oldest came out from the kitchen and embraced the both of them. Lisa drank this and held it. She felt Mark’s essence in the boys. Finally she felt filled and broke the hug and kissed both of them on the cheek and walked through the living room/den into the kitchen.
“Where is your father?”
“He had to get back to Benicia to go to a meeting,” said Mike.
Lisa lifted the big pot of Mark’s chicken cacciatore. He didn’t cook much, but when he did, he did it well, thought Lisa as she put the lid down. She lifted the lids of the two other pots and saw the raw broccoli in the steamer and water with a swirl of olive oil in the other. She turned the heat on and walked back into the living/den area to her desk to check her messages.
“He did everything. He said that all we had to do was to cook the noodles and we could eat,” said the oldest, Joe, as he played on the PC next to her desk. Mike looked over his shoulder while he played.
“Any messages for me?” Lisa asked the boys.
“Patt called,” said Mike. “And he wants to know if he can come over tonight around 8 and what are you doing this weekend. He will call back later,” said Mike as he watched Joe defeat the Republic as Luke Skywalker.
“Oh,” said Lisa as she walked back through the kitchen and into her room. She felt like running a bath. The boys could watch the noodles and the broccoli, while they cooked, thought Lisa to herself. She yelled out to the boys, “I am going to take a bath. Joe, watch the broccoli and the noodles. I will be out in a few,” she said as she undressed and got into her bathrobe.
The tub filled quickly with the scalding hot water while Lisa put bubble bath and some bath oil into the water. They were presents from Mark when he got his new job. When the tub was full and before she got in to soak, Lisa went back into her bedroom and got her cell phone. She left it on the tub’s edge when she got in.
After 5 minutes or so of the bath’s delicious warmth Lisa looked at her phone to check the time. Mark would be at the meeting so he wouldn’t have his cell on, she didn’t want to talk to him, just leave him a thank you for supper. She pushed his speed dial number on her cell phone and eased back into the soapy warmth of her bath. To her surprise Mark picked it up.
“This is Mark. How can I help?”
“Aren’t you at a meeting?”
“I am walking into one right now. How can I help?”
“I just want to say thank you for fixing your killer butt chicken cacciatore dinner.”
“It was my pleasure,” said Mark in a calm, cheerful voice.
There was a long, awkward silence. Usually they would play the game of seeing who could hang up first. Both of them still wanted power. It had been going on ever since Mark had left. Lisa felt disgusted by this and knew it also troubled Mark, but neither of them would change or even mention it to the other.
“Is that all?” Mark said.
“No, it’s not,” Lisa said, relieved not to have to be the first one to go. “What I need to say I need to say now or I would lose what courage I have,” said Lisa, watching the words tumble out of her mouth in horror.
“So say it,” Mark said bracing himself for the worst, that she was pregnant by Pat. He knew of Pat from the boys and had to bite his tongue every time his name was mentioned. He could taste the warm blood from his tongue as it filled his mouth. He waited for the worst.
“I saw Barbra and we talked about what you said to her, your thing about absence. I found out that it was true for me. In your absence I feel your presence. Every time I look at the boys I see you, especially in Mike. And I just wanted to say that.”
“Do you feel my presence without the boys?”
Lisa went inside and poked around her heart and found nothing but scars draped in 3 a.m. screams.
“No.”
Mark hung up. Lisa put the phone on the side of the tub, closed her eyes and felt sadness run her mascara down her face, forming puddles before the iceberg-bubbles between her breasts. She began to think of Pat and began to play with herself.

End

M.R. Merris
copyrighted by the author.

7th draft
Benicia library
7/15/2007 2:11 PM

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

Iberian Graffiti

Pablo Sarcaine — Fri, 27 Jul 2007 14:39:29 GMT

Night of Friday, 20th of August, 2004 was my farewell from my friends because next Sunday I would set off to Lisbon in the beginning of my Erasmus voyage. Some days before I had fallen down in the swimming pool and I had my hip worn out. We gathered in Dani’s house, we were Alex, Dani, Sara, Bea and me, to drink alcohol in huge quantities as we usually did. We used to drink whisky with coca-cola. We started to play to Trivial while we were drinking. It was Alex and me against Dani, Bea and Sara.

We got really drunk and the high level of alcohol in our bodies made Alex and me to go wrong more times than we expected. So, in the end Bea, Dani and Sara won the game. We prepared to go out. The direction was a bar in Huertas, in the town centre of Madrid.

We drank a few more glasses and it was a scandal. In a circle with other guys Alex began to talk loud, in front of some girls.

“This girl here is a bitch; I fuck her when I want. Look how filthy she is, the very whore” he was talking about Bea.
“Hey Alex, calm down” I told him, despite of my ethyl state.
“But look how bitchy she is, how whore”.

We were at the low floor of the bar and Alex went up to look around. When he came back he fell down the stair and he dug the handrail into his stomach. Bloody and with eyes lightened he came to us.

“Fuck off”
“Oh shit, Alex, be careful” I told him
“Fuck you, asshole”

I’ve been always very sensitive to what happens in my surroundings. And because of the alcohol in those moments I didn’t have a truth perception of reality. Then something happened. It was like if my identity was crossed with Alex’s one. Since then I began to behave like him and also I began to do stupidities. I stood up in front of the bar and I tried to steal anything by stretching my left arm. Then something happened – the waitress saw me and I did a sharp movement to get my arm out of there. It was at that point when I hit with the bar’s corner, it sounded “crack” and I had my collarbone broken. With the last lights I had in my mind I got out from de bar and I took a taxi to go back home.

When I got home I tried to put my arm in the best position I could, to be able to sleep, thinking that next day it wouldn’t hurt any more. Next day my arm did hurt even more. But I wasn’t going to sacrifice my Erasmus voyage because a stupidity like that, I thought.

I spent next day in my bed. I was a completely loser, with my collarbone broken and my hip worn out. But I needed to escape from that place, I thought, once more in a wrong way. I couldn’t give up my Erasmus voyage. Only getting out from home, there would be no matter at all, that’s what I thought. But matters were just in the beginning.

The dated Sunday, 22nd of August of 2004, the bus from Madrid to Lisbon departed. It was at last my freedom, after 21 years I was going to try life by myself. I slept a little bit during the journey, mostly because of the pain I felt in my arm. I felt like the owner of the world. I got to Lisbon very soon in the morning; so soon that they hadn’t even opened the underground. I was alone, with my collarbone broken and my pilgrim rucksack at my back, crushing my battered collarbone. It was an extreme situation. However, my pilgrimage experience gave me the courage to go ahead without looking back. After a bit more of suffering I got to the University. There wasn’t a living soul. It should be 8 in the morning and the only thing I saw was the security people. I was waiting, sleeping over my rucksack, in the open air, just waiting for people to wake up. At last I found the meeting point, the science building, where I could find the Erasmus coordinator. As I didn’t know what to do, I took down some phone numbers from some flats where I could accommodate. After a while, Ana Paula arrived, she was the coordinator, and she recognized me at a view.

She looked me from top to down and found out that I was an Erasmus student. She took me to her office and we talked for a while. She told me where the Portuguese lessons were given, so I went there. I took the free Portuguese course that was given to Erasmus students. When I came back I met Kathrine and Unai with Ana Paula, they were other Erasmus students interested in the Portuguese lessons.

After the introduction we went to the University Students Residence Office. Kathrine and Unai had a bed in one of the residences, but I didn’t because I did the scholarship steps in the last moment. This annoyed me a lot. But I couldn’t do anything else. From Madrid I had booked a bed in the Pousada da Juventude at Lisbon so I was going to that place after the Portuguese lessons. Kathrine showed me enthusiastically where the youth hostel was. They arrived to Lisbon on Sunday, and they had been looking around the city since then.

When I booked a bed for six days in the youth hostel I was a bit confused. I thought that I had to send the data of my Visa. Instead of that I sent the data of my debit card. So I sent another e-mail with the data if my Visa. According to this, people in charge of the hostel had the data of my two cards. This caused me an addition concern that I will explain a bit later.

Kathrine went to the city to take her things out of the hostel and carry them to the residence. Unai and I took the first Portuguese lesson. I was really clapped out. But I was ready to deal with these trials. My experience as an alcoholic provided me a supernatural strength.

So we spent the morning. In the afternoon Kathrine and Andre came to the lessons. Andre was another German guy.

Alfonso was still to come; he was another student from Madrid. When we finished our classes we divided, I went to take my bags and went to the hostel were I was going to live next 6 days. 6: the number of the beast. When I got to the hostel I was near to surrender. Then I saw a big queue next to the door. Until 4 o’clock they wouldn’t open. I waited for a while and at last we could enter. When I got to the counter they asked me if I had done the booking. I told them I did but they didn’t ask me for a sign or something like that. It seemed to me a bit strange. But I was a bit tired to ask. The only thing I wanted was to get to my bed and wait until my arm recovered. I got to the room and chose a bed while there wasn’t anybody else. This seemed to me strange too, because in the room there were 6 bunk beds and one normal bed. It’s supposed that rooms could have at most 6 people. It was number 6 again. So, why was there an extra bed? The pain from my arm didn’t let me think clearly. And, especially, I was annoyed that in the residence there was a free bed because of Alfonso’s absence.

At the hostel I knew a lot of people. There were travellers from the entire world, from Holland, from Brazil. All of them had much money in their pockets. I told them I was beginning my Erasmus voyage. The days passed without many changes. From 11 to 4 we had Portuguese lessons and after that I searched for any room I found in the advertisements at the University. Until the fourth day I couldn’t stand the pain any more and I went to hospital, to ask the doctors what happened with my arm. News wasn’t very good: I had my collarbone broken. They put me a bandage that made me look like a mummy. Despite of that, I wasn’t in the line to give up; I had to follow my road. That was what I learnt as a pilgrim in the road to Santiago. The day after I assisted to the lessons with all my upper-body covered with bandages until the neck and everyone was astonished. “What is doing here that drug-addict?” they would ask. However, I stayed like nothing was happening.

Then Alfonso told me that his room-mate was leaving just the night before I was leaving the youth hostel. So I decided to occupy the University Students Residence. With my arm in cabestrillo, it was an extreme situation. But I stayed there suffering like a dog. Alfonso found an advertisement of a flat with 5 rooms. He thought it was perfect for us 5. I disappointed him because what I wanted was to assimilate as much Portuguese culture as possible, not to lose my voyage inside the Erasmus bubble. Also I didn’t like my Portuguese lessons mates, I was not sure that a living with them could go well. According to this reasoning, I told Alfonso that at the moment I didn’t want to rent the flat with them.

But things weren’t proceeding so easily. The fact was that in doubt to my flashy dressing, in the residence they noticed that we were 5 and they only had 4 people registered. Then what they did at first was taking off the sheets from one of the beds that Alfonso and I shared. It’s not a problem; we took the sheets from a bed in Unai and Andre’s room. Next day the woman in charge of the residence dropped round our room. I was alone.

“How many are you in this room?”
“Two” – I said with no doubt.

Then, when we went to the lessons, they took a bed away from our room. It was excessive. It was the last night we were at the residence, because next day my mates were leaving to the flat they had hired. That night I slept in Kathrine’s room. I made a verbal agreement on a flat near the one where my mates would finally live. Then something happened. Ana Paula offered to me a bed in one of the residences from the University. But I messed up again, because I bet that the previous verbal agreement would go well. And it didn’t.

The thing is that the owner of the flat asked me the 300 euros that it cost for the following day. With the shitty cards from my father I wasn’t able to get more than 190 €. I hadn’t more money. On top on everything else, I ruined one of my cards by putting my password wrong for 3 times. I was very annoyed. Especially, I was surprised that I couldn’t get money from the cash point. My mind began to scheme that it was a possibility that the people from the youth hostel could have taken my data for buying through the Internet. I rejected a bed in a residence before all that. The world fell down above my head. So, after the flat owner told me that I couldn’t stay there any more I took all my bags to the other students flat, believing that it wouldn’t be a problem that I finally decided to live with them. I thought that they would be happy for having found the 5th passenger. Spaniards were happy. But Germans weren’t. They told that I couldn’t live with them in a definitive way. That I could stay with them for a week as a guest, and after that they would decide. In spades, I felt like a shit. But I had been working hard for that after all those absurdities.

Then I said, I just have to wait and watch time go by. The rest of the Erasmus students would arrive in a few days and I was sure that I would find in them someone nearer to my style. But pressure was still on my shoulders. Living in the flat with the German students and the Spaniards was a horror to me. I was there as a guest, with no rights. A fucking shit. The thing was that they told to Ana Paula that she looked for a 5th passenger that must be neither German nor Spanish. I went to the town centre with Unai. I got on a bit with him and with Andre. And so the days passed, until the Erasmus Introduction Date. I had gone back to the hospital and they took my dressing away. I was a bit more presentable. Then I met Macarena, a girl from Granada that has an important part in this episode.

The days after I did everything as possible for my Erasmus mates, helping them to find a flat, helping them in anything. I hadn’t a flat yet, but worrying about myself was the last thing I would do. I walked along Lisbon from top to down, my mates laughed at me saying that I was going to make a state agency. Life was pleasant those days; I was getting better all the time and connected a bit better with the Erasmus girls. I liked Macarena. But once again alcohol was my ruin. At last, the date – when I had to leave the flat from the two Germans and the two Spaniards – came.

That very day my mates offered me to stay with them. And I said that I agreed with them. But I had been talking about that with Macarena and she was the one who told me to leave them. With no flat at all, I had the enough face to tell them that I left the flat. That night all the Erasmus students went out, but I didn’t because I hadn’t any money. I had to go back to Madrid to pick up my other things and move definitely. Then I gave a letter to Unai, Andre, Kathrine and Alfonso, that I wrote, and 100 € for the 12 days that I had been living with them. The letter said – in an English written language quite correct – the following

“It’s difficult for me to write in this language, because it comes from a place too far from where I come from. But I thought it was the best I could do, for being understood by you all. Living with you has been so hard these days and that is the reason why I decided not to stay with you. I think you’re wrong with the idea of not accepting either a German or a Spaniard. Each person is unique and you are losing too much putting that limit to people from those countries. Do you know where I come from? In my ID card it may appear that I come from Spain, but I really come from nowhere.”

I got to bed and next morning I saw a funny picture. Andre and Unai where crying in the kitchen. They got a terrible fright. They thought that I had gone to the fucking street. Macarena slept that night with Alfonso. I was annoyed with that. I talked with Andre and I told him that he could go to sleep, that nothing really mattered, that I only wanted to express my sentiments, to be understood. And they understood.

The thing is that after all that episode my maniac mind began to think in an unstoppable way. It had been so much pressure. I was in a new country. I met new people. My collarbone had been broken. I had experienced an extreme living. It was so much to my young mind. Macarena was living in a flat from some gay people, until she found other to stay definitely. At that point I met Josep, another Erasmus student from Barcelona that was living there too. He was in Lisbon since two months before that day, working for an enterprise.

Josep was looking for a flat near Bairro Alto, which is a centrally situated area from Lisbon. Macarena and I agreed to go with him to see the flat. The thing is that there were only two free beds. So I said – “They go before me”, referring to Macarena and Josep. In my mind I had the idea to occupy Josep’s room in the flat from the gays, when I finally would move. Like Don Quixote, I tried to deshacer entuertos. So I said to Josep “When you leave the flat tell the owner that I’m interested, so you make a good impression to him”.

The place where Josep and Macarena where living at that moment was a sixth floor that had no elevator. It was a completely bohemian flat and I thought it could be interesting to live with gay people. So I told the owner that when I would come back from Madrid I would be interested in a room there.

When I arrived to Madrid I completely needed to drink alcohol. After all that I suffered I only had the illusion to drink huge quantities of alcohol to forget about life. I told my friends how I spent all those days in Lisbon. However, my behaviour was special. I was in highest point of my maniac phase. I thought all Spaniards were fascist, only because of the way they used the language. So I began to call all of them fascists, to my father, to my older brother, to my friends, to everyone I met.

One thing why I came to Madrid was to cancel my cards that have caused to me so many worries. I thought that the ones from the hostel had robbed me. The jigsaw pieces fitted. I couldn’t take any money, I had given the data of my two cards to the people from the hostel, and they were Nazis. Before I came to Madrid I told Ana Paula “People from the hostel are bad”, especially referring to their neo-Nazi ideology.

At home I told my parents that if they wanted I would stay in Madrid, I would renounce to my scholarship and all that stuff. In the beginning they said that I couldn’t give up the scholarship. Then my madness exploded. I told them the things clearly, and how much they did have fucked my life. They noticed I was quite nervous. So I began to insult them and calling them everything. I had so much resentment deep down. So they told me that I couldn’t leave, that I had to stay in Madrid. That was what I was waiting, that they told me the truth and took off their disguises. So I said “How? So you want me to stay. Please, stop fucking my life!!!” Next thing they did was asking me to go to a professional doctor or something. So I said “I’m not mad!!!” At last I managed to go back to Lisbon. But I was very, very annoyed.

Before I returned to Lisbon, I phoned to Macarena and told her I liked her. I also told her that my life was shit. Once again I couldn’t wait to the things happen as they have to. Definitely, my relationship with women was a complete failure.

I came back to Lisbon. I phoned to the owner of the flat of the gay people, and asked him for a room. He told me he had one free, so I went there. I hadn’t slept during the trip. I was pretty euphoric. Just when I arrived I told Macarena that everyone had hit me since I was a child. Naturally that made her to go away from me. When things go well to yourself everybody stands around you, when things go worse, that’s quite different. So I fell in a brutal depression. I couldn’t stand Macarena’s rejection, but the truth is that I didn’t even give time to her to reject me. In the flat from the gay people I spent the evenings talking with them, with Alberto, one of the owners, a good fellow, and some French girls.

“I think that one of the reasons that the Castilian language is not being talked in the rest of the world is the pronunciation of the double r” – I commented one of my original ideas – “in Portuguese, for example, people pronounce the double r as they like, some times as in French, others as in Castilian”.
“Interesting” – Alberto told me.
“And after that parents bring to their children to the speech therapists, like Macarena” – I continued with my speech hyper-critic with everything from Spain. Macarena studied for speech therapist.

Another thing I told to Alberto was this

“People are not machines, we’re still animals” – I said with my typical grandiloquence. “It’s true; everyone has a shit, don’t they?” – Alberto told me.
“And after that they have to clean their asses!” – Alberto’s laughter thundered through the whole room.

I spent the days after really annoyed. I remember a Portuguese guy that saw me at the University and told me in correct Castilian: “I hope everything goes well to you here”. Then I met Andreu, a friend of Josep, who had come to see Lisbon. I came with him in his tourist trips and I told him everything I got in my mind; that was so many things. I thought that fascism had been too cruel with our beloved Iberia. That the truth artists from our native country did end in drugs or in psychiatrics. I was so affected by the Three Eleven Attacks in Madrid and I thought that the Iberian Peninsula still have a lot of Arabian influence, despite all that. Andreu listened to me patiently while we walked through Lisbon.

When Andreu came back to Barcelona I stayed like Don Quixote without his Sancho Panza. Loneliness made me go mad. I thought that they wanted to kill me because I was one of those who had found the truth. Like Martin Luther King, Jim Morrison or Kurt Cobain before me. I began to think that I was like them, a fighting man for the good causes, a fighting man against fascism. And I went mad. What I decided was to buy a bottle of Scotch whisky and let my bizarre imagination run wild. I entered in a museum and I wrote everything I had inside my soul, that was to thank to every people I had met for curing my madness. Perhaps it was a bit late. When I got out from the museum I saw two people entering with what my hallucinations made me think that were fire guns. I went out from there and I walked to the next taxi station. I said to the driver

“Please, to the 25th of April Bridge”.

And he drove me there. I was with my bottle of whisky, my rucksack and my hallucinations.

At that time all my life passed in front of my eyes. I tried to find an explanation to my suffering. But I only found a bizarre reasoning. I began to think that I was a Messiah and I made a cross down the bridge. I was still drinking. I was completely drunk when I appeared in front of a train, just at the point to run over me. I was with other 3 Portuguese guys – I didn’t know what they where doing there. After the train episode I continued to drink till death. But now, to my hallucinations it was added a manic persecutory madness. I continued walking and drinking. What I remember was seeing some guys fighting in the street and a guy lent me his car to spend the night. Inside the car there was a notebook with some writings done by other Erasmus students. It was something like the guidelines for a cultural revolution within the European Union. It was too much for my young mind. I began to speak alone thinking that someone would be listening to me from any place. I began to thank every genius that had enlightened me. More than ever, I believed I was a Messiah. I tried to start the car in vain. I quitted the hand-brake and the car slit a bit down the road. A tramway was passing once and again. One of the drivers went down to look what was happening. What I wanted was that he helped me to start the car, but I didn’t find the keys anywhere.

A bit after the dawn I got out of the car. I began to walk barefoot over the paving stones from Lisbon. In a tree in front of the car I found a wooden stick that I used as a walking stick. So I continued walking until I found a park. There I began to ponder what I was experiencing. I swung for a while. A lady passed with her kids. Frightened, she moved further away quickly. After a while I took up again my long walk. In a wide street I found a police-man and told him that I had been robbed. I asked him for the hospital. He came with me to take a taxi. But I wanted to continue my particular viacrucis. So I said to the taxi driver that I wanted to go to Oriente, which is where expo 98 was made. When I arrived I began to drink a lot of orange juice in a refreshment stall in an eccentric way; some people who stayed in front of me for a while were really amazed. When I got without energy I went to next police station, inside a mall. They took me into a taxi and drove me to the hospital.

At the hospital what I said first was that I had fear about people. But they didn’t take care of me. They told me that the day after I would see a psychologist and after that I would see a psychiatrist. Policemen went to my house, the gays’ flat, and the two French girls came to pick me up. But I was still in my own world. When we got out of the hospital I began to ask for orange juice and I left them. Both girls let me go. I got to a gas station and I bought two bottles of Sunny Delight. After drinking them inside the gas station I began to vomit it. The shop assistant insulted me a little bit and I got out of that place.

The following thing I did was to call to the entry phones of some buildings I found. I wanted to have a speech with Einstein. After that I discovered the number of God, the 0. Mi perturbed mind deduced that our names where numbers in fact and that each of us had a number assigned. Authentic numbers were from 1 to 6. 0 was the number of God. From 7 and more it was a modern invention to get to number 10, so we got the decimal numeric system.

I continued walking and I entered the Jose Alvalade Stadium. I was like a wild goat. I began to empty the fire extinguishers and some water began to fall from the ceiling. I had a shower and closed my eyes. Then I thought I watched the Holy Trinity. I had never been so near from God, I thought. After that some police-men appeared with bad looking appearance and began to hit me. I stayed there like the Lamb of God that takes sin away from the world. At last other policeman arrived and asked me if I wanted to report the other policemen that had been hitting me. I said that I didn’t want to report them.

They took me to the police station and asked for my personal data. Then the owner and two other guys from the flat came. They brought me some clothes. But my madness was still in the air. First I went to a psychiatric a bit bizarre; the nurse that took care of me had a letter with her. I will never know what was written in it. They took some radiography from my body. I was still thinking and I began to believe that I was some kind of Terminator that had the brains of Jesus, kept during two thousand years in whisky barrels.

At last they took me from that hospital. They took me to other hospital and I was still doing my particular revolution. The doctor asked me why I was doing all that and I answered that I did it for women of the world. After a while, I landed in what was happening to me, they were imprisoning me. So I went even madder, if it was possible. I wanted to escape. I thought they wanted to wash my brains. I wasn’t so far from reality. I began to say that I was son of Johnny Depp and that I was a Mohican. I began to howl like North American Indians do, ooooh, oooh, ooooh, oooooh. They gave me some medicines and took me to the psychiatric centre.

I have some slight memories of what happened after that, but I think it’s not so important. Completely drugged, my parents came to see me. I talked with the psychiatrist and told him my revolutionary speech. And I began to write poetry. I threw some light inside that place. I was 2 weeks in that place. After that I came back to Madrid and I had a brutal depression during a long time. But now I see all that like a reborn.

Madrid, 27th of July of 2007.

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Stories about foreigners living in China~

Sarah — Fri, 20 Jul 2007 18:22:16 GMT

Wanna share with you A lot of stories written by foreigners in China is here~
http://www.foreignercn.com/index.php/action_category_catid_70.html

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Ghost Story

playagirl — Wed, 01 Feb 2006 20:10:45 GMT

She walked into the bar. She was feeling apprehensive and excited all at once. She had come a long way to take a break, she told herself. Suddenly she became aware of her surroundings. The present moment became like a long arm yanking her irresistibly out of her thoughts and her past and landing her quite firmly in LaFitte’s, the oldest bar in New Orleans and quite arguably, the country.
Suddenly her ears filled with the tinkling of glasses, the whispers of fervent and intimate conversation, flirtatious laughter and a crystalline voice dominating the other senses, singing, lamenting.
Her nose was shot through with shards of cigarette smoke, liquor, perfume and piss. The latter came care of a sign in the corner of the bar that read “Men’s Room” and pointed to an open door leading to the outside brick wall.
Her eyes darted quickly filling up like glasses of water with visions of sequins, wool, wrinkles, makeup, weathered skin, smoke and eyes. Eyes looking directly at her. The eyes belonged to the crystalline voice. The voice belonged to a woman. The woman was playing piano and singing “St. James Infirmary”.
Celeste sat down near the piano and waited to order a drink. She sat near the piano because in her shy nature and being alone she thought she could give the impression of coming to a bar by herself because she wanted to listen to some music. The truth was that she needed to escape her thoughts and her heart. She needed to drink. The waitress came by. She ordered a gin martini with two olives. Gin. Tonight felt like a little reckless. Or maybe she felt a little reckless and she hoped the night would pick up its cue. The drink came; she gave the waitress a credit card and opened a tab.
The woman at the piano finished the song. She got up from the piano and sat down to her drink at a little table near where Celeste was sitting. Someone else got up and started playing “House of the Rising Sun”. Celeste looked at the woman and said, “You play beautifully”.
The woman looked at Celeste, studied her face for a moment and smiled openly and said “Thank you. My name is Beauty. Beauty Poirier. And you are?”
“Celeste. Cade. What kind of…where did you..where does that name come from?”
“From a horse.”
“You were named after a horse?”
“Indeed I was not. The horse was named after me. The horse and I were born on the same day. My Mother got mad that my Father was staying on the farm to watch the foal be born while my Mother was in the city giving birth to me. So my Mother told my Father that she had stolen his name for the foal, Beauty, and named their new daughter with it and if he dared name his new foal after his daughter he’d be the laughing stock. Then my father stole the name back and named the foal Beauty anyway because he was mad my Mother didn’t name me after his grandmother. So you see, the horse was named after me because I was born first.
“Well, that’s quite a story.” Celeste said.
And with that they were off to a grand start of a very interesting evening. They swapped storied, flirted with boys, flirted with each other, drank and had an all around good time.
The bars were all starting to give last call. Celeste and Beauty tumbled out of LaFitte’s and into the damp, thick New Orleans night. The walk back to Beauty’s was uneventful except for a quick stop in an alley so Celeste could relieve herself of the contents of her stomach while Beauty gracefully and skillfully pulled back, held and caressed Celeste’s long sleek, ebony hair. Finally they arrived at Beauty’s house. They chose Beauty’s because Beauty wanted to show Celeste where she had been born. Sort of an epilogue to the story of her name.
Beauty’s house was a Spanish mansion in the heart of the city. True to the Spanish style before the French arrived it was a simple house front, one color, few windows, no balconies over-looking the street. Once inside the main entrance however, all of that changed. They entered a dark courtyard filled with trees and Spanish moss and three storied of windows and balconies on every façade overlooking the courtyard.
Celeste stopped and stared. Beauty turned and asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m just having a strong feeling of de ja vu.” It would be the first of many that night.
They crossed the courtyard and entered into the main foyer of the house. They crossed it directly and proceeded up the Tara-like marble stairs to the upper levels. They walked down a long hallway and entered a doorway on their left. Beauty announced, “This is the room I was born in.” And then she ran across the room and jumped onto the bed. She collapsed back in a fit of laughter. Celeste came over to her and lay down next to her. Beauty said, “I hate this room.”
“Why?” Celeste asked.
“It’s so full.” Beauty replied and closed her eyes.
Celeste looked around. Actually, it looked pretty spare to Celeste. The bed, a bureau, a chair by the fireplace and a green bottle on the window ledge.
Celeste turned back to Beauty. Beauty’s eyes were still closed. Celeste lay there a long time staring at Beauty. Beauty was not beautiful at all but she had the kind of eyes that made Celeste want to wake Beauty up so she could stare into them again.
Then she realized that Beauty was asleep in her own bed and she was only a stranger in a stranger’s house. She got up and went to the door, turned off the light and stepped into the hallway. Suddenly she felt a cold wind slap her across the face. She froze. It came up so quickly she didn’t know what it was. She looked to her left down the hall where the wind had come from and saw a shut window facing the street. She regained her composure, took a deep breath, shut Beauty’s door and started down the hall. As she moved carefully down the hall she began to notice a dark mass at the top of the stairs. It looked like someone’s shadow but she was having a hard time explaining that to herself because there was no light for a shadow to be there. Then she saw the shadow move slightly and this she couldn’t take. She turned and ran back into Beauty’s room and shut the door. She looked for a lock underneath the handle. She found a key and turned it and checked the lock. Then she went to the chair by the fireplace and sat down.
“I’ll just rest a while. I’m drunk, that’s all.” She said to herself. She saw that there was kindling in the fireplace. She hesitated but then decided to build a fire. She spent some minutes getting the fire going and this process was very distracting and relaxing for her. She sat down in the chair again to enjoy the fire and get warm. She started to laugh to herself, “of course there are ghosts in this house for God’s sakes. It’s New Orleans.”
Then a green glint from the fire caught the corner of her eye. She looked to her right and noticed the green bottle on the windowsill. But this time because of the firelight she noticed it wasn’t a green bottle at all. It was a clear crystal bottle with green liquid in it. Absinthe. She got up, walked over and saw that it was sitting on a tray with all the appropriate accoutrement: a silver spoon, polished to a fine sheen; a little crystal bowl of sugar, a silver lighter and a crystal sipping glass. She had always wanted to try this. She brought the tray over to the chair and sat down. Uncertainly she began to ritualize the drink. She picked up the bottle and started to pour, no, first you take the sugar and pour the Absinthe over the sugar, right. Then you light the spoon on fire and breath in the fumes. Then you stir the spoon in the glass, that’s right. Then you sip the drink. She put the tray on the floor and sat back and began to sip and breath. Just like you do when you are drinking a really nice wine. Breathe and sip. Sip and breathe. She felt like she was falling in slow motion, backwards and it felt so nice. She finished the glass and put it on the tray. She lay back and melt into the chair.
When she awoke she saw little flickering lights filling the room, faster and faster. She opened her eyes fully and saw light everywhere, all over the room. She adjusted her eyes to the lights and saw that they had forms. She stood up. She felt woozy but calm. Then she heard whispering all around her. She went closer to one of the lights and saw that it was a person! A woman dressed in an old-time ball gown and she was saying something, “This is my coming out dress. Do you like it? My Mama knew I’d want to be buried in it. I had cancer and I died when I was nineteen…” her voice faded as Celeste moved onto the next one. A man dressed as a Civil War soldier, “…I never knew death would feel so terribly lonely and scary. I kept thinking it must be like what a deer feels when she’s put down on the hunt…” Celeste looked all around the room and saw that these ghosts filled the room. Their stories filled the air.
Then Celeste heard her name. She turned and there was Beauty sitting up, holding something in her arms.
“Celeste, come sit on the bed.”
But by now Celeste’s suspicions were growing and she was too unsure to move.
“Why?” Celeste asked. “What’s going on?”
“It’s time for you to say goodbye.” Beauty said and she held out the bundle in her arms.
Celeste looked sideways at Beauty, “What are you talking about?”
Beauty brought the bundle back to her chest and said, “Come say goodbye to your baby.” And with the word ‘baby’ Celeste sank to the floor.
“No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no…” She couldn’t stop denying and yet wanted to badly to hold her baby. But she couldn’t move from her spot on the floor. Finally, she held out her arms as long as they would go and whispered, “Please may I hold her?”
Beauty said, “Of course.” And brought the baby to her.
Celeste sat there for a long time and held the baby and sobbed and said, “I’m sorry” over and over again. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I love you. I’m sorry.”
Finally Beauty said, “Tell me your story.”
And Celeste did. She spoke as if she hadn’t spoken for years even though everything had happened in the last 11 months. She had taken ten month old Sara out to the nearest Bodega for some milk. It was only a block away so she didn’t bother with the Bjorn or stroller. She didn’t see the truck backing out of the alley, his backing signal blending with all the other city noises. Everything after that happened in slow motion: her shoulder getting knocked, something yanking her back, her baby up and out of her arms, landing under the tire of the truck, the screeching, the pounding the screaming, the sirens. She only remembers from that moment on she couldn’t stop screaming. They wouldn’t let her see the baby after that. And after that, it seems everything went wrong. Nothing went right after Sara was gone. She could no longer focus on work, her husband asked for a separation. Everything happened so fast. And she found herself in New Orleans on a ‘getaway’, telling herself she was starting over. She looked at Beauty. “Who are you?” she asked.
“I am your Enlightened Witness.” Celeste didn’t understand. “When a baby dies it is very different from an older person dying. This baby, any baby that dies, was never meant to be here for very long. They came here to do a very specific job. A job you are not allowing your baby to do. Their job is to cause suffering.
You are not grieving the loss of your child. Indeed, you have all but forced this part of your life out of your memory. Sara came here to offer you the experience of suffering. There is something born of your suffering that you will do. But if you never suffer, if you never grieve, if you never allow yourself to experience your loss, you will be lost. You will never do what it is you came here to do. You must grieve, you must suffer. You must lose your child in order to gain your voice.”
But I don’t want to gain my voice. I want my child back.”
“Your child has already done her job. Now you must do yours. Her soul will not move on until you do. Your soul will not move on until you do.”
Celeste looked down at her baby and started crying again, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” She lay down with her baby in her arms…
Celeste awoke with a start. She was lying on a floor. She sat up. She was in an old, musty room. It looked abandoned. There were no sheets on the mattress of the four-poster bed. Dust was everywhere. She got up. She couldn’t believe it. This was Beauty’s room. Beauty Poirier. The room where Beauty was born. Celeste examined everything. The fireplace hadn’t been used in years. There were cobwebs everywhere. She stood there for a long time trying to absorb the evening, this room. Finally she decided to leave. She walked to the door, unlocked it, opened it and just as she was about to step out of the room a glint of green in the morning light caught the corner of her eye. She turned her head to her left and looked at the floor and there it was: a silver tray. On the tray was a clear crystal bottle with green liquid in it, a silver spoon, polished to a fine sheen, a little crystal bowl of sugar, a silver lighter and a crystal sipping glass. She stared at the items. She thought about going over to them, decided against it and left the room.
She walked down the creaky now half-lit hallway. Down the decrepit stairs and out the door half off it’s hinges. She marveled at the shambles of a courtyard. She got to the main door and looked back astounded at this dilapidated, abandoned building. She walked outside to an overcast, cold, windy New Orleans day looked up into the sky, smiled and started walking back home.

The End.

Story by jessica margaret dean
12.27.04

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 3 replies

A place to share short stories

Neeraj — Fri, 11 May 2007 18:31:06 GMT

Hi,

Some of you might be interested in a new site I was involved in setting up

www.portrayl.com

It's basically a writing site where writers can post and showcase their works with a cool little twist: other people can add onto the stories creating new stories going in a different direction. It's a cool way to just write a short story but contribute to a whole book!

The site is completely for writers (I do try my best, and have also posted some chapters on the site as nshah, but I'm no writer), so if you have and suggestions for the site or if there is anything you would like to see on the site, please reply to this post or let us know directly. It's for you, so you should be able to enjoy using it.

Thanks for reading everyone
Neeraj

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

New to this tribe

lutesaroundtown — Fri, 04 May 2007 16:23:56 GMT

So I figured it’s high time I joined this tribe, since short stories are one of my favorite genres. That, coupled with the fact that it tends to be my favorite form when writing should have clued me in earlier.

I’ve been writing for just under two years and feel I’ve come a long way in that time. For those of you interested, there are a couple dozen short stories as well as a short one act comedy, several vignettes (or short shorts) and some poetry on the Blog. They are posted chronologically in order so if you’d like to see the progression, just go all the way back to the last page and work forward. My subject matter and style is all over the map, so if a particular piece doesn’t strike your fancy, something else might. I always enjoy feedback and suggestions, so please feel free to do so either in a message or in the comment section.

I’m also an avid reader who loves reading short stories and it will be nice to have a place to discuss the reads. I adore Angela Carter, Paul and Jane Bowles, Somerset Maugham, Bradbury, Mrabet, Finney, McKenna, Dahl, Poe and dozens of others who write in this form. My latest find is Collier, which I describe as a Brit. in Brooklyn concerning his slugging verbiage.

So anyway hello everybody, my name is Steve and I’m a short-story-aholic.

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

New tribe

Thu, 19 Apr 2007 11:58:55 GMT

http://tribes.tribe.net/revolutionizedversion1/tribeallposts?action=DeleteTopic&topicid=32d3232d-5d53-4286-94db-feafa3edca22

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

always accepting submissions

whyvandalism — Sat, 24 Mar 2007 15:43:50 GMT

always accepting submissions
why vandalism? is an online arts journal currently accepting submissions from visual artists and writers of poetry, fiction, and gonzo. We also publish original art/film reviews and essays.

www.whyvandalism.com/

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

POETS/WRITERS NEEDED to publish

AMan-ManA — Mon, 26 Feb 2007 15:02:03 GMT

I AM AN AUTHOR/PUBLISHER
IN CANADA [WinePress]

I am re-publishing my first children's book:
"Tails from the Truthfairy"
poems, fables, lore, and stories ... a labor of love.
I am looking for story-writers, poets. and fairy-illustrators to collaborate with me on this project, want to make it a community effort, so writers can associate/network/and come together in a spirit of cooperation.

ISBN 0-9731363-6-7
© 2007 WinePress

In Canada you © your work free with an ISBN
Don’t know if it’s free in the states!
Books have a CIP and are registered with the Govt. Archives.
If you send me work the mere fact you sent it [save email records] is a good copyright.
I might not like it ... this is the danger. It has to sell !
I’m picky ...
U might get angry if I reject it, and even worse, not know what I have done with it, or if I stole it.
......... These are the risks. But rejections will be documented also by email records.

I would however like to find people to put into this with me, if you are savvy you can protect yourself, you can PM me, then we can connect via email, the work I need has to be at par in quality with Dr, Zeus, Aesop's Fables, Red-Riding-Hood, Legends, Folk-Tales, and stories with real value.

Profits will shared according to what goes in comes out, [don’t expect a lot!] ... I arrange, edit, publish, format, print, promote, distribute, and sell the work though channels I have developed over the years, as well as new ones I find along the way.
So my cut reflects this but I do not want to take bread from someone else’s table.
I currently write for 1 magazine, have over 50 published newspaper articles on current affairs, over 20 published poems, and 2 books published

Below is the kind of copyrighting and cataloging information you should expect.

All rights reserved, no part of this book may be reproduced,
stored in a database or other retrieval system, or transmitted
in any form by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

Published in Canada by WinePress

PRINTING HISTORY

Originally published under the title “Tales from the Truthfairy”
By Sacred Wine Press Duncan Canada © 2006
Duncan British Columbia © 2006

“Tails from the Truthfairy”
Copyright © 2nd Edition 2007
WinePress All Rights Reserved

Back cover Photograph © WinePress
Front Cover Art by Howard David Johnson
Inside Illustrations from clip art /local artists
Typesetting & indexing by
WinePress Publishing
Duncan British Columbia Canada

PRINTED IN CANADA

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Dxxxe, Jxxxs, 1957-
I. Title. Tails from the Truthfairy / A collection of Children’s Stories & Poems / Volume 1 / by Jxxxs Dxxxe. – 1st ed.
ISBN 0-9731363-6-7 1. Poetry. 2. Children’s Stories. 3. Children. 4. Fables.

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

Pen Noir ~ Web Zine Call for Submissions

thecumaensybil — Thu, 08 Feb 2007 22:59:04 GMT

Pen Noir is currently accepting submissions.

We publish poetry, short fiction, and creative nonfiction with a shadowy edge. This does not mean that your work should feature mass murder, S&M or suicide (though if that’s what you write about, by all means, submit it). We’re looking for work permeated by a dark aesthetic or sensibility. Traditional and experimental forms are welcome.

Length for prose: 8,000 words maximum.
For poetry: Submit between 1-4 poems.
No previously published work.

Submissions are read year-round. Our editorial staff is composed of volunteers, so please allow up to 6 months for a response. Once you are notified that your work has been accepted, it will appear on the webzine for three months. Simultaneous submissions are accepted, but notify us immediately if your work is accepted elsewhere.

All submissions must be electronically submitted to:

pen_noir@yahoo.com

www.pennoir.org
www.myspace.com/pen_noir

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

VIAL Magazine accepting submissions for TEETH, THORNS, VIOLENCE

syrai — Sun, 10 Dec 2006 11:03:23 GMT

The theme for the sixth issue of VIAL is:

TEETH, THORNS, VIOLENCE

Each aspect of the theme is open to interpretation.

Some material to consider:
The Graiae (also known as The Graeae)
Lust
Psychopomps
Thresholds

As ever:

Scribes:
Nonfiction dreams and nightmares are accepted for each issue.
Dreams that are excessively redundant or confused will not be accepted.
Wordcount for all text: 1,000 words maximum.

Visual artists:
Images may be emailed or sent via disk or hardcopy to the address below.
Images must be grayscale and have a resolution of no less than 300 dpi.

Musicians:
This is not a forum for reviews.
A dream or other form of artwork/wordsmithery must accompany your cd.

Know that if you have difficulties grasping the rules of English grammar, I am going to revise your writing.
Please do not send originals or anything that needs to be returned.
Always include contact information with anything submitted.

VIAL
Box 225124
San Francisco, California
94122-5124
usa

DEADLINE: 07 January, 2007, for a Spring 2007 release.

Address inquiries/email submissions to - - - furia at vialmagazine dot com - - - .

_____________________________________

SPECIAL FOR TRIBE MEMBERS: I am moving out old issues to make room for the impending; get all five issues of VIAL, plus Cadavres Sonique, for $25, shipping included. Paypal - - - omen at disinfo dot net - - - , and put “TRIBE” in the notes.

Issue V contents: http://www.vialmagazine.com/v.html
Issues I – IV contents: http://www.vialmagazine.com/history.html

xvx,
-Patricia

--
VIAL
vialations
vialmagazine.com

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

Ack...the TOU reaper is coming

ardensdad — Sun, 15 Jan 2006 11:41:01 GMT

As I catch up on some of the controversy over recent changes on tribe (I have been very busy for awhile, not around much, and likely will stay busy for awhile yet), I have learned that one severe recent change involves Tribe now claiming a perpetual license to use any material that is posted on Tribe and remains posted there.

For a look at the kinds of discussions going on about this, including some of Wade's posts, check out the thread 'Writers and Tribe's New TOU' on the Writing Fiction tribe at writingfiction.tribe.net and others as you may find them. If you do find others, please post links to those discussions here.

The end result is this...I have deleted all posts of my own material here. I believe it would be safe to post links to your material that you have elsewhere on the web (though what rights Tribe retains to the name of your link remain unclear), but I do not currently have web space to host such material myself.

Wade suggests in ' TOU Concern? Idea for Posting Your Work on Tribe' also at the Writing Fiction tribe, that you post your written material in your Blogs and then give us a link to your blog in the threads. Somehow this is unsatisfactory to me, but if it keeps the purpose for the tribe alive, feel free to use this method.

Bottom line...if for some reason you wish to delete your material from here to protect your rights, then do so, I understand completely. If for reasons of access or lack of know-how you cannot delete it yourself, I will honor ALL requests to delete material from this tribe, regardless of Tribes stance on refusing to do so themsleves (at least until they make it impossible for me to control the content of my own tribe). Tribe has apparently chosen not to make a grandfather clause protecting material posted before the TOU change available, so even old material may be at risk. Please use the message function to notify me of such requests as I dont check posts here consistently enough to respond timely to such requests made in threads.

I hope people will still post writing, but I wont be myself. I will continue to read and enjoy what others choose to offer up freely into tribes legal maw, but want those making such offerings to Tribe aware of what they are doing. You may now find it impossible to republish anything you post here professionally elsewhere if you insert it directly into a thread. I believe you have greater protection by posting links only, but I personally dont follow them unless I know the poster due to risk of malicious links infecting my computer, so you may get less exposure this way. I will likely continue to visit the blogs of those who post their stuff there, but will miss the comments and discussion they generate here...

Unfortunately I dont have the time or energy to do more than offer the approriate warning to all of you writers and the offer to delete as needed. I hope we will still get original fiction, but expect this tribe will likely descend to nothing much more than a place to recommend other places to find good reads. If so, so be it.

If anyone learns that Tribe reverses or corrects this overwhelmingly predatory TOU change, then please let me know so I can alter this warning accordingly.

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 3 replies

Chapbook Contest/Call For Submissions

Tue, 14 Nov 2006 18:34:51 GMT

Gertrude Press, a literary and visual arts organization serving the LGBTQ community, is pleased to announce a call for submissions for our annual poetry and fiction chapbook contest.

Winners will be selected in both categories and will receive a $50 cash prize plus fifty copies of the chapbook. All entries will also be considered for publication in the biannual literary and arts journal, Gertrude.

Submissions should be postmarked by January 15, 2007. Submission fee of $12 includes a one-year subscription to Gertrude. Full contest rules, past winners, and information on subscribing can be found at www.gertrudepress.org.

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

Creepy & True: An LA Halloween Story

Paulina — Tue, 31 Oct 2006 06:14:19 GMT

Let me start by saying that there are only 2 houses with Halloween decorations on our block - ours, and our neighbor's. In fact, my 9-year-old daughter has a kind of "decoration rivalry" going with the neighbor. Being Russian I am obviously superstitious, and thus a bit uneasy about the death / blood / gore symbolism that we so carelessly display... So bear that in mind.

On Monday night my husband & I were invited to a classical music concert, and we decided to take our daughter along. She didn't really want to go, but for some reason my husband insisted. I was worried that she'd get too fidgety, but it turned out ok because we let her play GameBoy (on mute, of course) and she seemed to enjoy the music.

Then afterwards, at our daughter's request we stopped for Sushi. Though we left the restaurant at around 11pm, strangely neither my hubby nor I were really worried that it was too late for Sasha on a weeknight. We were just kind of taking our time.... And with good reason, as it turns out!

When we pulled up to our block we saw that our street was closed off by the police! They wouldn't let us through, or tell us what happened. But they changed their minds after they saw Sasha in the car, and realized that we needed to get our kid into bed.

One cop told us to park our car and walk with him towards our house, being "very careful not to disturb the evidence." As we approached our home, I saw that our entire front yard was closed off with yellow police tape! They walked us around some marked evidence in our driveway (by this I mean several plastic yellow police "markers" with numbers on them, placed near puddles or other evidence items on our driveway).

When we got to the front door, two officers proceeded to explain that around 8pm that evening some gangster got shot up on our front lawn! Actually, he ran bleeding over our driveway and across the lawn, then hid behind the side of our house. Meanwhile, the perpetrators shot at him from a car in the street right by our driveway!

Our house didn't actually get hit, though there were some marked bullet casings in our driveway. But the neighbor's house did get hit. Thank goodness the guy survived, otherwise I'd seriously be thinking about selling this house! But we've definitely decided to get a fence (or brick wall?) in the front. We still have some bloody stains at the side of our house, but thankfully a fire truck hosed down our drive way when the cops were done...

So here's the weirdest part - the ONLY 2 houses on our block to be involved with this shooting, were also the ONLY 2 houses with blood & gore decorations.

Oh, and we left our automated pirate / skeleton prop on that evening. I can just imagine the shots, the guy running and bleeding past, as the prate skeleton shouts out, "Look who's coming! We're waiting for youuuuuuu!"

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

When my friend set himself on fire...

Mushroom Girl — Fri, 27 Oct 2006 17:10:27 GMT

I wrote about it. Here's an excerpt. There's more on my blog. Hope you enjoy it!

Bruce the bike messenger was kinda tall and very skinny; he wore red tights that hung to his knees, and chopped-off gray sweatpants over them. His t-shirt was old enough to see through, with various rips and holes. He carried a duffle bag over his shoulder that weighed about what he did. His blond hair was hacked off short in odd angles, pointing toward the sky. He wore thick smudged glasses in black plastic frames; his face was all stubble and windburn, his hands two callouses.

“Here,” he offered with a voice like gravel, reaching into one of his various pockets and pulling out a picture. It showed a red Ferrari with the windshield broken on the passenger side, gouged out in the shape of handlebars and a head. “I hit this in the rainstorm when it was parked – flipped over once right off my bike and landed on my feet.” Blood oozed from his knee as he spoke. That was Bruce, always landing on his feet. I looked at his knuckles and didn’t see a scratch. The metal plate he had in his head had also helped.

Bruce disappeared into the kitchen without warning, then came back out shoving his bike before him. He flipped it over onto its seat and proceeded to remove the tires, which took him about 30 seconds. He produced a wrench from his shorts and banged the bike frame back into place. Every day required some bike maintenance, and he did it expertly, religiously, stopping only to bark out some ear-shattering coughs, hack up some phlegm and spit it over the railing of the porch, but missing his target like usual. Some of it ended up on my bare feet. “Eww!” I exclaimed. “Oh, sorry,” he said, whipping out a handkerchief and dabbing my feet with it.

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

!!DOGS!!

Poster_Boy — Fri, 20 Oct 2006 04:20:26 GMT

On a saturday afternoon, the members of our neighbourhood gang used to like to go down to the general store to hang out and watch the people passing by. It was a small town and there was little else for us to do there. We were too young to have jobs so we didn't have any money. We didn't go to school much because we didn't like school much either for that matter.

At that moment, the town preacher came by our small gang and gave us a wide, friendly smile.

"Oh, what beautiful children you all are!" he exclaimed.

The members of our gang looked to the preacher, then looked to each other and nodded. It was true what he said. Indeed, we we were beautiful children.

"Where were you all baptised?" the Preacher asked.

Everyone in the gang looked around at each other. The youngest one spoke.

"We were never baptized. None of us were." The gang nodded their heads, agreeing.

The Priest curled his face in disgust. "Gah! Those who are unbaptized are like the dogs!"

We looked to each other's faces, then the eldest of our gang spoke.

"It is you Christians that are like the Dogs, in that you need a Master!"

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 1 reply

comment on this story I'm working on.critism welcome.

jason — Fri, 20 Oct 2006 21:15:25 GMT

"Shit! I've got to get the fuck out of here." Steph's warm body slides out from under the blankets. "Fuck its cold." She covers her chest with her arms and like a chicken pecks her clothes off the floor.
The pre dawn world creates an insular atmosphere. It's cold, dark and quite. The windows are black, the night tide suck's the light out of the air leaving the small room gray. I sit up in bed, she went to the bathroom. It feels as if my apartment is in orbit around this small coastal town, the drama cocoons in this small vessel protected for a few more moments from the coldness of space. There are two other satellites in orbit around this story.
Two other astronauts in a similar capsules drift in this black sea. Sitting up in bed my minds eye scans across this town, down the foggy streets, past the town common with its flag pole, past the strip mall with the Safeway and Longs Drugs, over the small houses to the divided highway that stretch the nine miles, around the cold foggy bay, to the small city of E; continueing past old hotels, gas stations, banks and bakeries. Now up the hill, past dark houses and the high school, through an old redwood grove, across a fern covered stream, out of the woods upon an old small house, more of a cottage, darkened except the blue glow of a TV. Here our friends Sarah and Steve are snuggled in a warm narcotic blanket, smoking watching a horror movie on TV.
The other satellite is Steph's, her boyfriend paces its wooden halls waiting for the lost shuttle craft to dock. I don't want to think about that right now.
Stephanie exits the bathroom. She's wearing her socks, panties and bra. She throws her blouse on the bed and starts to struggle into her jeans.
Watching lovers dress fascinates me. She hurries tonight because she's cold, late, and self conscience, but she knows I like to watch and this will be the last time. She said it excites her now. She gives me a smile.

"I'm in so much fucking trouble." Her breasts bounce slightly in red lace as she tosses her head back and ties her brown hair back. She sits on the edge of my bed and pulls on cowboy boots.

The coldness creeps under the covers. I wonder if her boyfriend likes to watch her get dressed. I wonder why she puts her self in such insane situations. The euphoria starts to receded and I get up to put on some pants.

"You don't have to get up."
"You want some coffee?" I ask.
"I don't have time, besides I want to be awake for this train wreck." She looks innocent most of the time, her black framed glasses make her look almost bookish, but she's too calculated to be innocent. She buttons her shirt and then pulls a burgundy wool sweater over her head. "I know he's up waiting for me, Sarah texted and said he called twice." She opens her purse, takes out her pill bottle and walks past me into the kitchen. I searched my closet for a pair of warm socks.

The apartment contracts in the emptiness of space. I felt the heaviness of the event now, the end is minutes away. Throughout the evening we tried to avoid the subject, we never let on that our end was just hours away. We funneled our frustrations through sighs, long looks, to much wine and finally through sex; slowly at first savoring every taste and texture, then furiously hurling ourselves towards the inevitable coming conclusion. I said things to the contrary but I was relieved in most respects that our affair was ending. I felt sad for her and thought she would have a harder time dealing with the situation.

"I left you something on the kitchen table." She smiles quickly flashing me the pink pill between her teeth then chases it down with a glass of OJ.
"I'm going to miss you baby." I say putting on a pout face. I got embarrassed because it came out lame; I started feeling nervous to, like I didn't know her or what to say next. She looked like a stranger. I wanted to either get back in bed with her or for her to leave.
Steph starts to cry, "I'm sorry baby, I shouldn't have put you through this. It wasn't fair. I 'm a loser, why do I always fuck shit up so bad. I feel so over the top you know. Fuck it's the night before I'm leaving and I spend the night with you I'm such a bad person, He's home waiting. Oh fuck its like four thirty in the morning." Her skinny hands start waving around her head like she was just hit with the realty of what she has been doing for the past three months. Then she stops and steps back like the wind has been knocked out of her, a wave of pharmaceutical euphoria. "Wow, shit. I don't usually take two of those."
"Well I guess this is a special occasion" I say half joking.
She's gone. For the next ten minuets I talk to a frantic happy robot who can't look me in the eye. She says things which she thinks are witty, but because they are half true they come off sad. She goes over the top on how much she'll miss me, Sarah and work.

"You gonna be all right to drive?" I ask.
"Ohh, I'm so fucking sorry baby, I'm so fucking sorry, I shouldn't have put you through all this." She says trying to not laugh.
"Girl you are a fucking mess." I had to laugh.
She gets so fucked up you have to take care of her. She makes you exasperated then falls at your feet helpless like a baby bird falling out of its nest. As you pick up the baby bird to return it to its nest it tries to bite you with its frail beak. My fingers are calloused now and feel only a pinch.

We hugged and she walked down the hallway, her hand on the wall. She turned trying to be dramatic and gave me a sad look before she descended down the stairway. I went to the window waited for her to appear. I was nervous; would she be able to drive? Or would she end up in a ditch somewhere. She finally arrived out on the sidewalk smoking and running to her car. She was quick, unlocked the car got in and drove off without a hitch.
She left me three bars of zanax in an envelope with her friends address so I could write her without her boyfriend knowing. I took one of the pills with her left over OJ. I wondered if she will ever tell anyone the whole truth. I wondered for any given situation how many different versions of the truth there were; one for the boyfriend, one for the lover, the friend ,the girlfriend, the boss, the dealer, the parents, people she just met and so on and so on. I felt the zanax kick in and laid down. I smelt her peach body lotion on my warm sheets. (Now a pang of lonliness and her guilty smile smeel like peaches.)

"Stephanie Anne Reily...Stephennie Anne Reily...Stephennie Anne Reily" She repeated the mantra all the way home. The rocky coast line barely visible through the darkness. She was sent to a psychologist in high school, her first psychologist only used drugs as a last resort, a trend that is passé. She had a tendency to become so overwhelmed with anxiety she mentally split herself into pieces and learned to adopt different roles to act through each situation. Although this situationaly worked, because she was playing different roles for different situations, her "self" was shattered.

She used her mantra like a bull horn in her head drowning out all other thoughts, not so much focusing on herself like she was suppose to , just blocking everything else out. It was hard to keep this process successful for any length of time and soon the screams of the situation at hand became harder and harder to drowned out. Leaving the warmth of her lover, to succumb to her boyfriends anger. The black ocean was a mirage of the oblivion she craved.
As she approached her drive way she throws his phone number out the window. As she does she thinks about him, then she gets scared and doubts everything and wants to turn the car around and... "Stephanie Anne fucking Reily, Stephanie fucking Anne Riely, her eyes well up with tears as parks the car. 'I just have to get out of this town and away from these people and Jeff will take care of me and I'll work and just come home and, tomorrow I'll start tomorrow. Ill try to be good. Steph we'll be good won't we. Jesus please let us be good." She chews a sleeping pill as she walks up the lighted stairs. The morning dew was thick and she could hear the TV. Maybe ten minutes of hell before oblivion sweeps through.

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

Call for Submissions

Masque — Mon, 16 Oct 2006 08:15:32 GMT

I'm the editor of Reed Magazine. Currently, our submission count is fairly low, so I thought I'd post a call here. We have two different channels for submitting. You are more than welcome to submit via the regular process, which provides two CCs on publication. We also sponsor the John Steinbeck Award for the Short Story, which has a $15 entry fee with an award of $2,000. The deadline for both is December 1st.

Writer guidelines are posted on the web site at www.sjsu.edu/reed/

Feel free to pass along the info to anyone else you know who might be interested. Also, even though this is a fiction group, we're also looking for quality essays and works of creative nonfiction.

Best of luck to all!

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

I invite you to "Crazy Charlie"

Mushroom Girl — Wed, 11 Oct 2006 20:27:27 GMT

Hi people - Please feel free to check out my newest blog. It's an excerpt from my novel in progress called "Orion's Wake". This particular installment features the character Crazy Charlie.

There are other excerpts from this novel on my blog. Please enjoy!

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

Opinions / feedback

MidnightOrchid — Wed, 13 Sep 2006 23:33:19 GMT

I would sincerely like to get feedback on blogs I’m writing for a site sponsored by my company. They’re not stories though and I don’t want to be labeled as spam… However I would also like to become a better writer. Can either the moderator or the members here let me know if they would be interested in reading my future posting and give feed back?

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 1 reply

A reading call

chinacoaster — Thu, 06 Apr 2006 20:54:20 GMT

I am looking for readers to critque a 37 poem poetry mss. that I wish to self publish. I can't offer money, but will return the favor. tks for your time in reading this.

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 7 replies

Call for writers / bloggers

MidnightOrchid — Tue, 19 Sep 2006 18:55:05 GMT

I’m now well into Search Engine Optimization & Marketing online learning as well as having a personal web site created so that I can start practicing what I’m learning. The web site layout should be done by the end of today and I’m forwarding content to my designer by Friday…

On the site will be a blog for business related articles and here is where I am putting out a call to anyone interested. I’m looking for a few people who are interested in posting articles (attributed to you at the end of the article) and posting them in the blog on my site.

The Downer:
You would be submitting the articles for free - no pay -

However…. The primary reason for the site is so that I can practice driving traffic to my site and building a rating for it. So you will get recognition. I’m plan on utilizing a variety of methods including handing out business cards with the web site on them personally.

The topics for the blog need to stay decently within the business arena.
Ideas / themes I would like to see or will consider:
• Personal opinions on business related software / gadgets / products
• Personal opinions on business related events or upcoming events
• Views on local non business events (no adult or edgy events - sorry). Events that are located near business centers / gallerias ect where business people could walk to or drive a short distance to (any city/state - but must be stated at the top of the article)
• ?????

I am open to suggestions

If interested email me.

The site will be available between Oct. 2nd to 5th 2006

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

Z-Z-Z-z-zombies!!!!!

COBRA — Tue, 12 Sep 2006 21:33:28 GMT

I won't bore you with the details in regard to how I found myself in standing 8000 feet below the white house, surrounded by zombies, holding a sawed-off shotgun. Nor will I bother to explain to you this bag of dead coon hound pups slung around my broken shoulder. Theres no need. I've got enough bulletts left for every last one of these flesh-eating son's of bitches. Maybe I'll tell you over a Guiness and a smoke while we watch this all unfold on the evening news from some boarded up saloon on the east side, awaiting our own demise. Either way I'm getting out of here. The guy in the bow tie looks like he died on the shitter. I'm no detective but the shit stain in his underwear that served as a flimsey pair of shackles looks, and smells pretty fresh. I make strawberry shortcake out of his face. The conceded admiration of my fleshy masterpiece is interupted by the tiny hand tugging at the the sleeve of the jacket that I just paid 200.00 to have ruined by these foul puppets. She's as cute as a button but not a 200.00 button. My aim is precise and her and what could probably either her dad or diddler uncle fall accordingly. And just when I think I'm having fun, the goon from the packy steps out of the sea of flailing arms and bumps right into the gun's barrell. Edwardo. Every day I see this guy and not even a hello; acts like I'm fucking invisible while he flips though Mad Magazines with his pinky finger. Not to my dismay, the gun jams and from here on in, its up close and personal with the machete. The pinky goes first and then I go Iron Chef on this guy and everyone else that comes after him. The elevator hits B and those doors open like opera curtains with the fat lady at my feet and 16 pints of crimson running laps through my body. Fucking secret service!

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

Half Life

kevin — Wed, 26 Jul 2006 12:37:42 GMT

Half Life
by k. paul dümler

_____

“...being done here, but you alone are not enough to leave this place…” a sinuous murmuring surfaces.

Whispers in the darkness, like voices from a feverish delirium that brings no meaning yet cannot be ignored. She finds herself suddenly aware of her weightlessness and fluidity, her body unstable and fluctuating softly. She can feel herself moving very fast but in no particular direction. And not as if her body is moving as a whole, but as if every part and molecule is traveling as its own vessel, silently shooting into the blackness that enfolds her. Yet peace surrounds her; becomes her. The sounds of her world muffled and fading rapidly as if gaining great distance. She cannot feel her body, cannot see anything, cannot hear anything, just transcending in total silence.
Suddenly, she can see herself now, as if rematerializing. Strands of brown hair appearing in front of her eyes, her faded blue hospital gown tied loosely around her naked body. She feels herself become still. Her thoughts return to her, and she stands with full consciousness as if becoming lucid in her own mind. Awed, she looks about her.
Surrounding her is a large black space; she notices no walls or floors, and no boundaries or even depth of any sort. She cannot feel her feet on any type of solid ground, yet her body is firmly secured just as if there were a floor. There is no temperature, no winds, no echoes from her breath, no visible source of light; just space.

The wonderment starts to fade out. Anxiety begins to creep in.

Almost unnoticed, she becomes aware again of hushed and muffled noises quietly echoing in indistinguishable distances around her. She looks above her and catches transparent glimpses of a yellowish-beige light off in the far distance, swirling and waving variably. Squinting, the young woman tries to focus on the fading apparition, slightly raising her foot arches off of the solid black nothingness. The more she focused on the light in the void, the more she recognized it as a familiar image. She focuses more, and the image becomes even clearer to her. From the swirling light emerged the image of a middle-aged male doctor, perhaps a surgeon maybe, looking off to the side and moving his mouth as if speaking. The low muffled speaking sounds echoed lightly through the darkness above. And the image again became indistinguishable, dissolving into the black nothing.

Where am I…? She asks within her mind.

“There is one way to explain what is…” the sinuous murmuring returns from close behind.

She shrieks as her heart jumps, interrupting the sudden intrusion of voice, and spins to the direction of the resonance.
Within the darkness came a man. His wide bulging eyes stared intensely into hers, and a strange grim expression was firmly crossed upon his pale face. The man appeared to be of younger age, although a bit older than she was, yet he was completely bald of hair. She was not aware at this point of the fact that the strange man was half-enveloped in the darkness, as if he was a floating torso amidst shade unknown. Her heart thumped harshly and her breathing deepened as she stood there, frozen, eyes stunned, waiting for a sign of intent by the man. But he was ever so still, hovering statically, staring into her eyes without falter.

Then his mouth parted to speak; “Well?” he voiced, echoing softly through the darkness, and continued to stare at her.

Satisfaction did not touch her enough to make the next move. He had asked a question, and it was one that she already held in queue. She stood there, perplexed, waiting again for more.

“And,” he spoke again, “if you say nothing, nothing is what you will get. It is… your time we’re on here.” His voice was slithery and hoarse, and held trite masculinity.

“Who are you?” she blurted finally like a frightened child, and her voice seemed to carry in all directions, yet without echo.

“This realm withers almost before it even begins.” He hissed slowly. “It’s a blink of life, after it stops, and before it proceeds again. A place of limbo in which those who are not ready to leave, wallow in their sad disposition. A… window, between the physical realm of consciousness, and the emergence into the spiritual realm. And this blink only exists within a split-second in time, but to you, it could seem like an eternity. This place… is where your mind finds itself now, Allison.”

She steps back in fear, and an eerie smirk crossed the pale face of the man.

“To answer your second question,” he went on with utmost confidence. “I… am an entity within you, created by you and to serve you in whatever purpose you had chosen when you called upon me. I was spawned from your will, and using energies from sources around you, and from sources that you have not yet experienced. I am part you, and part from the fabric of the universe that surrounds you.”

His unblinking eyes stared frigidly into hers, and then slowly his head cocked inquisitively to the side.

“Now if I may pose a question to you,” he said, and an uncomfortable anticipation bubbled inside Allison as she listened. “What can I do for you? Time is not on our side.”

“Impossible!” Snapped Allison as she backed further away from the Entity, lips quivering. “I’m dreaming! This isn’t real, I’m dreaming!”

“Then wake yourself!” Replied the Entity, harshly. “Go ahead and …wake up.”

Allison stood there at the verge of tears, trembling and breathing deeply. She backed away further from the Entity, and the shadows of the darkness filled in the creases on his pale face until his eyes disappeared into gaping black holes that nonetheless continued to stare at her.

“You’ll find that no matter how hard you try,” he continued, “you can’t. Because you’re not dreaming, Allison, this is your reality. A reality that, if you do not listen to me and do as I ask, will expire with you in it. Your very existence is at stake, now… do you want my help, or not?”

The truths of his words were uncompromising. Though strange and unthinkable, his explanation was the only reality that could make sense to her. She stood quivering in the darkness as if cold, returning the Entity’s stare to his shadowy eyes, but with severe distrust. The Entity was static amidst the black void, in stance and expression, and with seemingly eternal patience. Allison struggled for a course of action, but the more she thought and reasoned within herself, the more hopeless she became; the Entity was the only source of hope for her.

“What do I do?” she uttered finally, giving in to his offer; and as she spoke, the Entity’s lips moved silently in sync with her words.

He then became much closer, and Allison found him to be right in front of her again. She did not notice movement of any kind; the Entity was just there, as if he had always been there. And she naturally accepted it as reality. He loomed over, glassy eyes unblinking as he stared intensely into her.

“Something wrong has happened.” He spoke gravely. “When you shed your physical body, you, for some reason, managed to get stuck half way between the physical and spiritual planes of your existence. You were ready to leave the physical world behind, but something within you has made the decision to not go any further. Are you aware of why that is, by chance?”

“What? No!” She exclaimed, her anxiety and confusion agitated her. “I don’t even know what’s happening or where I am or what the fuck is going on!” she was on the verge of tears, and spoke to him as if pleading.

“Well then,” his voice slithered, “It’s something deep inside you that is holding you back. I can do what I can to help you, but we must hurry, you are in danger here.”

“I don’t understand… why am I in danger?” Implored Allison.

“Through knowledge of self and inner awareness, you have learned to live outside the flesh.” Replied the Entity. “But you are still trapped within your mind; you, at some level, refuse to expand to the next plane. And like a fish outside of water, this place cannot sustain your life. As your body dies, you will perish inside of it.”

Allison stood there looking up to him like a scared child to a parent, at the foot of his will and completely trusting him to guide her to survival.
Suddenly the muffled noises of before began to resonate around her from all directions. She looked to above and noticed the hazy yellowness returning, although no image was displayed. The Entity also noticed this, and a troubled look of concern fell upon his face.

“Quick!” he said, almost frantic. “We need to leave this place, our time is up here. Follow me.”

Fear paralyzed her; she looked again to the swirling yellow light above as it grew bigger, and the familiar images of the hospital room began to form again. She looked back down to the Entity and watched him float silently away from her, all the while staring at her yet.

“Hurry!” He pleaded as the darkness started to envelop him

Allison looked again to the glowing image as it grew larger and closer, then back to the Entity floating away. Her urgent fear of the strange advancing light caused her to break her paralysis, and she ran with all her strength toward the quickly disappearing Entity until she reached him finally. And she found herself floating with him, deeper into the black void; and the hazy yellow light and hushed noises disappeared slowly into the darkness behind her.

* * * *

Time seemed lost to her. In her awareness, she felt as she had been floating for a lifetime, yet she only noticed a few seconds. Then the feeling of floating stopped suddenly, and Allison looked up to the Entity beside her.

“Where are we?” she asked.

The Entity was then about ten feet in front of her, floating in the darkness, the same eerie expression upon his face and eyes staring wide and unblinking.

“What you knew as your subconscious life.” he rasped. “This is the place where the… anomaly, or whatever it is, can most likely be traced. During your life, your perceptions and experiences flowed in a discreet undertow beneath your ever-so-sensitive awareness… to be rooted and hoarded here, in this part of you. Thus, over time, laying the foundation for your thought process, as the perceivably positive and negative experiences of your life had silently embedded themselves into your psyche and took control of you, sabotaging you. You became a slave to yourself, and now it could very well mean your destruction. So… let’s begin your search here, now.”

Allison looked at him, confused, not quite understanding his meaning and waiting for him to continue. At first she could not comprehend even the concept of his words, but then suddenly, she became aware of a sensation within her mind that seemed very foreign, yet hauntingly familiar. Then her mind steadily grew active with more sensations, and her attention was lured from all angles. She gasped with wonder as the memories of her past emotions drifted into her like a wave of newfound enlightenment. She stood in awe and felt as if being born again, like feeling emotions for the first time and as if she had not felt them in ages. Then the wave of sensations would wash away suddenly as a receding tide, and she became aware only of herself and her mysterious surroundings once more, but only to return once again like a current, filling her mind yet again. And when it flowed out of her again, the weight of the thoughts leaving her pulled her body back slightly, and she could feel those thoughts escaping her mind and traveling backwards to a sudden presence growing behind her. She could feel it calling to her, intoxicating her with her own deep feelings. Slowly, Allison turned her body to confront this presence.
Before her were gathered millions of human faces, stretched out in rows and in all directions like a giant wall, just a few feet in front of her. The faces were expressionless and varied, and held no familiarity to Allison. The eyes and mouths were hollow, resembling extremely lifelike masks, and she could see the blackness of the void beyond it. She felt no fear, the sentient waves had ceased, and she stared to the wall before her, her mind blank.

“Focus now, Allison.” breathed the Entity from behind her, “Focus hard on the question in your mind… find what part of you is keeping you in this place. And then, step into the wall. Do not, whatever you do, do not break concentration.”

Allison stared at the strange faces, floating and impassive, fear and anxiety building inside of her. Her heavy breathing matched her rising emotions inside; she turned to face the Entity.

“How will I know what to do? How will I know how to get out?” She posed, her expression worried and anxious.

“Just do as I said, and you will know, you will know everything you need to do.” Returned the Entity cryptically. “Do not let yourself become overwhelmed, stay very focused, it will be easy for you to be distracted.”

She turns back to the wall of faces, and in her mind began to concentrate and build courage. Then the faces in front of her started to move and contort slowly, their expressions shifting from inert vacuity to freakish guises; mouths moving as to mime words without sound, brows bending, and hollow eye sockets squinting. This disturbing sight did not affect Allison’s concentration, however, as she had achieved an unfaltering state of convergence. And without another thought, she raised her bare foot and simply stepped into the wall.
Inside she could see nothing again, not even her own self, but she could feel everything. Then suddenly she was hit over and over again by millions of emotions and memories of emotions, overwhelming waves that bombarded her with ten times the intensity of the moments before she stepped into this wall. Swirling brightly colored energies shot around her and through her, and the more she was struck, the more amazed she had become at the realization of her seemingly long-lost life. But despite it all, and as she kept her mind concentrated, a growing fear inside her built; fear of this place and of her situation. There was also another element to this fear, and as she became more aware of its mystery, she found that the other emotions and energies around her started to dissipate slowly. She concentrated harder, and among the churning energies surrounding her sight there was a static glowing ribbon of a deep orange. As she focused on it, the strange fear grew and became so intense she could not even recognize the feeling as something she remembered any more. The energies around her and emotions inside her gradually washed away like the receding tide, and the orange light began to expand. The fear. She could feel the orange glow inside her, and the light swelled across her vision and overtook the blackness. Suddenly she could feel herself shaking, slowly at first, and then quickly arose to violent tremors quaking through her. The glowing orange light before her was also shuddering, and then rippled intensely across the surface. She wanted to scream, but no sounds could escape her, and she was shaken harder as the orange light grew brighter and so intense she could barely watch; yet she could not close her eyes. Suddenly the orange light burst into white radiance, the shockwave slamming into Allison, and she could feel herself being tossed away and flung back into the darkness once more.
Floating silently, and in no particular orientation. She stops suddenly, and finds that she could see her body again; arms and legs sprawled out before her. Then she could feel her body, and became aware that she was in a laying down position.
She lied there for a moment, blinking and staring into the darkness, trying to discern once again where she was. Then a heavy breathing arose from a short distance away from where she lied.

“Ahh… interesting.” whispered the hoarse voice of the Entity, seemingly from her right side.

Allison turned her head to the voice’s direction as she sat upright, and saw the Entity in his usual stance among the blackness. He was staring at her with those same intense eyes, but his expression seemed unusual this time.

“It’s funny how your phantom trail of affairs could warp such an immaculate essence… isn’t it now?” spoke the Entity, with a strange tone that she just could not isolate.

“What was it?” she asked, standing up to face him, her body still tingling.

“Here we are, one step closer now.” The Entity replied. “It seems that during your life you had a… a specific experience that inside you imbedded a deep fear of some sort. This fear, whatever it is, is the reason why your awareness has… rejected the knowledge necessary for spiritual maturity over the course of what… sadly transitory years you had in your physical body.”

Allison waited for more, but the Entity just stared at her with his thin lips pursed.

“I don’t understand… ah I…” she stuttered, frustrated, “What deep fear? And I never rejected any knowledge!”

“Time in the physical world is only the beginning.” The Entity replied. “You were, in all reality, in your infancy. Your flesh nourishing you until you were ready to live beyond your body and expand your undeveloped consciousness to a new height. Unfortunately, most are forced to shed their… outer shell before they’re ready, and do not preserve the awareness of self needed to be conscious outside of the body. So when the body dies, those who are oblivious… unconsciously choose to die with it, because they are so attached to their flesh. Once one comes to realization and their ego becomes detached from the body, they have learned that they not only exist… but thrive outside the body. For they learn through self-awareness that the body is only the beginning of life, an egg that harbors and protects their immatured self until they’re ready.”

“And is that where I am?” asked Allison, trying to grasp the Entity’s outlandish sermons. “I… I’m not dead? And I’ve learned to live outside of my body?”

“You have come close to this realization I just spoke of,” he replied “but the fearful grip of… certain parts of your consciousness… is holding you here, in this half-way point. For this fear, that has been created to supposedly keep you safe, is now a self-sustaining energy cycle within you, and is holding you in its clutch for dear survival. Fear is one of the most powerful emotions a being can possess, and only when you can detach yourself from fear is when you stop letting it control you. It clings to you, and you are clinging to it.”

The Entity was then a few feet in front of her, looming over her with his presence.

“You have become closer to discovering the purpose of your time here,” he said, “but it is not enough to leave this place.”

“Well what can we do?” asked Allison.

From out of the darkness, the Entity stretched out his hand and motioned toward him with his fingers, floating slowly backwards into the blackness.

“Come with me now, Allison,” he spoke, “and I will show you.”

Trepidation still in her heart, Allison takes a step forward. Then she could feel the black space around her move again, under her feet and all around her. She then became aware of soft ribbons of light materializing in great arcs above her, churning slowly in rotation around her position.

“There are five levels of consciousness that all harmonize together to ultimately create… who you are.” He spoke hoarsely, and as he did, his glassy eyes grew wider and peered deeper into hers.

Allison was filled with an unknown apprehension, and took a step back in fear, staring hauntingly at her deviant companion. The space around her continued to move forward, however, and the luminescent ribbons surrounding her began to grow in number and brightness. The lights swirled about until they formed what seemed like a large tunnel, surrounding her on sides, and the end reaching deep into the black depths of this strange realm. And the Entity stood facing her, still half enveloped in darkness, staring as the tunnel grew larger and traveled faster into the oblivion.

“All have their own properties, and degrees of awareness and purpose… that all come together as one… as you. We have just experienced one of those levels…” as the Entity spoke, his pale face grew shadowy amid the increasing intensity of the churning tunnel surrounding them, but his eyes still glowed and seemingly intensified as his face grew dimmer. “…and in that discovered a living force that’s sole purpose is to anchor your consciousness in this dying place of darkness.”

The swirling tunnel then took on images within its walls, flashing for a split moment before disintegrating into pieces that merged like water with the other twisting strips of light. The tunnel slowly grew more intense and churned faster.

“In order to abolish this fear,” the Entity went on as his face grew darker and his eyes brighter and more severe, “you must first be fully aware of it… fully understand it.”

A sudden flash of the gruesome image of a bloody hand flared in the side of the tunnel, and the Entity’s glowing eyes burned into hers as the rest of him grew so dim it was like a silhouette.

“So now we journey to the place of conscious experiences and memories,” more images flashed on all sides around them; visions of people smiling and crying, rooms with chairs and large paintings, a sleeping dog, a shoe floating in a dirty swimming pool. “so that you can find the event… or collection of events that has caused this debilitating fear inside you.”

The Entity was now completely lost within the blackness, just a set of glowing eyes gaping widely at her. The tunnel of light spun intensely like a tornado around her, and the strange images coursed randomly around with it. Sudden white flashes blinded her vision momentarily, and one by one the ribbons of multi-colored light broke from the tunnel walls and flung wildly off into the void like paper in a ferocious wind. Gradually, as the ribbons of light tore from the channel, the spinning slowed to a sluggish halt, and the rest of the ribbons flew away and dissipated into the darkness. Feelings of movement stopped, and Allison found herself once again surrounded by emptiness, and felt as if the strange experience with the tunnel had been just a dream.
The Entity’s shadowy form blended perfectly with the twilight, and seemed to be nothing more than two floating eyeballs staring blankly and silently at her. To her right, she noticed something in her peripheral vision. Upon turning, she beheld a pale gray wall next to her with a large and obscure painting hung up at eye level. The painting seemed vague and blurred, and she found it impossible to focus on any specific part of it. She then became aware that the wall stretched endlessly before her into the darkness, and in either direction, all the while lined with more strange paintings as far as she could see. Among the distortion of her peripheral vision to the left, she noticed more ambiguous scenery, seemingly an outdoor setting. But upon turning to face it, the scene blended into nothing more than an empty wooden desk with large marble pillars lined in front of it; all floating statically amidst the black emptiness. Suddenly all around her she became perceptive of random scenery in her peripheral vision, and as interest inclined her to turn her head, what she thought she would see would blend again into something completely different, or even nothing at all.
Wonder filled her heart as she witnessed these faint memories from her past. Each object and each piece of scenery struck her differently, but all had seemed so lost and forgotten to her. Faces, pictures, rooms, clothing, cars, random objects, so familiar and so desired yet she could place none of it. She became aware that she did actually know nothing of her life, and tears swelled in her eyes as her frustration engorged within.

“What’s happening?” She nearly sobbed as she pleaded to the Entity, but as she turned to face him, he was gone.

She spun frantically in all directions, but there was no sign of him, just fluctuating scenery and random objects.

“Hello…?” she begged the darkness, but there was no answer. “Help me!” she screamed into the void, and there was no return but her own suffering voice echoing back to her.

Crying now, Allison staggers forward in search of the Entity or anything else that could give her comfort. She walked on empty ground, the wall to her right stretching endlessly before her, and the row of pillars to her left morphing into indecipherable imagery as each pillar passed into her peripheral vision.
She was overwhelmed. A maze of anonymity forms around her as she marches through her enigmatic memories, even the empty ground below her would arbitrarily fade and morph into seemingly tangible surfaces from grass to concrete to stained wood. Her panic was on a steady increase as she roamed from one broken scene to the next, searching desperately for any means of solace.
Almost unaware, a low and muffled murmuring gradually arose from all around her, and the empty spaces in between her surroundings were filled with assorted whispering voices, from high pitch to deep vibrations. Panic and fear dominated her mind state as her movements became more frantic and impulsive. She sought desperately for resolution, her heart cried out for reprieve.

And she needed it to happen right now.

Among her scurrying, she notices something in the corner of her eye and stops suddenly. Upon looking, she saw a piece of someone’s bedroom, just a quartered portion of it, floating still among blackness. A faint smile touched Allison’s lips, and in a short moment her panicking discomfort seemed lifetimes away.
The room is bright from the glimmering rays of the sun shining through glowing white curtains, and the drapes cracked in the middle to reveal a glimpse of green bushes under peaceful blue skies. Her bed lay in the center of the room against the far wall; its unkempt white comforter on top is littered with clothes and random beauty care objects. Above the bed hung a large framed photograph of an old and beautiful tree, presumably from the Orient, which stretches almost across the width wall and is centered. To the right of the bed is a nightstand with a lamp, and even farther to the right is a makeshift vanity set with an oval mirror lined with photographs and stickers.
A cool breeze brushes across her face, and simple thoughts come in and out of her mind as she stands idly on top of wrinkled pieces of clothing on her carpet. A slightly puzzled look crosses her face as she tries to remember where she was walking to. Then she notices something on the nightstand that catches her attention. She walks over to the nightstand, picks up an open bottle of pink nail polish, and calmly examines it. The top is off and there is fresh polish spilled on the side of the bottle under her fingers. Immediately she puts the bottle back on the nightstand, wipes her fingers clean on her gray sweatpants, and then sits down on the bed to finish her toenails. She folds her leg in front of her and studies her partially painted nails, suddenly there is a knock at the bedroom door and Allison calmly turns her head.
Standing at the door is Matt, stylish brown hair, pale green eyes, handsome, and dressed in his work uniform with his tie loosened around his neck and long white apron hung over his shoulder. He is standing in the doorframe, looking at her casually.

“So I’m going to work baby.” He says to her. “Leave a message on my phone when you know where you’re gonna be tonight okay?”

Allison just stares at him affectionately, and in her head thinks how happy she is to see him; although they have spent nearly the entire day together, at this moment she feels she had not seen him in ages. After a second, she gets up, walks over to him, and wraps her arms around his neck, gazing into his eyes with complete satisfaction. She feels the warmth of his body against hers, and can smell the mild scent of his aftershave. A slightly discomfited smile crosses Matt’s face as he looks at her.

“What’s up…?” he asks, lightly perplexed, but mostly just as satisfied as she.

“Nothin’…” Allison replies, tenderly gazing up and down his face. “Just glad you’re here. I’ll miss you while you’re working.”

Something then catches her eye. Beyond his face, inside her bathroom. She looks directly, and notices everything in the bathroom seems to be normal. Except for the mirror. The mirror above the sink is black, and has a seemingly abysmal depth to it. A strange feeling creeps up the back of her neck, and an uncomfortable tension rises inside her. Matt says something to her, but she does not hear it. A feeling of familiarity comes to her now, and a thought flashes in her head that she might be dreaming. Then, out of the darkness in the mirror, a pair of lone eyes emerge, staring directly at her… into her. Fear strikes her then; and she can feel it tingling in her skin as sweat forms on her brow and her breathing becomes short and rapid. As she focuses more on the strange floating eyes, she notices a grim and pale face surrounding the eyes, and now she is aware of a full face of a man staring at her. She gasps as her heart jumps and she grips her boyfriend’s shirt tightly. Strong feelings tug at her concentration, and she fights fiercely within to suffocate them. The pale grim face in the mirror is glaring at her freakishly and with all intensity. Fear and adrenaline flood into her, her heart pounds against her chest, and she starts trembling uncontrollably with tears streaming down her cheeks.

“I’m dreaming! Oh my God I’m dreaming please!” her frantic thoughts echo through her mind.

The face in the mirror suddenly parts his lips, and mouths a single word from which there came no sound. In the next moment Allison notices certain areas in her vision changing and blending into other images and objects. She then was aware of a very loud and deep breathing, all around her.

“Allison!” a sudden burst of voice comes rumbling around her.

She screams as her surroundings are abruptly torn from the comfortable embrace of her mind and blended in with other random objects and empty black space. She watches in horror as her environment falls apart, fading into oblivion. Haunting feelings came to her like a lost nightmare, and she found herself fully aware of those very feelings she fought to rid moments ago. The blackness of the mirror seems to grow, and as it does it morphs and fuses with the setting around her, slowly and caustically it eating away at everything she saw.
And then there was nothing left around her but empty black space. She stood again on empty ground among the strange void, her blue hospital gown tied around her, and the Entity about ten feet in front, half enveloped in darkness and glassy eyes staring at her.

“I’m not doing this to you, Allison!” The Entity hissed at her sternly. “There is no escape from this plane lest you follow the rules!”

But Allison could barely hear his voice in her head. She had been shaken too harshly, ripped from absolute comfort like a baby from the womb. Sweat glistened over her continually paling face, her heart raced and pounded against her chest, her shock continued to grow and transform into panicking distress. Slowly she backed away from the menacing presence of the Entity, trembling, and forcing herself not to accept this reality around her.

“Now see what you’ve done to yourself?” The Entity resumes his characteristic poise. “Look at the danger you’ve put yourself in by consuming yourself with a delusional reality that could have very well cost you what little time you have here.”

He peers at her more analytically, and slowly floats toward her.

“Tell me, must we start over now?” His voice slithered as his eyes burned into hers. “Have you become so reattached to your dead world that all you have learned up until now means nothing?”

Allison suddenly takes off running in the opposite direction, leaving the Entity still floating behind her and in mid-speech. She runs hard and fast into oblivion, but toward divided purpose, her mind scattered and flying in all directions. As she flees, odd surroundings sprout around her, taunting her attention from all angles. Faster she ran through the oblivion as her surroundings morphed and blended into enormous tunnels of strange light, broken and floating within the darkness. Her thought process raced from one track to another, and as it did, her settings changed to different and more confusing arcs of surrounding imagery, kaleidoscopically morphing into broken realms of physical defiance and abnormality.

“Do not forget the importance of your time in this place!” The voice of the ever-present Entity came rolling in like thunder around her. “Getting lost in the comfort zone of your past reality is the most dangerous decision you can make here.”

“Haven’t I done enough?” Allison cried in reply as she ran with tears flowing down her face. “Why won’t you just let me leave?!”

“Only you can make the decision to leave.” His voice resonated around her. “But as you don’t know how to make that decision, another part of you is making the decision to stay. The more involved you become in the illusion of your egotistically attached consciousness, the more lost you will become. I know this place far better than you Allison, I can show you the way!”

She refused to listen to him, and held the firm belief that she could find her own way out of this hell. As her surroundings changed around her, she suddenly found that at her feet there grew glowing purple bumps that sprouted all around her until she found herself in an entire field of these strange emerging bubbles. She jumped frantically over and around these obstacles, tripping and scrambling through the now endless “meadow”.

“Stop it! Stop you motherfucker!” She squealed as her frustration came to a point of anger.

Echoes of laughter came from the Entity. “Don’t blame me for the inconveniences you create for yourself,” he spoke, “don’t forget, Allison, this place is a construct of your mind, not mine.”

But Allison ignored him still, and continued to scurry through the bubble field. Soon however, the field faded into random fluctuating imagery, and she was able to move more freely again.

“It is your mind that traps you, takes you, and buries you here.” The Entity’s voice echoed as Allison continued her fleeing attempt; then his voice became harsher. “For all through your life you ran, like you’re running now. Hiding and running from any moment or event that could mean change in your life. And now your life is over! And still you run, even though it was your running away that keeps you here now. You had your last chance to change things, Allison, with your flesh torn open and laying paralyzed on the asphalt, thinking to yourself how this could have happened, the things you could have done differently… should have done differently… No! You chose this plane of present existence! You needed more time to “think”! You gave yourself a false opportunity to hopefully change what you knew could not be changed! But your fear got the better of you, didn’t it? And the harder you run, little girl, the more control your fear has over you, until it suffocates you, and eventually kills you. You know this, but then again you knew a lot of things you knew were right, and still you ignored them because it simply was not convenient. So how does it feel, now? How does it feel to have your own hand clasped around your throat?”

Teeth clenched and eyes wild with panic, she could only run faster into the alien stretches of the realm surrounding her. Then her environment was suddenly completely empty again, hushed of sound and entirely devoid of imagery. Yet still she sprinted along.

“Stop!” The voice of the Entity barked suddenly. “Stop now! There’s something important here…”

This time Allison did listen, for the Entity’s voice came suddenly as a voice of reason.
Her running legs slowed to a stop, and she stood surrounded by empty darkness. She noticed, however, that though she was standing still, the area around her still seemed to be moving slowly, and could feel its movement against her skin and under her feet. She took a moment to regain her composure, then a unique feeling of serenity came over her, and she felt as though what had just happened a minute ago was nothing more than a distant dream.

“Incredible…” The Entity’s voice came from behind her, and Allison turned and faced him.

The Entity hovered about twenty feet away from her, staring beyond her with great distance in his eyes. Far behind him, she immediately noticed an enormous floating sphere of brilliant white light, stationary and surrounded by darkness. Great arcs of white rays shot out from the blinding center like shape-shifting spikes, embracing a slow moving crystal form. This frozen yet shifting burst of light had a unique depth to it however, and almost looked as if it existed behind the void surrounding it, like the very fabric of the enveloping blackness was ripped open, and as each arc of light stretched out it further pierced the darkness.

“That’s it…” Her own voice whispered in her head as her thoughts clicked, though she did not know why.

The Entity was positioned like a statue before her, the great shining light glowing behind him, dimming him to a partial silhouette, and he was looking down with a somber and contemplative expression on his shadowed face.

Her breath was like ice against her lips, “Where am I?” asked she, her words flowing out of her mouth like the purest of energy.

“A place that is your… omniconscious.” Breathed the shadowy mouth of the Entity. “Your great medium… your purest and most ever-consistent self. What lies in here is… who you are, undisputedly, and without influence. ”

His voice trails off and settles into a tone of introspection, seemingly speaking to himself as his eyes gained greater distance. Allison thought this to be eerily bizarre.

“We have come to the final plane of your present consciousness.” He rasped. “This… is the doorway… the portal of which you seek. We have skipped a large process for us to be here, and we’ve achieved much in this minute period of time. But how? You… you have released the boundaries some how, allowing us to progress thus far to the ultimate reaches of this realm. And now we find ourselves bound once again, and so close to our goal. The cause for this? I don’t know. But… do we really need a reason at this point…?”

The Entity then revolved his neck to look directly at the light behind him, and though Allison could not see his face, she knew it was a face of profound longing and anguish.

“So close…” the anguish could not be more evident in his voice. “I have waited too long to be here. I have spent entire lifetimes seeing those who are… more fortunate come and move on through this plane like it were never here! This dying place is toxic to the mind, and now that I behold this beautiful light before me, calling for me, I will not spend one more moment here with you.”

The Entity turned slowly to face Allison, his eyes wild and intense, sweat beads swelled over his pale face, and eyebrows twisted into bent arches that completed his maniacal expression. A terrible anticipation flooded over Allison as her heart jumped.

“Now, open it you bitch!” His voice was like acid and his teeth clenched tightly as his face shook terribly amongst his passion.

Allison stood horrified at the Entity’s wicked becoming, his presence so fierce and imposing that her breath froze and her muscles petrified. The Entity loomed forward and over her, his burning eyes scorching through her brittle resistance.

“Finish what you’ve started then!” He growled. “You’ve taken me this far, come now and I’ll make you see your final step!”

“Fear.” her own whispering voice exclaimed inside her head, and the great light before her appeared to grow brighter.

She feels a smothering force against her skin and suddenly every inch on her body constricts tightly and an unknown force grabs her and lifts her off of her feet. Dreadful anxiety engulfs her as she is lifted to the eye level of the Entity, who slowly hovers toward her with fiendish countenance.

The great light shining behind him suddenly pulsed with a bright charge, its rays flashing and piercing the surrounding darkness, “That’s it…” her voice rang in her head once more, and a split moment of clarity struck her amidst her emotional turmoil.

She floats mid-air, helplessly paralyzed as the advancing Entity cackles madly with wild bulging eyes of glistening red veins and teeth stretched in a freakish smile with thick saliva foaming at the lips. Allison felt her heart thrash about in her chest as her panted breathing tried to keep up with her racing blood. The Entity extends his scaly fingers toward her, and as he does a strange glowing green ribbon of light materializes from between his fingers and slowly glides outward toward Allison.

“You’ll never leave this place.” The Entity hissed at her with disdain. “I’ve been here far too long. I know this place far better than you ever could! And I can crush you as easy as I have placed you in my grasp.”

The light off in the distance pulsed again, and this time she noticed it grow larger. Another moment of peace fell into her, “Fear.” Her voice came through clearly inside her mind,

and for another split instant she felt as though she was in another place.

Her attention, however, was quickly intervened by the offending Entity. The panic inside her was almost unbearable; she thought if her life would not end, her sanity certainly would. Her fear reached new heights as the strange glowing ribbon of light came closer toward her. The Entity peered eagerly into her frightened eyes.

“Open yourself…” he spoke hypnotically with his slithery voice. “Open yourself to me, submit yourself to my will, give me what’s inside of you… give me the key within you… open yourself to me, and I will let you go…”

The glowing ribbon of green light grew brighter and started to expand in width as it drifted. And as her fear grew, so did the great white light grow behind the Entity.

“That’s it…” the white light flashed as her voice rang louder inside her head. The light heaved and grew larger, and a longer moment of clarity became Allison, “Fear.”

“Do it not…” the Entity went on menacingly, “and I will destroy you right here.”

Allison suddenly became aware of another glowing ribbon of light emerging from her chest, orange in color and slinking leisurely from out of her skin and slowly moving toward the other ribbon of light from the Entity. Her consciousness jumped as she realized the urgency of what was happening.

“Yes…” hissed the Entity as another smile crossed his grim face.

“That’s it…” Allison’s voice popped into her mind again as the great white light pulsed and expanded again, “Fear… That’s it...”

She was torn with bits and instants of clarity, Allison closes her eyes and tries to concentrate on these feelings, and the more she did just that, the more clear her thinking became, and she felt as though she could visualize the great white light growing in front of her clenched eyelids.

“That’s it… fear!” Her own voice shouted within her.

Allison opened her eyes and saw the ominous Entity grin with pleasure as the two emerging ribbons of light advanced on each other, the great white light in the distance was swirling and pulsating and growing.

“That’s it… fear…” she consciously said this time inside her mind, trying to figure its meaning. “That’s it, that’s it, fear, that’s it...”

Allison repeated the words in her head over and over as she concentrated. Suddenly she had a thought, as if she realized what it meant.

“Fear!” she exclaimed in her thoughts as she rejoiced their meaning. “That’s it! Fear! Fear is it!”

The slowly emerging light ribbon from her chest stops suddenly, and to the harsh dismay of the Entity. She remembered right then what the Entity had spoken about fear, she realized right then what he meant when he told her about her fear holding on to her; for she had realized right then and there that she is holding on to her fear right now, and suddenly she became fully conscious of how her fear is controlling her.
The white light silently bursts with an enormous charge of blinding luminance, and nearly doubles in size. A new feeling of realization trickles over her, subtly easing her mind of the emotions that had just dominated her thoughts. She felt a connection within herself, as if there were two distinct parts of her in two different places at once; one in fearful torture, and the other a serene harmony. Her mind felt clear, as though she could see and feel the truth around her through a shroud of darkness.
Feeling this liberating sensation inside of her, she looks down at her body with wonder and sees the glowing orange ribbon not only protruding out of her chest, but she noticed she could also see its roots inside of her; glowing strands stretched throughout the inside of her body like veins. She immediately understood the strange orange fibers as the fearful emotion she encountered inside what the Entity described to her as the “subconscious plane”. The more she thought about it, the more she seemed to be in touch with this new peaceful side of her, and the more she could feel the great white light growing larger and closer.

“Allison…” spoke the Entity with wavering confidence, but his voice trailed off into silence.

As he continued to talk, Allison found she could easily ignore him, and she continued to study herself in a ponderous state.
Her eyes followed the glowing strands of light as they coiled throughout her body, twisting about and branching off into new vein-like stems. She follows them around to the side of her, and as she does, she realizes where her eyes follow is not physically possible. Confused, Allison looks up, and to her astonishment, notices she is not where she just was, and then she sees that her body is actually a short distance away from her. She can see herself from a new angle, slightly behind and off to the side of the Entity, and saw her body floating paralyzed in mid-air with her terrified eyes locked with the Entity a few feet from her. She thought to herself that what happened had transpired so fluidly that she had barely noticed herself straying from her body, and for a moment deduced the conclusion that her mind had somehow wandered outside of it. Suddenly she becomes aware that she can still see and feel from the perspective of her floating body, along with the ever-present fear within, as well as this newly discovered viewpoint simultaneously. Her mind suddenly clicks; both her fearful and peaceful personas had now been divided into two separate and distinct perspectives. Yet she experienced her two selves as still being connected and interactive with each other.
She can see her fearful self vividly from her distance, and with rapt compassion, Allison peers into her own frightened eyes, and within sees the truth of her fear. Her eyes reflected a lifetime of apprehension, years of running from her own problems and turning her back to important decisions that compromised her cozy mind state. She feared and rejected any growth that meant change, and because of that destructive cycle throughout her years, she clung vehemently to her life as it slipped away with her dying breath.
Her fear had put her and kept her in this dark place, and she embraced the promise of this strange Entity here with her. She looked to him as a source of hope, and that he may hold the answers and be able to fix her nightmarish scenario. But all along it was her own fear that had kept her here. When her fear turned against itself, she lifted the self- composed boundaries of this plane, as her will suddenly strived to leave this very place which she had chosen for asylum. Then her thoughts became torn again amidst her internal struggle, and she had trapped herself once more under her fear. Now that she thought herself fearless, she realizes a part of her is still attached to this realm, even to the Entity.
The growing white light behind her pulsed and grew, and in her peripheral vision she could see its gigantic rays stretching out through the darkness. She focused her eyes on the Entity, and through her new realizations saw him purely as a harmful force against her. Her foresight of this stranger was hazed yet, but her comprehension of his destructive will filled her with true understanding, and as realization came her to, she found, with great ease, her ability to let go her fear of him. Gradually she felt his presence inside fade away, his grip on her weaken until she noticed she could not feel it at all. As she became aware of this, she realized she was not seeing from both perspectives any longer, and could feel no more the presence of her fearful self. Her floating body that was paralyzed in mid-air had disappeared, and with it the fear that the Entity had in his controlling grasp. And she stood as one person again, slightly elevated and at an angle behind the Entity.
The Entity stopped his motions, and slowly turned his head to look up at Allison. His bulging eyes were filled with fear and his lips were bent into a quivering frown. Allison loomed over him with supreme confidence and fearlessness, proud of her achievement over this enemy within.
She notices suddenly that the white light had spread all around her with its arcs of light stretching into the remainder of the darkness. She turns in the direction of where she first saw it, and was amazed to see that the brilliant white had replaced all of the surrounding blackness. She turns to the other side of her, and just in time to see the last of the darkness drown out completely by the blinding white radiance. Pure awareness of this floods inside of her as she realizes, in all forms of consciousness, the beauty that is her being and the freedom she had created for herself. She felt as if a great veil had been lifted, shedding the glow of pure enlightenment through the darkness and liberating her mind. Allison saw her surroundings now for what they truly were, and realized then that this place, all the smothering darkness, was nothing more than her scared consciousness, covering itself with a suffocating shroud of fear. A grain of space, outside of her body yet still within her mind.
Her gaze turned downward to the Entity, who was nothing more than a frail little man garbed in a tattered old hospital gown, his eyes returning a spiteful gaze of defeat and a sneer of disgust on his pale ugly face. Allison saw well beyond the exposure of his true image, she saw the truth within him. So lost in his own torturous existence he had forgotten where he had come from. He preys on the weak, lies to them, and uses them to his own gain, in hopes to finally find a way out of his own vile cycle of self-destruction. He had a plan for her, to use her to collect the crucial pieces inside of her with hopes of transcending far from this place. He intercepted her consciousness, brought her to this place outside of her flesh, and used her emotions to find out what he needed. She reached out to him in fear and embraced his lies and secretive plot to turn her into what he is, to use her until she was a ruin while he left her here for eternity. He tricked her into following him; he needed her trust in order to achieve success, to take what she had that he needed so badly. This entity would have almost succeeded, and it would all have been ultimately her decision, for she knew now that no one is forced into anything without first making a decision, at some level, to submit.
She decided right then that this entity invading her consciousness was no longer welcome, and with a single thought the pathetic soul before her vanished from her mind.
Allison stands, basking in her full awareness, delving into her last thought about her decisions, and realizes she can simply decide that she is ready to move forward. Naturally, in reaction to her will, she sees the way before her as the white radiant light begins to merge with her mind, as also her mind begins to merge with the light. The decision struck her as being so simple, she could scarcely believe that her state of mind was ever in such a shrouded place of darkness, she could not imagine she was once in that immature mind state not far behind her.
She closes her eyes, and feels herself blend into the light and become one. Her body feels as though it had melted together, becoming as liquid and dissolving gradually until there she had completely transcended, far away from this realm.

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

The Cross

verinon — Fri, 02 Jun 2006 23:59:06 GMT

<I'm planning on making this a series, so stay tuned for more>

The Cross

What can I say? I was bored and frustrated and sick and tired of everyone leaving me. My whole nineteen years of life, I had lived in one spot, while everyone around me moved away or ignored me. My best friend Dane had moved away to southern California. My other best friend Miles had been sent to boot camp by his conservative parents a couple years ago. And I had purposely distanced myself away from my last two girlfriends, because it was too painful to see their faces again. I had no other friends to speak of, and only my mother to talk to, and she was at work most of the time. I lived on my own in a small apartment, with nothing to do but read and write. By the way my old friends treated me, I was a disease that required quarantine.
So I ran. I ran away. Actually, I biked. Walking was never my thing, too slow. My destination was…anywhere, nowhere. I thought, “Maybe I’ll just ride until I can’t ride anymore, or until I found a group of people that accept me?” I only knew that if I did leave, something interesting would have to happen. When I was a kid, I would run off into the forest that covered most of the county my mom and I lived in. I wanted nothing more than to have some kind of adventure. Getting lost was a thrill, one that I searched for often in those days. And I always knew I would find my way back. But this time, I didn’t want to come back – ever. There was only so much loneliness and drudgery I could handle. I had been through too much. It was time for a change, and I was going to be the one to initiate it. I got on my mountain bike with nothing but myself to bring. It was the middle of the night. I switched on the headlight and the red blinker on the back of the bicycle and headed off. Immediately, I could tell the summer nights were on the way, because even with the wind blowing past me, I was not cold. I rode, and continued to ride, and I did not look back.
I don’t know how long I was out there, hours maybe. Thoughts raced through my mind. “No one will miss me. No one will even notice I’m gone. I’ll disappear from this town and make a new life for myself somewhere else. I’ll show everyone that I am able to take care of myself.” By the time my legs began to hurt, I had left the city limits and the trees began passing me by. I saw no cars or people after that. Soon, I was growing tired. I started to think that I was going to collapse in the road and get eaten by some crazed animal. My fear grew with every second. The headlight on the bike seemed to get dimmer; either that or the world around me was growing increasingly dark. On either side of me there was nothing but redwood trees and ferns and bushes. In front and behind me, there was nothing but paved road. I started thinking, “Why am I doing this? Because no one talks to me? Because I pushed my ex-girlfriends away, and now all I have is my self-loathing? Is it because the only people I ever loved no longer love me? Am I really alone?” My legs burned and ached. I was out of breath from riding at top speed for so long. “What if I die?” I thought.
After that, I finally resolved to go home before I really did collapse. I turned around and headed back the way I came. It would be humiliating to return home with nothing in my life changed, but not as humiliating as running away from home and killed in the process. I knew I could find my way back. I hadn’t taken any side roads on my journey so far, so I knew getting back would be simple. I felt renewed strength in me, as if my will to live drove me on past my physical fatigue. After what seemed like half an hour, the road I was on became rocky, then completely gravel altogether. I could see tree roots jutting out of the ground on all sides in the dim illumination of the headlamp. I stopped riding, and took a moment to get my bearings and catch my breath. There was no sound out there besides the chirping of crickets and frogs, and no smells but the constant odor of redwood. “This isn’t right.” I thought, “I never rode over gravel before.” I considered turning around again and searching for the main road I was on before, but I chose not to once I spotted something in the distance ahead of me: a light.
At first, I was frightened, thinking that it was some creature staring at me with hungry, glowing eyes. But as I looked at it more, the more it seemed like some porch light that was somewhat obscured by the dense forest. I thought, “This gravel road had to have been made by someone, so there’s probably a house nearby where I can get help.” I clung to that reasoning as if it was the only thing in the world that mattered. The fear of the unknown darkness around me clutched and gripped me tightly. I took several deep breaths to stabilize myself. I continued on my bike. “The light,” I thought, “There has to be someone there.” I rode slowly to avoid crashing in the gravel. My riding was wobbly from all the terror I felt, but I managed to stay upright. Suddenly, I heard a sharp hissing sound. I stopped and looked around. I detached the headlamp from the bike and used it as a flashlight to inspect my surroundings. A moment later, I realized where the hissing was coming from: the front tire of my bike.
I pushed on it to make sure – it was totally flat. “I must have hit a sharp rock or something,” I thought, “Damn it!” I sat down on the jagged gravel, let my bike tumble over, and started rocking back and forth in a panic. “I’m screwed. I’ll never get home. I’ll be eaten by a damn mountain lion.” But I remembered the light I saw earlier, the possibility of someone living nearby. I stood up and looked for that beacon of hope once more. I didn’t see it. My fear grew tenfold then. “No!” I thought in dread, “Anything but that! Wait, maybe the people just switched it off and went to bed? It must be at least two in the morning by now.” I grabbed my flashlight, which was growing dimmer, and walked down the road some more, thinking I might see the light again, or perhaps the house itself.
As I walked, and the sound of gravel crunching under my feet filled my ears, all I could think about was my ex-girlfriend Darcy. I wanted her to be with me in the ordeal, to hold me or tell me everything was going to be fine. I wanted to tell her to forget about everything that happened before so we could start over and be happy again. I looked up at the sky. The moon was full, but it was obstructed by ominous clouds, and had been all night. “Why did I think I should leave in the middle of the night?” I thought in frustration and dismay, “Why couldn’t I just sit in my room like I always do?” After several minutes of walking slowly and cautiously, my flashlight spotted a trail off to the left. It cut right through the grass in a straight, slender line, and looked as if it had been trodden many times, for no trees or bushes obstructed its path. I thought to myself, “Maybe this is the path to the house?” My spirits rose and I followed the trail. As I did, I thought about how simple life is when all you have is your fear and a single hope to guide you. My flashlight was so dim, I could barely see in front of me. I walked for what seemed like forever.
Eventually, I reached a clearing; a wide field full of short grass and nothing else. The trees and bushes seemed to have just stopped, but as I looked further, I could see that they were simply cropped out in a great circle around the field. The clouded sky was clearly visible above me. Then, the clouds dissipated, and gave way to the bright moonshine, which proceeded to fill the clearing I stood in. Ahead of me, I could make out some kind of shape, something stuck in the ground. I looked on either side of me. There was no house anywhere, no lights, no sign of life at all. Nothing but the grassy field and the trail going straight to this object in the ground. I walked forward reluctantly. Once I got within a few feet of the thing, I shined my light on it.
It was a cross; about two feet tall and somewhat at a slant. It had a small piece of cloth laying over part of it. I got in closer. The cloth was devoid of color and was dirty and worn and torn, as if it ha been lying there for years. In fact, the cross itself was in the same condition. The edges of it were frayed and jagged. The wood was faded and gave it a dreary look. Along with the limp piece of cloth hanging on it, I actually felt afraid of the object. I speculated, “It’s probably just a pet’s grave. Someone’s cat died and they buried it here.” I looked around on the ground near me, but there was no burial mound anywhere, as far as I could tell. I squatted down and got a good look at the cross once more. Then, for some reason I still cannot explain, I touched it. I slowly reached my left hand out and touched the cloth.
All of a sudden, I couldn’t see anything. Then I felt like I was falling a great distance. Vertigo struck me. I hit the ground on my belly, and the wind got knocked out of me. I opened my eyes; my vision was entirely blurry. There was grass under me, the same grass I had been standing on a moment ago. I got to my feet, and as I did, my vision went back to normal. It was daytime; the sun shined brightly over the trees and filled the clearing around me. There were droplets of dew on the grass. I wondered, “Did I just fall and get knocked out?” It seemed like the only plausible explanation, so I stuck with it. I looked around. The cross was nowhere in sight, and neither was my flashlight. I looked around some more, still nothing. “Is this even the same field I was in?” Upon further inspection, I found that, yes, it was. The trees and brush stood around me in a great circle, as if watching me piece my existence back together. “What the hell is going on?”

End of Chapter One

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 3 replies

The Blade

RichBatsford — Mon, 22 May 2006 19:38:23 GMT

If ever there was a man who truly had everything, it was Jonathan Blade.

I remember being a little in awe of him from the moment we met. I was slouching in my office, daydreaming (as usual) of having the best of all things; fast cars, beautiful women, power, money. Jonathan Blade strode in with the unmistakably assured step of a man who has all of them.

The introductions quickly established that we would be working quite closely together and in adjacent offices. I was a little worried at first, that he would treat me with the sort of cursory disdain a man of his assurance and confidence usually reserves for lesser mortals, but in fact, he seemed pleased that I was interested in him and would confide in me with a frankness he denied his customary friends and rivals.

One morning, as was often the case, I sensed a slightly ostentatious touch of self satisfaction in his manner. On these occasions, Blade somehow managed to combine the look of a man fast approaching middle age, on whom a life of working and playing very hard was beginning to take its toll, with the glint of an adolescent, thrilled at the memory of his first conquest.

"Morning Johnson." he smiled with a charm that told a thousand lies.

Keen to be the one to discover the story of his latest exploits, I casually asked what he had been up to the night before. Blade raised an eyebrow with a kind of "You won't believe this, but..." expression and let slip a few choice details of the high powered party he had crashed and the dazzling young model he had "entertained".

Not for the first time, and with a barely concealed hint of jealousy, I demanded to know what on earth he thought he was doing sleeping with a beautiful woman scarcely my age, when she quite clearly ought to be sleeping with me.

“Watch and learn Johnson, watch and learn."

We talked almost every day. Blade didn't make a general habit of boasting about his outrageous exploits, but he always took the time to enlighten me. It was as though he knew that I would never have the guts or flair to match his accomplishments, but he wanted me to share in his experiences in this small way.

It was some time before I finally plucked up the courage to ask Blade to let me accompany him on one of his evenings of high society party crashing. It was a "do" that he had been talking about for some time, the launch of the latest block busting novel by the crowned queen of the racy, power play, battle of the sexes set. She had a reputation for hosting wild parties where many a reputation had been damaged or greatly enhanced.

We arranged to meet in a trendy West End wine bar. By the time Blade turned up fashionably late, looking comfortably impressive in a million pound designer suit, I was already feeling slightly sick with nerves, and had spilt my cocktail down the front of my specially-hired-for-the-occasion dinner jacket.

"So, are you ready to set the world alight?" grinned Blade. For a moment, I wasn't quite sure if he was trying to put me at ease, or whether he was enjoying my discomfort.
"I'm not usually particularly good at parties." I admitted. "I generally prefer one to one conversations. With some people, I feel comfortable and I can hold as good a conversation as anybody, I'm just not good at parties."

I could feel that I was getting dangerously close to babbling, but Blade, ever the gentleman, came to my rescue.

"Don't worry Johnson, it's just a matter of practice. I was as nervous as you once, but you soon get the hang of it."

We finished off our drinks and made our way outside. Blade demonstrated an almost magical ability to summon a black cab, and in no time the cabby swooped imperially to a halt outside the exclusive hotel. A doorman was questioning a couple who were desperately trying to convince him that they were invited but had mislaid their invitation. Blade ignored the short queue that was building up behind the discussion, smiled at the doorman and shot a knowing glance at the couple desperately trying to decipher the doorman's list upside down.

The atmosphere in the party suite was the just like other parties I had attended, in much the same way that the atmosphere at the launch of a child's kite is just the same as at the launch of a space shuttle. It was so utterly beyond the range of my experience, that I was virtually paralysed with nerves. After an eternity, I became aware that Blade was talking.

"....with some fish paste and a salami. Apparently, just the smell of a large wallet is an incredible aphrodisiac for her. Are you alright Johnson?"

In stark contrast to me, Blade couldn't have been more at home. Beautiful women hung on his every word and shot meaningful glances over their martinis. Actor's, musicians, even the brash, cigar smoking, power broking types roused themselves at least to shake his hand, or order him a drink.

Initially, Blade made the effort to introduce me to some people, but once he had moved on to the next friend or admirer, somehow the conversation seemed to peter out, and my new found acquaintance would suddenly discover an urgent need for another drink, or happen to notice an old friend that they hadn't seen for simply ages.

Before long, I found myself standing alone at the bar, feeling a little light headed and a strange mixture of fear and fascination at the scene before me. I desperately wanted to join in, to be a part of this beautiful, powerful society, but I knew that in this lifetime, I could never have the natural self assurance and style of their breed. I was a different class of person and always would be. I left the party quietly, almost overcome by feelings of loss and desolation. I never asked Blade for his company again.

After the night of the party, our daily routine returned to normal. I was still interested in hearing Blade's stories, and he didn't embarrass me by discussing my own failure. However, my interest in Blade's life increased still more, when I first noticed a peculiar pattern in his behaviour. Sometimes, he would arrive at work with some kind bandage visible, covering what seemed to be a fairly substantial wound. On these occasions he would pass some comment suggesting that he had been hurt when climbing, fencing or playing rugby. Other times, although no bandage was actually visible, he would sometimes stiffen slightly, as though struggling to conceal severe pain.

Although the rest of my colleagues seemed blissfully unaware of anything unusual, I was watching Blade very closely by now, and noticed that when these painful episodes occurred, there seemed to be an air of the deepest kind of calm and satisfaction about him, often followed by a period of particularly vigorous power politics at work and power play at night. I felt a compelling urge to discover the reason for this strange routine and, with a keen sense for the melodramatic, I decided to keeping start keeping this record and to follow Blade after work.

The first two evenings revealed nothing much of interest. Blade seemed a little quiet and out of sorts and simply drove his sports car home and spent the evening sullenly watching television, or reading from the large library of books he kept in a downstairs room. From my previous observations of his moods, I expected that the cycle of his behaviour was about to enter the next and most mysterious phase.

The third night was dour and empty. Blade had deviated from his usual route and I found myself struggling to keep up with the streak silver sports car as it sped smoothly through deserted country lanes. I eventually lost him, but was fortunate to catch sight of his familiar stride hurrying through a small side entrance to a deserted warehouse building. I drove on a little way and ran back to the warehouse.

Peering cautiously through one of the windows, I could see only that an inner room was dimly lit. For the first time a brief wave of fear washed through me, only to be instantly submerged by a desperate urge to know what Blade could possibly be doing that could require such secrecy.

Although my heart raced as I reached the door to Blade's inner sanctum, the horror of the scene before me left me gasping weakly for air. Each of the four walls was a monument to terror and torture. Vast collections of daggers, swords, and knives of every description, paintings depicting horrific scenes of fear and pain, instruments of cutting and slicing that I had never imagined existed.

In the middle of this razor edged lunacy was Jonathan Blade. The centrepiece of the room was an altar-like platform on which he lay, naked from the waist upwards, with his left wrist secured by a leather strap.

His features mingled terrible pain with the fiercest concentration and deepest satisfaction, as he carefully sliced off every inch of the skin from his left forearm. I struggled to wrench my gaze from the revolting mutilation, but some dark corner of my mind seized control and forced me to watch the red rich blood pouring thickly from beneath the loose flap of skin. Near delirium, I finally tore myself free and fled desperately into the welcoming arms of the night.

From that night onwards, my mind was consumed by my quest to discover the truth about Jonathan Blade. Bringing to bear the full range of the knowledge I had gathered from my back issues of "The Amateur Psychologist", I began by investigating his youth and early manhood. If I could only find the key evidence; the bullying, overbearing father perhaps, or some traumatic sexual encounter that could have demanded such extreme release or gratification.

To my dismay, everything that I could discover about Blade's early life seemed almost impossibly normal. He had always maintained a close, healthy relationship with his parents, and teachers at his school paused slightly, before recalling a polite, if unspectacular scholar.

He had progressed to a modest degree at one of the better universities and friends remembered him as a happy, well adjusted young man. From this safe, normal, almost ideal kind of background, I felt that Blade had no right to be anything but thrilled with the extraordinary success he had gained in later life, but clearly there was some important point I was missing.

Late into the night and through endless cigarettes and black coffees, I searched my notes and findings for an explanation, or even a decent clue. Blade's life had evolved from one almost as ordinary and humdrum as my own, into little short of a Bond like playboy and if anything, he seemed almost bored by it. Gradually, my faculties ground away. Perhaps Blade's average but entirely satisfactory early years had initially left him so completely free from trauma and neurosis, that he had none of the deep motivation of someone struggling to rectify a major deficiency in his upbringing. At the same time, his background had given him a base for the extraordinary success of his later years, but had deprived him of any genuine satisfaction in correcting a psychological imbalance. He was entirely lacking in motivation!

I was certain that I had cracked the enigma of Blade's psyche and I could barely wait to confront him with the truth and, hopefully, effect a miracle cure. It all seemed so straight forward in my mind, but it wasn't until the cold light of the following morning, that I realised that this was not going to be the easiest subject to broach. In any case, I noticed that Blade's behavioural pattern seemed to have taken an interesting, if worrying, course alteration. I had expected that, after the bizarre activities of the previous night, Blade would enter a state of deep satisfaction, followed by the extravagant period of hard work and hard play. Instead, Blade seemed moody and out of sorts. I suspected that Blade was entering a downwards spiral. I hoped to be able to intervene in time, and I began to follow him even more carefully.

Sure enough, that night Blade again took the winding country lanes towards the seclusion of his private torture chamber. Even as we raced together through the dark countryside, my mind struggled to formulate the speech I hoped to deliver, whilst fighting the steadily growing feelings of fear and nervousness. As before, Blade's skill and seeming disregard for his own safety proved too much for my lesser nerves and I lost contact with him some time before I reached the warehouse.

The adrenaline really began to pump as I crept up the driveway towards the warehouse. I broke into a sort of crouched trot in my eagerness to liberate Blade from his burden. Then, tentatively pushing open the outer door of the warehouse, I almost turned and bolted as I was hit by a sudden rush of fright and claustrophobia, as though I had become trapped in some recurring nightmare. Inside, I noticed three large petrol cans which Blade must have brought with him. My fears were confirmed, he meant to finish his final torture session with a blaze that would destroy all evidence of his bizarre actions.

Reaching the inner door I paused, doubting my resolve to face whatever horror Blade was performing inside. Bracing myself, I began slowly, minutely, to ease open a crack in the door. No amount of mental preparation would have been adequate for the sight in front of me. This time, Blade was preparing himself for the ultimate sacrifice.

His forehead and torso were restrained by leather straps and Blade, as if on cue, had already begun the deep incision across his neck. This was no mere experiment in agony, judging by the amount of blood already flowing, he would be dead within minutes of the final cut.

Desperately, I ran towards him, almost losing balance as I slipped in a thick pool of his life blood. I seized the knife and threw it down, tearing away the straps. Even as I grabbed Blade's shirt from the ground and clamped it over the gash in his neck, I could hear myself babbling, gushing like blood from an open wound.

"Blade, Blade its alright, everything is OK. I understand, there's no need for this to carry on, its all over."

I must have gabbled on for two or three minutes before I stopped suddenly, like an hysteric slapped in the face. Blade was smiling.

Stunned, I could not comprehend how Blade could be just sitting there, a smile of wry resignation playing about his lips. A moment earlier he was committing suicide, yet he didn't even seem surprised to see me.

"I'm afraid I have a small confession to make. I know you've been following me, in fact, I made certain that you did." Blade peeled the blood sodden shirt from his neck and tossed it carelessly into a corner. Miraculously, the bleeding seemed to have stopped.

"Have you ever wondered how a man like me, on the face of it a little old and average in appearance, can have such enormous success in the important things in life?"

Dumbly, I nodded.

"Well, it all boils down to experience and self confidence and I'll tell you how I came by mine. I've been alive for seven hundred years."

Blade sat back, studying my reaction with amused indifference. I was stunned far beyond my capacity for an intelligent response.

"Of course, virtual immortality does have its drawbacks. For one thing, I have to endure this rather unpleasant cutting every so often, so that my skin grows back young and healthy and for another, after the first few centuries, even making love to the world's most beautiful women grows a little repetitive. That's why I chose you Johnson. More than anyone else, you desperately want the things I have, the power, the success, the women. Well, I can give you all of them, but I require something in return. I want you to kill me."

The quiet assurance and almost fatherly tone in Blade's voice worked its usual magic, I knew he was telling the truth, and I also knew that in return to putting a final end to his boredom, the offer of an immortality of Blade's lifestyle was one I couldn't possibly refuse.
Blade didn't bother to wait for me to speak, the hunger in my eyes was his answer.

"I'm afraid its not so easy to kill an immortal. A little cut like this won't do at all. You need to skin me completely, every inch of flesh must be exposed for me to die. Then, drink a mouthful of my blood, and you too will become a Blade, you'll have everything you dream of."
With that Blade lay down on the altar and handed me the knife. "Don't worry about the pain" he smiled, "I can take it."

I paused, the knife shaking in my hand. Then, gritting my teeth, I plunged the point into Blade's shoulder. His back arched with pain and his breath became laboured and fierce. Slowly, I guided the razor sharp blade in a long line from shoulder to wrist and began to cut away the skin. The blood flowed copiously as the skin peeled away. I vomited for the first time.

Believe me, it takes a long, long time to skin a man alive. Eventually, my clothes were utterly drenched with blood and Blade's skin lay in a messy heap beside his bloodied torso. I hadn't got this far for nothing, so I cupped my hands and gulped down some of the still warm blood.

Exhausted, I slumped to the ground, not caring that I was lying in a pool of blood, and hardly noticing as consciousness slowly slipped away.

Suddenly I was awake, horrific pain seeming to tear apart every cell of my brain. Uncontrollable rage and madness took me as I realised I was unable to move and the revolting, skinless body of the Blade stood over me knife in hand.

The Blade poised a moment in the process of lacerating my arm. He spoke, his lipless mouth struggling to form the words, blood spattering in my face.

"You didn't really think I would throw away a life like this." he hissed. "I need your skin."

You might wonder, since my skinless body was left, blood boiling in a burning warehouse, how this story ever came to be finished. Well, since poor Johnson seemed to take it all so seriously, and I have a couple of days to kill whilst the scarring heals, I decided to finish it for him.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

by Rich Batsford
sometime in the 1990's!

please visit www.myspace.com/richbatsford

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 1 reply

New Dark Fiction Available Now

magdalenos — Mon, 22 May 2006 21:13:26 GMT

I am very pleased to announce that my short story Collection, "Shaytan Rising" is now available from Lulu Press.

From the press release:

"Shaytan Rising is a collection of five short stories which examine the dark sides of the self. Kyle Sennett wrote Shaytan Rising , compiling five of his best short works. The title story SHAYTAN RISING tells the tale of a man who finds himself inexorably drawn to a dark force that he cannot identify until he becomes that dark force himself. SHE is the tale of the Old Gift and the terrifying creature who is its keeper. CONFESSIONS OF A DJINI takes a more humorous tone, exposing the secrets of the wish-granting spirits eternally tied to their lamps. In BACKLASH we meet Jessica, who has returned to her family home and her family's secrets. And finally in THE CIRCLE we meet a coterie of magicians who are plagued by an urge demon, Abraxas, and the machinations of their own superiors within their secret Order."

PLEASE SUPPORT A NEW AUTHOR AND BUY MY BOOK. IT'S ONLY $14.99

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posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

Longinius

RichBatsford — Mon, 22 May 2006 19:35:19 GMT

His time was growing close, of that he was certain. Unable to do much more than eat, sleep and relieve himself with irregular monotony, Father Peter sometimes looked forward to it.

For as long as he could remember, Peter had been trapped in a frail and damaged body, his left side barely functioning and the rest of him deteriorating steadily. His most rewarding experience with medical science had left him only with the knowledge that he had suffered a major stroke in his late twenties, beyond which he could remember virtually nothing.

As Father Peter lay, making unnecessary adjustments to his bedclothes with enfeebled strugglings, his mind lay heavy with the one all-consuming thought that so dominated his waking mind, that only Ann's presence could dislodge it. His granddaughter had become his only comfort, her longed-for presence a searing glory of innocence and enthusiasm.

He tried to focus on Ann, reveling in his unfailing amazement at the child's capacity for unassuming love. In those bright, uncorrupted eyes lay a vision of the purity that he longed to attain. How quickly exposure to a harsh and complex world would taint that vision with an understanding and fascination with vice and sin that no one, surely, could wholly deny.

Suddenly, a black, gaping hole of doubt and terror opened up below Peter's fragile fantasy and he plunged, helpless against the inevitable fall. His weaknesses and failings charged around him like a biblical swarm of locusts and hornets. Cross words, erotic fantasies, moments of lost faith, all the little lusts and infidelities of the man's life were upon him in an instant. He stared forward, seething in sins, overwhelmed by the terrible certainty of his damnation.

He began yet another exhaustive search if what was left of his memory. Surely, even the most extravagant of remembered misdeeds could not justify this powerful sense of his own damnation. Peter was increasingly overcome by his imaginings. His breath, laboured at best, grew shorter with each ill considered action that returned to taunt him like a demon pushing him ever nearer to the hottest flame. Terrifying images of biblical torture flashed before him, his heart stuttered and panic gripped him as his worst fears were realised.

Father Peter died with his doubts unresolved and no one to comfort him.

******************************

Peter lay, quiet as death, growing increasingly aware of an uncomfortable brightness, yet content to remain motionless. Like a new life, his mind awoke and began to search for an answer, or even an appropriate question.

He remained trance like for a while until, with a flickswitch suddenness, his memory returned and Father Peter shot bolt upright, clutching his hands to his silent chest. True then! His bodily struggle had come to an end and he was now experiencing what had solely been the territory of dream and conjecture.

In a further instant of realisation, Peter felt a rush of uncomplicated ecstasy such as he would not have believed possible. He was whole. For the first time in his imperfect memory, Peter was young and strong.

An irresistible surge of energy seized Peter. He skipped around the room, arms flailing, alternately laughing and crying and singing the praises of his one, true God. His relief was absolute. Almost since he could remember, his fear of divine judgement had been his constant companion. His relentless quest for piety must have been a success after all. Redemption was his!

As Peter's first rush of enthusiasm began to fade, he knelt to pray, fervently giving thanks, and feeling his relief permeate the far reaches of his mind. A small stronghold of doubt remained within him, questioning his situation. Certainly, his miraculous return to youth and health was a blessing of immense proportions and Father Peter felt truly grateful. What concerned him was why he was left, completely alone, in a plain white room.

Whenever Peter had envisaged a heavenly afterlife, he had dreamed of meeting lost friends, great thinkers and men of history. He had dared to hope he might take a place amongst these people and devote himself to an eternity of philosophical debate and worship, freed of earthly worries and physical constraints.

Perhaps his destiny was to remain alone in this room? If a man has knowledge of God, then any other influence could only be a distraction. Peter saw the logic of this argument, but was struggling with the disappointment he felt that there was no further enlightenment forthcoming.

Peter sat down, calming himself, whatever happened, he must not lose his capacity for rational enquiry. Could this be a final test? Was some feat of faith or intelligence required to escape the room and assume his true place amongst the faithful.
Impatience gripped him, he could wait forever to come up with a logical solution, or he could look now for a more practical one. He began feeling around the walls, searching for any crack, or sign of weakness. He prodded and pressed and, as he became more agitated, he thumped his fists against the wall. The wall entirely absorbed the sound of his hammering and the room remained unrelenting in its solidity.

Peter was becoming a little frightened and claustrophobic, was this a cell to encase him, would he feel thirst and hunger and be doomed to a lonely torment?

Taking heart from the thrill of exercising his youthful muscles, Peter began to force his weight against the wall. He pushed with all his power and then started slamming his whole body, shoulder first against the smooth surface. He was so taken up by his efforts, that for several seconds, he failed to notice that a door had been opened in the wall behind him.

Peter span round to face the man in the doorway, thrilled that he was no longer alone, a thousand questions on his lips.

"Lie down." The stranger spoke in a flat, commanding tone that brooked no response.

His options limited, Peter lay down on the table in the centre of the room, craning his neck to keep the other man in eye shot.

Whilst he was still struggling to find a comfortable position on the unyielding surface, a strong force seized him, pinning him down, his head striking the table with a sickening thud.

The stranger walked around the room, stopping level with Peter's eyes and watching him impassively. Peter met his gaze, fearful and entirely helpless.
Although the other man remained motionless, Peter felt the tip of his little finger slowly being pulled slowly upwards. The movement was slow, but inexorable, and it did not finish until Peter's finger bone snapped and he was screaming in excruciating agony.

The stranger smiled and directed his gaze to the little finger of Peter's other hand. Peter was yelling hoarsely, incoherently. The process was as interminable as it was agonising.

Peter lost control of his mind and body in a frenzy of pain and bewilderment. The stranger stood quietly and, one by one, broke every single bone in Peter's body.
Only when the last stroke came and Peter's skull was crushed slowly inwards, did he finally stop his screaming, his desperate, futile protests asking over and over the question that had been with him since the dawn of his memory.

Why?

Peter awoke, his mind clearing from a restless sleep. A hideous wash of fear and sadness took him as he remembered where he was and what was about to happen to him. He was starting to lose count of the amount of times that he had been slowly and systematically tortured to death.

As before, having left him for a few wretched minutes to ponder his fate, Peter's torturer arrived, impassive and irresistible. Peter had quickly resorted to physical violence as a way out of his predicament, but the awesome force that the stranger controlled had stopped him in his tracks.

This time, Peter merely sat and wept. Softly, he begged the stranger, not for an end to his torment, but for the one thing he really wanted. The truth.

"You really don't remember. Very well."

**********************************

In a blink, Peter was straining his eyes against bright morning sunlight, and whirling around, trying to take in his surroundings.

He whooped with a breathless delight at the beauty of the fields and trees, before breaking down in tears of relief at his reprieve.

As he was struggling to rally his thoughts, Peter was distracted by the sound of an old cattle truck roaring along the road behind him. Soldiers wearing bucket like helmets leaped out and ran towards him brandishing rifles.

"Throw the filthy scum in the truck" screamed the leader in a harsh sounding European accent which Peter recognised instinctively. As the first soldier's rifle butt smashed viciously into his body, Peter caught sight of the officer's face, lean and handsome beneath the black cap and familiar in every detail.

He recognised and he understood.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

by Rich Batsford
sometime in the 1990's!

please visit www.myspace.com/richbatsford

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

The Inescapable Vibrating Quartz Crystals

uncletim — Fri, 19 May 2006 14:01:53 GMT

During WWII the gubmint of these here very fine United States did indeed have cause to operate one very secretive and mostly hush hush kinda mining operation in the southern part of California. It's called the Pacifica Silica Quarry and produced some enormous quartz points essential to some top secret program absolutely vital to America's war effort. Now although the crystals there were sought for their vibratory abilities please don't assume that they possessed any particular "vibratrional energies".
As I stated they were quartz crystals. Big ol' gigantical momma honkin' jammies indeed, but good ol' SiO2 none the less. Different in size only from most any crystal you might spy on the key chain of your typical middle aged "I was at Woodstock" lady.
So "why" you may wonder, "were these crystals so sought after by the arsenal of democracy?" How was it that the fate of the entire free world hinged upon the contribution of these remarkable geological specimens?
For the answer to that we need to examine that curios ability of quartz to convert energy from one form to another. You see, our friend the humble quartz crystal is enslaved all around us doing the bidding of its Babylonian masters faithfully and without hesitation or complaint.
When one applies physical force to a quartz crystal some of the energy is converted into an electrical current. The piezoelectric effect. Conversely, applying an electromagnetic field to a crystal will cause it to vibrate, and vibrate at an extraordinarily steady and predictable frequency to boot. That vibration by the way, is an expression of mechanical energy.
The battery in a quartz watch energizes a tiny micro crystal whose steady vibrations keep perfect time for millennia. The silicon wafer chip in your computer is an extraordinarily cleverly engineered synthetic quartz crystal whose structure facilitates it assuming myriad on/off positions within its molecular crystalline latticework.
Oh, and the giant crystals from the Pacifica Silica Quarry? They were deployed in ships and submarines to locate and destroy other ships and submarines. They were installed in the hull with an enormous electromagnetic coil around the crystal. When the coil was jolted with power the crystal would vibrate. PING!!!!!PING!!!!!PING!!!!! Sonar operators could then echolocate the enemy vessels by the return signals and blow them into naval jelly.
See? Crystals really do have some practical uses and they're not just a bunch of meta-
physical healy-feely flapdoodle after all. I'll just hang on to my collection and see what else evolves.

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

Mezuzah Soup

Don — Sun, 30 Apr 2006 22:41:12 GMT

It was Sunday morning in her kitchen and she was boisterous in that dozy kind of way you sometimes are after a good night out.

Still drunk, thinking and talking in pop song rhythms, Bappa Mamma Bip, Mappa Bamma Boom, as she made the toast and brewed the tea.

Meanwhile they're striking up the band in the distance with a muffled Halleluja Bip Bam Boo.

“You believe in God, Gerry?” No reply. “You believe in God?”

“I don’t even believe in Sunday!”

Alice had a flash picture of Little Bo Beep.

He stroked the back of her neck. She smelt cigarettes on his breath.

“Listen to them,” he whispered. Her spine tingled. “I mean just listen to that shit, all that cheap redemption crap. They’re all dead, like Sunday. The other lot too.”

He was talking about the Bengalis:

“Kneeling shoeless with their heads bowed towards Mecca.”

He walked to the window and shouted across the courtyard at Alamandera Mansions:

“Fifteen Quid on the Hashasheen’s nose and lose the lot. Like I did yesterday. That’s Mecca for you.”

She pulled away and went to pour the tea.

“I wish you wouldn’t gamble, Gerry. We needed that money,” she said. There was a possibility of tears in her voice.

“There are those who kneel and there are those who deal,” he replied, rummaging in the fridge. “Anyway you can go out and get some more, can’t you? A bit later, maybe.”

She layed a cup of tea in front of him on the worktop.

“You got any cigs, I’m out?"

“On the floor by the bed. Get me one too.”

He took two cigarettes from the packet, lit them and put the packet in his pocket. From her shoe, half hidden beneath the bed, he took two twenty pound notes and put those also into his pocket.

He passed her one of the cigarettes, took a long drag on the other and let the smoke sigh out.

“They’re out there Alice. They’re out there all right, waiting, keeping order in the courtyards and the squares, hustling for the muezzins, just as sure as those Jesus freaks can't hold a tune with their dead beat tambourines and bashed up trumpets.”

“What’s one of them, Gerry?”

“What?”

“A mue… whatever you call it.”

He smiled, swallowed a piece of dry toast and swigged a mouthful of tea:

“Come here.”

He led her out to the hallway and the front door.

“You see that? You know what that is? I’ll tell you. Before you came here, before the Bengalis arrived, these flats were mostly let to Jewish immigrants from eastern Europe. They had… it was part of their religion – this voodoo, if you like – these little containers attached to their doorposts with small parchments inside inscribed with religious texts. Supposed to scare off evil spirits or something. Anyway, along came the Bengalis. They formed themselves into gangs and started roaming the estates at night, nicking all these little cases from the doors. They took them to their bosses, the muezzins, who broke them open, took out the parchments and made mezzuzah soup out of them, which they sold to the Christians from their corner shops. The soup put a hex on them and they all lost their faith and got drunk. The Jews got rich and moved to Golders Green, and the Bengalis took over the east end. Ethnic and religious cleansing by voodoo, got it?"

“You’re full of shit, Gerry.”

He laughed and left her standing in the hallway. She went back into her kitchen.

Leaning across the draining board to fill the kettle again, she knocked a dirty glass with her elbow. It fell to the floor, shattering on impact.

Outside the sun had almost completely disappeared and soon it rained, rained all day. And the courtyards and walkways were quiet. She watched television, ate toast and drank tea.

Someone had seen her down Roman Road market with the bruises on her face. They told her sister:

“One day he’s going to kill her!"

She came round to the flat to find out what was going on.

“I’m worried about my sister, Gerry.”

But Gerry wouldn’t let her past the door.

“The house is infested with fleas,” he told her, “you know, since the dog ran off. Best stay away. Alice is fine, fell over that’s all.” Then back indoors with the smile again and the running of fingers through her hair, softly stroking on the nape of her neck.

“I could kill you Alice, if I wanted to, and no one would care.

Five dream people laughing in the early evening. Brandies and coke and sitting by the window at a table facing the bar. Alice in the doorway wearing the Ativan veil. Toni’s plunging neckline in the big bevelled mirror behind the bar. She wore a gold crucifix low hanging on a braided chain, which caught a spark on Gerry’s sovereign ring and relayed it back to the sleeper in her ear, completing a triangle. She fingered the chain as she spoke, smiling, rubbing her arm from time to time – a small insect bite there.

Strawberry Fields Forever and nothing forever no more. And the song kept revolving and repeating, like a carnival carousel, contradictions whispering in a thousand undervoices, sneering and squinting at Alice through the smoke and the mist like tacky coloured bulbs at a funfair. Everything deafened and blinded her: the bar buzz, the children screaming outside in the street, the devious pleasures and the false securities bubbling up through the brandy and the whisky and the vodka and the rum and the beer.

STRAWBERRY FIELDS FOREVER…

And the song ended and the last notes echoed. Alice and the Ativan veil still in the doorway searching through the clamour for him…

And sometimes my head just spins, my mind is a city, a totalitarian state, an autarky whose economy depends on the currency of human secrets.

Then she found him and he heard the words and the secret was a secret no more.

"I don't want this," cried a torn voice that moments before had been loud and confident and laughing, before it sank and a blowsy jeer shaped shout loomed up in its place. "It's the same every time. Weak, lousy bastard!"

Then the torn voice groaning back to the surface. A twisted, ragged moan and the door slamming shut. Footsteps disappearing and the jeer shape shouting:

“Hey Gerry, don’t linger in the moonlight too long, there’s a hangdog moon out there tonight!”

“Moondog!”

“What?”

“Moondog! It’s called a moondog, when the clouds are over it that way.”

"Fck off!”

Leaning across the bar drooling over that slut, speaking his soft words to her. She couldn’t make out the words. So she poured some more vodka into her glass and emptied it then repeated the whole thing like Strawberry Fields Forever but she couldn’t taste it.

The music boomed through the wall from the living room. The drink tasted of nothing and she couldn’t make out the words, couldn’t hear those words he stole from her and gave to Toni. But she followed the shapes his mouth made in the big mirror, watched as the sleeper in her ear flashed, its ricochet sparking a corona on his ring as he swept back his hair from his forehead.

Her back in that mirror.

That cow.Don’t linger in the fcking moonlight. The phrase echoed in her head and no one was there to answer. So she swallowed some more pills and fixed another drink.

It was his indifference that hurt her more than anything. It felt like dying. Imagine a fear so intense as to make the sufferer too scared to face it.

She had always been frightened, since she was a little girl, way back then when she first let the fear into her life. Now she embraced it. It had a space inside her, as if it were breath to her.

She sat half up in the bed smoking, her broken hair hard and ruined from too much hairspray. It had mixed with her sweat and then solidified during the course of the night.

She stared at the room, at the bottle on the floor by the bed and her discarded underwear.

She reached out, hoisted up the bottle and drank. Then she lit a cigarette, going over and over in her head what she’d say if he came back, thinking from time to time that she might get up and have a bath.

The nuns used to say that a body always sleeps sounder when freshly scrubbed.

She rose and pulled on her pair of green cotton cut-offs with the broken belt loops and the torn pocket. Pulled up the zipper, cigarette dangling. The smoke curled up into the air and commingled with the dust. The zipper trapped her hair and stung her slightly. A notion of a song in the sunlight lightly brushed her breasts with its beam and made her think of softness, softness like a glow that is gently warming yet unsure in a cute kind of way, like a baby’s first smile: a baby like Gerry maybe, or a little Alice made of her trickle and his juice.

The photographs in an old National Geographic in Dr Leahy’s waiting room brought back something like memory to her. Leafing through its pages she recalled a child’s fingers and they became her own.

She posed in the mirror, head back swooning gently, brushing the hair back from her forehead, her eyes sinking back through teenage and misty, through the smiling lines, through the frost on the mirror, hair tingling at the middle of her back. She fingered her small, neat breasts with their brown nipples. The dark hair beneath her belly peeked out above the half fastened zipper.

When the bump gets bigger will she still be able to see that?

She sighed. Her breasts sighed.

Like the African women from the magazines, now trapped forever behind her eyes, spent, sucked dry and desperate, disqualified from life.

Hopelessly drowning in mezuzah soup.

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Sinister Bedfellows: Anthology now available.

mckenzee — Sun, 19 Mar 2006 03:08:52 GMT

I have published a collection of short stories based on my webcomic, http://sinisterbedfellows.com.

It features stories by several other webcomic artists as well as mainstream authors.

It is available at http://www.lulu.com/content/237585

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Copyright management, licensing work

alter_ego — Fri, 17 Mar 2006 14:14:48 GMT

Hi, I just joined this tribe and read the founders note on the main page. If you are concerned about copyrights of your works, I suggest you take a look at Creative Commons licenses. Like all copyright declarations, it does not prevent people from stealing your work, but at least it protects your rights to manage your licenses. With a standard CC license, you license your text under your terms. It is up to you so share your text with viewers while protecting your writing from limits you put in place.

http://creativecommons.org/

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Library and beer.

asailboat — Wed, 22 Feb 2006 08:00:05 GMT

Library and beer.
I am in movement up the stairs of the U’s library steps 7 beers in my backpack. 4 in my gullet, one in my hand dressed as Arizona ice tea, the kind with the green wrapper disclosing anything on the interior. This is perfectly normal and not at all my fault. I am not an enrollee. I am not of the check out caste. And I must read Bukowski!
I decipher the dewy decimal system while driving my open container down my raspy and throat. There is a thick head due to improper pouring procedure in the parking lot. One dyslexia can wander with dewy for quite some time what with the letters and numbers and all. I am on the right path almost. The dual letters are correct and the numbers growing closer.

Can it not be helped that carbonation especially with big beer head results in the silent belch from time to time? Can this not just be overseen, call it courtesy by the masses at large? Why I do see the nostril of the tall man with knit vest and trousers expand wildly outside the realm of normal? I see this as he passes me. His muscles clank ridged. There is now some mysterious stick in his poop hole. He makes further steps in his venture then thinking he can no longer walk. “Some thing must be done, some act against this boy and his beer” This man composes this thought in a few still seconds. His brain is unhinging. Then he realizes that he has stopped, and it startles him. I amused continue the watch. His heads turns with all the grace of a rusted bolt to make my eyes then he rubber bands back into action. Out the glass doors he goes and towards the stairs. Then wait. His squirrel brain freezes. He holds his nuts in his throat and changes direction. To this it is clear he is to be the pansy nark.

Now please do not think me slovenly in these actions, I do have proper respect, I am after all in a place of literature. To show my class I cap and close the bottle when passers by do their task. I do have manners, I am an upstanding citizen. It is un-American as to read the good works of Charles Bukowski with out beer, wine, or whiskey, this would be disrespect to the author who died in 1994. I am not here to see to the turning of graves.

It is my imagination that he reached the information counter, and with peril proclaimed the injustice to this institution of learning. The woman with fat acknowledged his message of espionage and this sent her fully stocked brain cells a flutter. She is bumbling with the telephone and at the same time thanking this good Samaritan for his service to the community. He taps the table twice and is relieved by his tattle tale, but would he expect he remains a half cup jittery? He walks away rubbernecking for explosions or blood. “What a day- whew”.

This woman’s phone reaches 35 feet form her where in cubicle of position, a man the caliber of a green bean responds with quick action. The tele-commutations transpire: “OK fat Doris, first you lead in, figure out what isle he’s in… don’t stop, pass him as normal. Then turn and wait my instructions. OK?” “Okay Darren” click. The trap is set. Uncertain endorphins soar in the thick yellow chub and in long thin lank of our heroes as they enter the area where the criminal was last seen.

Though the spaces between books and shelves I am spotted before I spot her. It is my luck that merely my sight in the flesh causes Doris to freeze up. Darren should have known. She too is stopped in tense formation. Deep below butt flab is a small set of sit-muscles clenched in half step. Despite my non-army experience I react with tact I’ve learned from movies. I crouch down out of sight. To this the shark has moved into the dark waters and the swimmer Doris panics, my eyes can still see her. She turns around to retreat. Down low I have the upper hand. To this I take a victory swig. She is the deer in the headlights Darren must have urged her to continue so she turns and tip toe to pass me. I am ready.

With big wave and a roar “hello” teeth in friendly smile, she quickens her steps and continues along 6 rows away. To this my humor is pleased. Then the man I imagine his name to be Darren walks up to bat with cool and calm motion, yeah he’s ice. If it wouldn’t be against dress code he would be wearing dark glasses. Like ice in a drink he waits where she once stood. His cool doesn’t mix well with the hot flashes of fat Doris and steams there communications of hand signals. Nothing is clear. Her hands flap with fear and frustration. He is telling her where and how to go in attempt to corner me in. My grin is huge. This time I let the suds sink fast to the bottom of the bottle creating a noise that freezes Mr. Darren and his ears perk. As he starts the move in retaliation she follows suit. He comes toward my row and Doris fats down her row to head me off at the pass. This puts myself into motion staying low and I have just enough time behind the thick of the shelf to miss Darren as he passes and just miss Doris as she enters the long of the rows. I keep moving as they do and stop as they stop to see each other. Confusion in the mouse maze. How have they made it in the rat race? I could make the move for the exit, they would surely look for me there. So I head on the outside and pass in plain view of the man but he is transfixed in whisper to fat Doris. I stay at the end of my shelf with them on either side on the other side. The man walks down the long isle away from us Dorris heads my way. I scoot around with expert skill and like clockwork she is late for our lunch. I can tell by there torso there distraught when they again find each other. I can not keep form laughing but I do so in my coat sleeve. I decide in my drunken ego if I cant touch the back wall and back to the front doors with out being discovered then I shouldn’t be allowed to drink in the library ever again. So with this at stake the dance continues though gets slightly harder through the thicket of books what with the long isles the only way of advance. Others of few see me with inquiry on there eyes, to them I shake it off and keep moving. The near misses excite me. Dash when backs are turned and dart when they might be near. I reach the end and look into the pit, almost there. I move across the wide row and can see the doors at the far end. I run and touch the wall like a relay race. I am an Olympian. With my about face I see Darren looking to his right. I side step tight against the books missing the eyes of genius. I have finished my beer. As I pass I leave the bottle as a calling card. One patron sitting thinks me rude, I pause wanting to properly catch him up on the game and the points and the stakes, then he would route me on. But I don’t. I worry other would be good Samaritans may put the math together and join the ranks with Hitler. With zig zag and laser tag skills I duck and dive to the finish line, I push open the front doors and make the stairs. I imagine confetti of red white and blue photographers taking my finish. 4 stairs down I turn around to see in a small space the fat one lurking with caution upon every row, I reach in my bag and arrogantly extract another. On the steps I crack it and exit the champion.

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Plotting short fiction from character

Sat, 18 Feb 2006 00:45:00 GMT

This is an early draft of an essay I'm working on. Any sort of feedback is welcome. Thanks.

In the following essay I'll outline a simple method for plotting a basic short story from character. However, I have to preface this by stating that I'm an analytical writer type. This doesn't mean I don't occasionally write without a net, but for the most part I like the security of a fairly well planned path.

There are seven basic parts to this system. I'll go through each one and discuss what it means and how it relates to the overall story. I'll also use a simple story example to show how a work can be built from scratch. Also, keep in mind these are just guidelines for one particular way to write stories. However, it will help if you're familiar with some basic story writing and analysis terms. If I've mentioned a term or concept that isn't clear, please feel free to ask me about it. There are no stupid questions but those that go unasked.

Character - One of the prerequisites of this system is a predefined character. Now this community is called plotting fiction, not building characters, so I won't go into character building much here. There are plenty of good character building resources on the web. I will say though, that the longer the work the more detail you want planned into your character--or not, you'd be surprised what you learn while you write and plan. Here I'm plotting a rather short piece, maybe somewhere around six thousand words, so I'll stick with a rather simple character type. In fact, I'm going to go with something genre related so I'll select a detective. I don't want the stereotypical Sam Spade detective. I want someone who we wouldn't normally think of as a detective just to make it interesting. I'll make my detective a woman. She's in her late forties, Hispanic, divorced with two boys in their teens, devout catholic with a pretty conservative political outlook. Yeah, that's about as far from Sam Spade as I can get.

Character Spectrum - For this system we need to define a single overall character attitude. For longer works like a novel or screenplay you might want to explore a few overall character attitudes, but for this story I'm going to focus on one.

Now, what is the overall character attitude and how does this relate to the story and plotting? Most people describe others with adjectives. He's lazy or she's standoffish. These are subjective labels that generalize a person, yet we can use these separate sides of the same coin to help plot and build our story. If our character--we'll call her Maria for now--has an overall character attitude of self-assurance, than we can look at self-assurance and try to determine what the full character spectrum is. What are the two polar opposite sides of self-assurance using the positive subjective viewpoint and the negative subjective viewpoint? Well, Maria's enemies would probably describe her as arrogant or cocky. Her friends, or at least those who respect her, would probably call her confident or strong.

We as authors can use this spectrum to help guide our character. We'll punish her when she's cocky and we'll reward her when she's strong--but here's a little hint about story telling: we need to punish her far more than reward her, so Maria is going to come off a little cocky and arrogant to the reader. That's okay, because all that matters is that in the end we prove she's neither of these but is actually a confident and strong character.

Character Attributes/Inventory - Does it feel like we're doing a lot of character work and not much plotting? That's one of the beauties of this system. It couples plot and character closely. In this system, the plot should present itself from the character and what we should end up with should feel pretty organic, even though we've done a lot of preplanning and plotting. Believe it or not, we already have the beginning of the story, the ending of the story and most of the conflict that will make up the middle.

But first, let's talk a little more about Maria. Heck, this isn't just about Maria; this is about all of us. We want to talk about the things that are important to us--as humans. What are the things we cherish and what are the things we need? And I don't just mean the tired clichés and platitudes. Sure, we'd all like world piece and a balanced budget, but more importantly what are the things that we need that affect our everyday lives? How about family, how about time with our friends and the people we appreciate, how about our health and some financial security. Losing any of these things, or having these things threatened is something most of us would rather not face. Luckily, we have Maria here to face them for us. Poor Maria.

To summarize, what I want to do now is look at Maria's life to try and determine what is going to be the greatest loss for the size story I'm writing. I add the disclaimer 'for the size story I'm writing', because there are some subjects we just can't handle dramatically in a shorter work unless you're just really, really, really good--and I'm not saying you're not, it's just that… well, this essay is geared more for those learning than those doing. I'm sure that losing one of her sons in a drive by shooting would be an incredibly traumatic experience, but if I tried to handle that experience in a six thousand word short story it would just come off as melodramatic and maybe even laughable. So I don't want her experiencing desperate pain and anguish right now. We'll settle for worry and major discomfort.

I want to put together a list of things Maria can lose that we can handle in this story. I'm focusing on loss here, because that's one of the biggest negative emotions humans deal with. Drama is really pretty binary when you get down to it. In drama we the dramatists are striving to create a pattern of strong negative and positive emotions in our reader. Those who are masters learn how to weave these emotional patterns so that the emotions build into a very satisfying emotional catharsis and the story no longer seems like fiction but a memory experienced by the reader/audience. Loss will be the downhill portion of our emotional rollercoaster.

Does that seem limiting? It shouldn't. There are a lot of things Maria could lose. She's a detective. She could lose a case, a partner, a dangerous criminal she has captured could escape, she could lose respect from her associates, she could lose her gun while taking her boys to football practice, and she could lose her perspective, her cool or her nerve. She's a mother. She could lose the respect of her sons; means to provide for them, time with them, one of them could get hurt badly or get sick. She's a woman and might face many of the losses that face a woman working in a traditionally male dominated work environment like law enforcement. She might lose some of her culturally perceived femininity, opportunities, respect, security or camaraderie with other women.

As you can see, with a pretty simple character there are lots of areas to determine character loss. Before we make a selection, let's talk about another area and then revisit our character spectrum and show how we can tie everything together and start forming our story.

Because we are focusing on loss as our negative emotions, let's look at gain as our positive emotion. What could be some of the greatest gains for the size of this story? I won't go into too much detail, because I'm assuming you're a pretty smart cookie and can figure out that our brainstorming will just be the opposite of above. What are some of the gains in her career, with her boys, as a woman working in a male dominated work environment, etc.?

Are you starting to see a pattern? I've built a character and looked at her attitudes from the positive to the negative. I've looked at her life and have applied the negative losses and the positive gains. Now I want to combine some of these things to start building my plot. But first, I need to come up with an inciting incident.

The inciting incident is the divine spark that gets the story rolling. The inciting incident doesn't have to be tightly aligned with the character, but it's my opinion that it should be. In fact, the inciting incident should be some event in the character's life that directly challenges the character spectrum and introduces both the threat of loss and the possibility of opportunity into Maria's life.

More brainstorming. I want this to be a genre story. I think specifically a mystery. So I'm going to focus on the detective angle. However, as you can see from all the brainstorming above, this could very well be a literary story or I could focus more on the fact she's a divorcee and make this a romance. There are lots of possibilities here.

I'd like the inciting incident to originate from her arrogance somehow. In this case I'm going to say that she's so sure of herself she overlooks an important detail. Overlooking this detail is going to bring her a loss. Well, I like the fact she's a mom with two teenage sons, I'd like to work that angle into the story as more than just backstory so I'm going to work one of the sons into the story--I'll chose the youngest. We'll say his name is Chad right now and he's about fourteen. I like the earlier idea during brainstorming about a dangerous criminal she put away getting lose. A criminal coming back for revenge on the cop that put him away is a bit of a cliché, but maybe we can do enough different things with it to make it interesting. Maybe while the criminal was in jail instead of plotting revenge he actually fell madly and obsessively in love with Maria? Maybe he's a religious fanatic and a little bit crazy and decides that Maria's Catholicism is akin to devil worship and he must save her soul--no matter what the cost.

So here's our inciting incident: Maria, taking Chad to school in her detective's car (this isn't a squad car, but one of the normal unmarked police car types) stops in at the local convenience store to get coffee like she does every morning. She's been doing really well with the force lately and feels at the top of her game. Because of this she doesn't bother employing her normal police precautions and misses seeing what should have been a familiar figure faking a phone call outside the store. Confident that all is well she goes in to purchase her coffee. She walks out just in time to see her car pulling away with a familiar criminal holding a gun to her son's head as he drives away.

As an author it's my job to visit hardships upon a character. I do this with a punishment and reward matrix. Using what I've come up with from the character spectrum and the gain/loss brainstorming exercise I'm going to ask myself a few questions. Based on my character spectrum, I want to reward my character for being confident and strong; but I also want to punish her for being arrogant and cocky. I want these to tie together with some of the losses and gains I've brainstormed and see where the story takes me.

Premise - I have a starting inciting incident that derives from my character spectrum. I know what my character spectrum is. Now all I need to do is determine where I might be going.

Well, I know I want this to be a happy ending. It doesn't have to be, it could be a tragedy where Maria loses her son. That's the threat we hang over our character's head. Continue on your arrogant and cocky path and the boy dies. Go the path of strong and confident and you might get your son back unharmed. That's basically the choices we're putting out for Maria, only she doesn't know this yet. I'm going to say that for this story Maria comes through and gets Chad back, but it won't be easy and she'll need to sacrifice something to get him back. That's right, fictional characters never learn their lessons the easy way. Learning a lesson requires a sacrifice, and normally a pretty big one. Maria is going to have to trade something to get her boy back and it can't be something small.

Let's think again about some of the things Maria could lose in relation to her job. Respect of her associates is a good one. Her cool and perspective is a good one, as well as maybe losing her partner. But there's one big one I overlooked. She could lose her job. I think that's going to be Maria's big sacrifice. She's going to have to lose her job to get her son back.

So what is our basic premise? Overcoming arrogance leads to recovery. If this were the tragedy story where her son dies the premise would be, failure to overcome arrogance leads to loss.

Treatment - The treatment is nothing but brainstorming the pieces together until I come up with something workable that I can draft out. I might change a few things during the story writing process and a lot of the things I brainstormed may never come up in the final story, but that's okay.

Here's my basic idea for the story:

Inciting incident: Maria, taking Chad to school in her detective's car (this isn't a squad car, but one of the normal unmarked police car types) stops in at the local convenience store to get coffee like she does every morning. She's been doing really well with the force lately and feels at the top of her game. Because of this she doesn't bother employing her normal police precautions and misses seeing what should have been a familiar figure faking a phone call outside the store. Confident that all is well she goes in to purchase her coffee. She walks out just in time to see her car pulling away with a familiar criminal holding a gun to her son's head as he drives away. She contacts her partner and her chief; both go into quick action to try to apprehend the bad guy and get back her son. Her partner shows up--and even though it's not the appropriate time to do something like that, berates her for basically being so careless (loss of respect from associates). The chief informs her and her partner that they have people taking care of the situation--including the US Marshals because he is an escaped felon--and that she's to sit this one out. Her partner agrees with the chief because he knows she's to close to the situation to remain objective. However, Maria understands the criminal and knows his reasons for taking her son--he was a religious fanatic with some strange cult when she first apprehended him--and makes an opportunity so she can steal his car to apprehend the bad guy. She's told by the chief over the radio that if she continues she's going to lose her job--she ignores him, her kid is more important and she knows she can catch him (arrogance or confidence?) She arrives at the abandoned building the criminal once used for his "church" and finds her car parked around back and hidden amongst some trees. She calls in back up and is told to wait there--she ignores that order and pulls her pistol to go in (arrogance--we'll punish her a little). She manages to break in quietly, but of course it's a trap--she was expecting a trap, but wasn't expecting the criminal to have tow of his followers there waiting. She is captured and loses her gun, but she is reunited with her son who looks a little beaten but relatively safe. As the bad guy in monologuing about his religion she has the opportunity to go for her gun, but decides to do things differently--she knows the others are on their way so she distracts him by telling him she is willing to convert. He doesn't by this at first, but when she swears she will denounce her faith for his (loss of her religion--but God will probably understand) he begins to prepare for her conversion. During his preparation she calls upon her old policing skills to get her and her son free from their bindings and instead of attempting to apprehend all the bad guys like she wants to do, she gets out of the building safe with her son. They escape on foot and meet the approaching police on the road. In the end she doesn't get her job back--that sort of thing only happens in movies--but she has her son and her priorities have changed a little because of the experience.

Drafting - Now this isn't the best story. In fact, it's got some pretty standard crime story clichés, but if I spent some time on it I could probably find some new angles and maybe extract a few higher prices from her. All of that can be worked out while drafting the story. The important thing is we have a good framework based on character that could probably turn into a publishable short story or screenplay.

In closing - basically, use opposites to help you build story. Characters have built in opposites in their personalities, conflicts have opposites, events and states of being have opposites. All of these can be tools you can use to plot a story.

Now, get to writing!

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would you like to have a try?

culturalman — Thu, 09 Feb 2006 08:27:59 GMT

I made a group: "American English", I want to put an introduction article and an introduction poem there. Any 1 can have a try, please reply the invitation I posted in my group. I 'll let my group members to vote and decide which one is the most suitble. thank you very much indeed! you can refer to my introduction writing, of course that is not good.^_^

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 1 reply

Plot Hinge Serials launch

Josh — Wed, 08 Feb 2006 23:50:23 GMT

Hi everyone,

I would like to announce the launch of my new serial novel project called "Murkworld".

Each week a new chapter will be made available for free at www.plothinge.com and in libraries and schools across Canada. The end of each installment ends with the following week's chapter being able to proceed in one of two directions. An upcoming real-world event is given and the possible outcomes of that event are assigned to the two possible plot directions.

For example, at the end of a chapter, Captain Cogs is trying to outrun a fleet of Navy ships. A real-life event that is scheduled to occur during the following week is then selected, like the outcome of a political election. The reader is then informed that if Candidate A wins the election the following week, then Cogs will successfully outrun the soldiers and escape from their clutches. If Candidate B wins however, Cogs will find himself at the mercy of the military and sentenced to walk the plank!

The following week’s chapter will then unfold based on which Candidate wins. It’s an exciting formula that blends fact with fiction in a very unique way!

You are cordially invited to visit www.plothinge.com for more information and to join this fun and exciting storytelling adventure!

Thanks
Josh

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 2 replies

Spiderwords.com

ardensdad — Thu, 02 Feb 2006 13:05:07 GMT

I invited Rain to join and promote her site here. In fact, I think I told her to go ahead and post her listing info right here in the topics section because I never mind seeing publishers and editors post their needs in our tribes main area...their needs are our writers' dreams and our readers' hopes...or something like that. :)

Being a good tribester, she adhered to the standard Tribe rules of conduct and listed the info in the 'proper' place, so I wanted to be sure and plug them with a pointer here. The listing promotes the website. I have perused its offerings and enjoyed what I read. If anything in the listing caught your attention (for me, it was spiders...a subconcious fear), I recommend you give it a look. I found the time spent was well rewarded. The poetry was excellent...especially "The Day the Saucers Came" by Neil Gaiman...I loved that!

There are submission guidelines on the site for poets and artists/photographers alike. No one is getting rich, but that better not be your goal in this craft anyway, methinks. Check it out! The links are in her listing to Spiderwords and several other publications I have not had a chance to review. I'll make you go to the listing page and click on her listing to find her site and the others, or just to find out more...

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

The Fetters of Time

TimX — Wed, 02 Nov 2005 16:17:37 GMT

Chapter I: Ufidia's Fang

The wind cast loose snow from off the jutting peaks of the southern mountain range and Kall Draad's amber-hued eyes took it in with a glance as he moved upward, ever upward. The cursed warrior worked slowly across the vast mountain, just a speck of black amongst so much slate and shadow, seeking solitude and respite from the world of men and death. The early afternoon sun shone vibrantly in the clear blue sky and warmed the doomed warrior when he was in its sight, but refused him its warmth when he moved into the shadows. His hands were red and chafed, very near bleeding from hanging onto the rock of the mountain so tightly. With every meter he moved upward the fierce winds threatened to pluck him from the mountain-face and cast him to his death among the rocks below. The voice of the wind taunted him, singing through the peaks; its fingers tugged at his long dark hair and pulled at his furred cuirass like a playful and jealous lover. It froze and numbed his fingers, which was both a blessing and a curse, for he couldn't feel the pain and grit of skin against stone, but he was never sure if his next handhold would be his last.

To take his mind off of his pain Kall kept his gaze upon the goal; the summit of the southernmost mountain, the looming peak of the range known as Ufidia's Fangs. According to legend the great snake, Ufidia Vortwurm, coiled through the wastes of the Before-World devouring and destroying all in its path, filling up all of the blackness with its great expanding bulk. Until the spinning, laughing gods took notice. The gods attempted to get Ufidia to rest, to calm its constant twisting hunger, its wanton destruction, but Ufidia was not convinced. Ufidia was from before the gods, from before time, so what had it to fear from these tiny lights, these new ideas? But the gods do not brook disobedience, and they showed the great snake that the strength of illumination, the power of ideas, is all a matter of perspective; and the universe is but a glimmer in their sidereal dreams. They slew Ufidia Vortwurm and spun his carcass into the Urth-World. From its dead body millions of tiny snakes twisted out and the gods plucked each and every one of them up and saved them in as many jars; these would become humans when the gods decided to play that game. Ufidia Vortwurm became Ufidia Wattwurm, his corpse became the world of mankind and his children contributed to the stuff that is man. His maw, his poisoned mouth, became the southern mountain range. It is said by those squat dark men that live at the base of the mountain that in the ancient-world Ufidia's Fangs, specifically the twin tallest peaks to the north and south, would spit poison fire into the sky. Black smoke would roil out from those twin teeth and would try to block out the sight of the gods. To no avail, however, for the gods would always reward mankind with a prosperous growing season after each of Ufidia's fits. This must have been a very long time ago, mused Kall as he rested upon a narrow shelf that shielded him from both wind and sun alike, for the basin at the foot of the mountains had been nothing but a hardpan extension of the range for as long as the dwellers down there could recall.

Kall shifted his weight, jogging the two blades that were strapped to his right hip just enough to allow him to peer out from the wall of the shelf. His eyes, like a hawk's eyes, locked onto the peak of the southern mountain and he allowed himself to dream of the solitude that awaited him up there. Thinking of damned Ufidia just reminded him of his own doom, his own curse that had been handed down from the gods. He looked at his hands, now bloody hands from the climb, hands that were comfortable with the touch of blood. Both his own, and the blood of others. Kall tried to push all thoughts of Thanatus, the Death Star, the Grey King, from his mind but all attempts just brought that god of death closer. Kall Draad, the thrall of Thanatus, Death's hand. He wished that he was strong enough to throw himself from the mountain, but he knew that the Black Star would never accept him into his kingdom of the dead. Thanatus would not reunite the doomed warrior with his thrice doomed sister until Kall's service to the death god was through. A sister that was damned by Kall's own hand. As Kall knew that he could not kill himself, he also knew that his servitude to the dark god was not yet over. While Kall could not end his own life, Thanatus could not stop Kall from retreating from the world of man. Rereating to the solitary confinement at the tip of Ufidia's southern fang. Kall took a sliver of mushroom from his well-worn journey bag and nibbled on it as he stood and swung back out onto the mountain to resume his climb. The peak was less than a day away and he feared that if he was not atop it by nightfall, the pain of freezing would be the next sensation he'd have to endure.

The sun was beginning to retreat behind the jagged peaks as Kall finally reached the upper heights of Ufidia's fang. His breath was strained in his chest due to the thin atmosphere. His once mighty exhale was now no more than a raspy whistle. He had torn strips of blood soaked cloth and wrapped them around his hands; they would heal. They would heal in peace, the warrior thought as solitude, like a cloak descended upon him with the fall of sunlight.

The clear night stared him in the wind chapped face as his frozen hands half-gripped the snow covered rocks of the peak. With one last heave Kall drew himself over and off the face of the mountain and onto the sloping plateau of its apex. He let his ragged breath come to him slowly. He allowed the numbness of his hands and feet and face to become outright pain. He wanted to feel something, something that was his; his own pain. He couldn't sleep but he did drift off, trance-like, into a state of near restfulness. His body and mind needed to recharge. He would need strength, he would need to start a fire, to eat, and perhaps even try to find shelter for the night. His trance-dreams consisted of the things he would need to survive up here; hunting those rare mountain dwelling creatures, harvesting the few herbs and fruits hardy enough to grow in this altitude, finding a cave or constructing a shelter that would be large enough to accommodate and warm him on those freezing god strewn nights. Finally, loneliness. Finally, freedom. These were his last wistfully drifting dream-thoughts; the last ephemeral notions that occurred before he heard the sound of the bells. The clanging obscenity of bells ringing out over the mountaintop.

And with a start Kall opened his eyes.

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 2 replies

Thread Directory

ardensdad — Sun, 25 Apr 2004 07:01:39 GMT

I am listing the titles of several topical threads as a guide to those who want to know where they should post or seek to find certain things. You may have to click the "View all ##>>" link or "Discussion Board" link to see all the topics or read their titles in full.

It is not a mandatory guide. Feel free to create your own threads. It is mainly intended to reduce clutter and make certain types of posts easier to find as the membership grows.

I may copy and paste posts from elsewhere in the tribe to the appropriate threads so those using them will find what they are looking for. Generally, though, I will not cut the original post or thread (after the paste) unless it was one of my own or from an unsubscribed member. If you wish to move one of your own posts into a topical thread, just copy and paste it, and if you wish to delete the original, do so or let me know I can.

DIRECTORY OF THREADS:

new to the tribe: This is the title of the thread where those new to The Short Story Club can introduce themselves to the membership if they wish, or those who have been lurking all along can finally step forward and announce their presence.

Recommended Short Stories: This thread is where I consolidated the posts that I and unsubscribed members have made previously to recommend and discuss various individual Short Stories. There are still separate threads by other members doing the same thing, and that is fine. Such posts are easiest to recognize when the title (and/or author)of the story is the title of the thread. I encourage people to post recommendations in either way...separately or as part of this thread (or both) as their are merits to doing it either way.

Audio Shorts: This thread is for links to recordings of short stories, websites where such recording can be found or recommendation and discussion of audio versions of shorts or anthologies on tape.

Open Call for Writers to Contribute to Anthology: This is where publishers of both web and paper publications are welcome to publish their 'want ads', deadlines and guidelines for short story submissions. We have already had three such solicitations, and all are still open for submission.

Tribes on Reading\Writing: This is for links to other tribes that are concerned with reading and/or writing. I belong to all the ones I have recommended, and I post them here as a courtesy for our members and as a courtesy to those tribes where I list announcements to solicit new members.

Our Members' Short Stories: A thread for our members to post their own short or short-short works of fiction. As I write this I am working with one member to edit a piece for publication here. I may eventually publish some of my own work here as well. If you wish to publish yours here, you may simply post it, or submit it to me if you wish it to be edited. There is no compensation for publication here, and you are repsonsible for your own intellectual property rights and publication of your Copyright notice.

Short Story Collections: This thread is for recommendation, discussion and critique of existing or upcoming short story anthologies.

Good Magazines for Fiction: This thread is for recommendation, discussion and critique of titles of publications, generally magazines, where good short fiction may be found. If posting the title of such works, please include as much contact and subscription info as you can, icluding any website info you may have.

Websites w/short stories... : This thread is for info on websites featuring short fiction. We are fortunate to have as a member David Johnston, publisher of WiredFiction.com. He has offered all our members and visitors a free perk...free access to his website. You can find out how to access it and others by checking this thread out. Feel free to post info on other good websites out there to this thread also.

Submitting Short Stories?: This thread, started by Danny, is a good place to refer questions on getting published.

What short story or collection are you reading now? : Not necessarily a recommendation, since these are readings in progress. Just a mention or an impression of something you are reading now, or reading next. Alternatively, feel free to mention what you read last, and what you thought of it.

Thread Directory: this thread of course, a sort of table of contents or index.

So far these are the topical threads besides those about specific stories or authors. I will post information on any additional topical threads as they are created.

I hope this is of some assistance to our membership. We have had a lot of luck growing in a short period of time. I am sometimes surprised our members are so quiet. I know if you are here to take advantage of the insights of others, you probably have good insights of your own to share. One reason I had to go out and start a 'membership drive' is because we are not getting a lot of posts, and recentl our membership began to shrink. When I try to understand why, I have to believe it was because those who left did not find the tribe was meeting their needs. We need your posts even if it is just one post to one thread. If every member did that, it would make the experience better for the whole tribe.

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 7 replies

Tribes on Reading\Writing & Publishing\Illustrating

ardensdad — Mon, 31 May 2004 16:21:47 GMT

This is the thread for links to other tribes on reading, writing, publishing, editing, or illustrating short fiction or working with the forms of media where these things happen.

I was pleased with the results of my recent membership drive. Most of those listings have expired and I am about to make new listings. There will be many more because the new "linked tribes" feature has helped me discover many more related tribes.

Because I wanted to tidy up & retitle the former "Tribes on Reading/Writing" thread (and with one exception, all its posts were mine), I will delete it and repost it here, gathering links to other tribes in one post again.

These are mostly all tribes I belong and contribute to or plan to contribute to. Regardless, as a courtesy to them for allowing my listings, I post links to them here to reciprocate the exposure they give us. Those without public URLs listed in their tribes are named and indicated as such. You will have to search for them with the search engine.

I will also repost other members’ previous posts to this thread via quotation. This may happen again in the future with this thread, so be forewarned if you post here. Other posting guidelines for this thread appear below the links.

Here are the other tribes I have found which you might find of interest, based on them being related in some way to short stories or publishing:

___ SciFi ___ http://scifi.tribe.net

A S I M O V http://asimov.tribe.net

AnneJet http://annejet.tribe.net

Bibliophiles Unite http://bibliophilesunite.tribe.net

Bibliotheca http://biblio.tribe.net

Bladerunner http://bladerunner.tribe.net

Book Club http://bookworm.tribe.net

Book Lovers http://booklovers.tribe.net

BookCrossing http://bookcrossing.tribe.net

Bookworms http://bookworms.tribe.net

BROKEN WRIST PROJECT http://brokenwristproject.tribe.net

Bruce Sterling Fans http://brucesterlingfans.tribe.net

CLASSIC HORROR http://classichorror.tribe.net

CREATIVE WRITING http://CreativeWriting.tribe.net

Creative Writing Critique http://sexyhamster.tribe.net

Cthuligans http://strangeaeons.tribe.net

experimental writing http://expwriting.tribe.net

Fantasy Art http://fantasyart.tribe.net

fantasybooks http://fantasybooks.tribe.net

Free Write http://freewrite.tribe.net

GRAPHIC NOVELS http://graphicnovels.tribe.net

Historic Fiction http://historicfiction.tribe.net

I just finished reading... http://ijustfinishedreading.tribe.net

It Was A Dark And Stormy Night http://InteractiveNovel.tribe.net

Journalists http://worldjournalists.tribe.net

Literacy Nerds http://literacynerds.tribe.net

Non-Fiction Writers http://desperatetimes.tribe.net

Orson Scott Card http://orsonscottcard.tribe.net

Pkd (no public URL listed)

Rare Books http://rarebooks.tribe.net

Screenwriters' Cabal http://screenwriters.tribe.net

Self-publishers unite! (no public URL)

SF Book Swap http://sfbookswap.tribe.net

Sherlock Holmes http://sherlockholmes.tribe.net

Short Story Portal http://shortstories.tribe.net

Spoken Word Written http://spokenword.tribe.net

Synergistic Stories http://SynergisticStories.tribe.net

Terror Tribe http://horrorfan.tribe.net

Transgressive Literature http://transgressivelit.tribe.net

True Chicago Ghost Stories (no public URL)

Twilight Zone http://twilightzone.tribe.net

Underground Words http://undergroundwords.tribe.net

World of Darkness http://wod.tribe.net

Writer's Block http://writersblock.tribe.net

Writers in Despair (no public URL)

Writers out there? http://WRITERLYWAYS.tribe.net

Writing Fiction http://writingfiction.tribe.net

Zombie Entertainment (No public URL)

The only other previous post was from Eli the Bearded who posted:

“April 28, 2004 - 01:14 PM
Re: Tribes on Reading\Writing

There are several related to erotica, none of which you have. See the "other tribes" list for my alt.sex.stories text repository tribe:

http://asstr.tribe.net/

"

All that’s left for this posting is the following guidelines for promoting tribes here:

As a general rule, if you wish to recruit members for a tribe related to reading, writing or in some other fairly specific way related to the topics covered by this tribe, feel free to post such here and/or in our listings board.

I do ask, however, that solicitations and/or announcements of tribes which are not in some way related to our tribe's broadly ranging topics of interest (reading, writing, publishing, editing, or illustrating short fiction or working with the forms of media where these things happen) be limited to announcements on our listing board, not the discussion board.

The main reason is the listing board is more specifically for the purpose of solicitations than the discussion threads. I originally thought they did not go out in the digests, but have been proven wrong about that. I have no problem with listings related or unrelated to the topics of the tribe (within reason) appearing in the listing section, but prefer only related ones in appear in the discussion threads.

As always, I encourage discussion board posts to existing threads and creation of new ones that are related to the aforementioned topics at hand.

Thank you for your patience, understanding, and cooperation.

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 1 reply

New Science Fiction & Fantasy PodCast Market

Thu, 26 Jan 2006 16:51:31 GMT

http://www.mechmuse.com/submissions.html

They have an interesting payment system. I'd like to see how it works out.

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 1 reply

Assignment: Publishers guide

ardensdad — Wed, 25 Jan 2006 16:47:39 GMT

If anyone is feeling a burning need to contribute something to the tribe...there are a lot of posts and listings that have been made since we started the tribe that include calls for submissions and links to websites featuring fiction (which generally have guidelines for submission on the site). Several of our members are actually publishers or editors.

I think it would be great to go back, check on the sites to be sure they are still in operation, and compile a list of them, along with a mention of the original contributor (perhaps including a copy of a permalink to their profile) and any info they may have posted regarding needs, etc. This is something I hope to eventually do myself, but I am far too busy currently to undertake it, and likely wont get a break for several months. If anyone else would care to do this, feel free, it would be greatly appreciated by me, and likely others here.

If there are takers, dont bother posting that you will (though you may feel free to message me about it), just go ahead and do it. If you post that you will, someone else who might have a different take on how to present the info might not bother, and I think there is no harm in having multiple presentations of the info...one might do it as a thread post, another as a webpage with a link, another as a blog entry...each might have some excellent quality the other doesnt, and taken together I (and anyone else) can learn some things about how it might be best done in the future when there is even more of the info to catalog.

I look forward to seeing if anyone comes up with anything, but if not, I probably will get around to it late summer or fall. This is strictly a volunteer assignment, but I will certainly remember the efforts of anyone who contributes. Thanks! The Moderator...Michael

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

Short stories in songs...

ardensdad — Mon, 23 Jan 2006 19:06:45 GMT

Just a twist to liven things up a bit. I was listening to one of my favorite short shorts ever in a song just now and realized this is a topic that would make a good thread for others to add their own favorite stories in song to with potentially minimal work.

Here is a link to the lyrics of one of my favorite short short stories ever in a song..."The Queen and the Soldier" by Suzanne Vega.

The link is to her official website and takes you right to the lyrics of the song: http://www.suzannevega.com/lyrics/svlyr.htm#queen

This song is also available on MusicMatch if you want to hear it. Either way, check out the words, and if you can post a link to your own favorite story in the form of lyrics or song, lets see it/hear it. I would have posted the lyrics themselves, but do not want to violate copyright laws (and doubt she would write me with permission), so please, be careful yourself in adding to this thread that you dont do that either...

If you cant provide a link, just tell us the name of the song, who does it and where we can find it if you can...also, I believe short quotes are considered fair use if you wish to excerpt while recommending/reviewing...

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 1 reply

Submit: VIAL Magazine / Poison and Venom issue

syrai — Mon, 23 Jan 2006 04:51:56 GMT

Seeking submissions:

For the impending issue of VIAL, the themes are POISON and VENOM,
and are, as ever, open to interpretation, via word or image.

Dreams and nightmares continue to be accepted, with the usual parameters, as noted below.

You are not limited to these themes and veins, though the following specifics remain:

Deadline: Open until further notice.
Wordcount: 1,000 words maximum
Images: Grayscale, no less than 300 dpi
Send to: omen@disinfo.net, or the address below.

To Submit:
VIAL seeks work that is experimental, irregular, and evocative.

Scribes:
Nonfiction dreams and nightmares are accepted for each issue.
Dreams that are excessively redundant or confused will not be accepted.

Visual artists:
Images may be emailed or sent via disk or hardcopy to the address below.
Images must be grayscale and have a resolution of no less than 300 dpi.

Musicians:
This is not a forum for reviews.
A dream or other form of artwork/wordsmithery must accompany your cd.

Know that if you have difficulties grasping the rules of English grammar, I am going to revise your writing.
Please do not send originals or anything that needs to be returned.
Always include contact information with anything submitted.

http://www.vialmagazine.com

VIAL
Box 225124
San Francisco, CA.
94122.5124
u.s.a.

omen@disinfo.net

Send a message to the above to be added to the mailing list.

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

Latest publication

Fri, 20 Jan 2006 17:55:00 GMT

Hi, just wanted to mention my latest publication, A Clockwork Break. You can read this flash fiction (it won't take you long) at http://www.abyssandapex.com/

Thanks, I hope you enjoy it.

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 4 replies

Publishing Here Safely (Mark Time, Mark)

ardensdad — Wed, 18 Jan 2006 18:14:24 GMT

I recently removed my own stories from this tribe because of the new TOU which grants Tribe perpetual license to material appearing in tribes threads (See 'Ack...the TOU Reaper is coming!' below).

I have been told we are safe from that license if we publish our stories in our blogs and only post links to them in the tribe thread. Whatever. So I have done that with "Mark Time, Mark" which now appears in my blog. I dont honestly know how to find the link to post it, but I think if you click on my name you will go to my profile, and the blog should appear near the bottom of the page. I have called it my blog "The Safe Zone", and it is where I will post all my fiction from now on (or any other significant, possibly saleable or misuseable rant).

Thanks! Its not new, if you read it before. If not, feel free to leave comments in either this thread or in the blog itself.

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 1 reply

New Interface issues (listings)

ardensdad — Fri, 20 Jan 2006 01:12:06 GMT

Because the new interface blends listings, reviews, etc. and our topical threads together on the main page of the tribe, I am joining other moderators in screening listings for appropriateness to the tribe's topic. I will delete listings, recommendations, and reviews unrelated to the tribe's central topic.

So, no more listings, recommendations, etc. about things completely off topic, please. As long as this new interface makes the main page of our tribe a mish-mash I will do this to avoid cluttering the main body of relevant threads with irrelevant, off-topic postings. I hate to do it because Tribe has enough 'censorship' already, but the new interface has forced my editorial hand.

My apologies to loyal members who were able to make positive use of those features before, but since they merged (why?) those features with the main threads, some topical restraint and discretion needs to be exercised from now on.

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

Future Fighting With The Past

Christine — Tue, 29 Nov 2005 16:33:06 GMT

Tonight I have realized one thing... you can’t trust the past.

I sit alone with my back against a tree and just stare off into space. The night is extremely dark tonight so the stars shine brightly. I take my knife, and hold it to my wrist. I put pressure on it, and watch small blood droplets begin to form under the blade. I want so badly to drag it deeply across my skin and just wait for my life to slowly drain out of my body.

I have been hurt today. Once again had a finger pointed at me for a problem that is not mine. The blame has been put on my shoulders and for what? He says he loves me, yet when she tells him things, lies, he always believes her. Because the past can’t stay in the past. A breakup and the start of a new relationship. It figures, you cant bring your past and future together. It will never work out. Attempts were made yet I was still the one in the end to be brought into the interrogation light. Things were said that were not true but unfortunately the past holds more cards than the future does.

A cold wind blows through out the trees and I shudder. I close my eyes and think of people I love. I think of people that I want to live for, but all I see is how I have been hurt. The feeling of wanting to cry comes over me, but I wont let a tear fall. You will not win.

Before I knew it clouds had formed over my head. The blackness they bring by blocking out the stars and moon is something I have been use to for a long time. Lightning strikes in the distance followed by a loud boom of thunder. I breathe in the wet air and wait for that first drop to come soaring down from the sky. Is this life? Is this the way it always must be? I stand up and start to walk away from my spot under the tree. Lightning strikes again and that was when it began.

Drops flew down from the sky and covered the earth. My body was drenched in minutes by the huge drops, and the blood on my wrist washed away. I began to cry. Who cares now? Who is there to live for? No matter what I say or do it’s wrong so why try? I want to live and be happy, but I see now that it is only a fairy tale. He has shown me that tonight. Happiness is only something you read about in books or see on television. It’s something you can only close your eyes and imagine because you know you will never have it.

I lost something today that I had been hanging onto for a long time. She came up out of the past and took him away. She was nothing but a thing of the past and I was his future. I can not continue to be at war with her. I can no longer be a future fighting with the past.

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 1 reply

The Kinetic Kid Blues - Part 1

KurtChristenson — Thu, 27 Oct 2005 06:44:42 GMT

"He's robbing the world of its magic!", the protester cried out, one sunny morning outside the McAllister building. "Don't believe his lies!"

I took a few seconds to gawk before unfolding my trusty spiral notebook from my back pocket. I jotted down, 'There's never a dull moment in this city of improbable possibilities', before zipping on down FortySecond Street in a blur.

I hit my last few deliveries and blew by the main office. I needed some cash and the bossman owed me big time. I looked over the cover story on the Post as I sat patiently for my pay to be scrounged together.

The headline read: 'MILLIONAIRE MASTER OF MACHINES' and showed the slick image of Jordan McAllister unveiling his newest gizmo. Some useless wad of tech that could do everything from capturing audio and video to doing your taxes. Sure, it'd be nice to store every song I've ever heard into the same device that I make my monthly phone call to my mom with, but there should be some limit to these things.

I was interrupted mid-ponder by the slapping of bills into my palm.

"This should make us square kid. By the way, nice rush job on that McAllister drop off this afternoon. Not sure how you did forty blocks in fifteen minutes, but I admire that hustle Chuck."

Joe Medley was the kind of boss people would follow into battle. A square jawed hombre hardened by a lifetime in the delivery business. If he would just shave that ridiculous moustache.

I step outside and the thunder begins to pound on the grey skies above. An ominous smearing of the day's blue enormity. I slid on my glasses, retied my bandana and adjusted my cap before leaping off into the swirlling cityscape.

A gentle flip off of a ledge and a swift pounce from a nearby flagpole and I was sent gliding along the metro-magnetic pulse. My mind caught hold as I soared through the streets, surfing the city's invisible veins faster than any pedestrian's eyes could follow. But not faster than hers.

Helena, or Ms. Mercury as she refers to herself these days, came floating by as if I were swimming in slo-motion. Her faux innocence seeped from her sly stare.

"Hey Charles." That damn slight curling up at the corner of her mouth.

"Hey Helena."

"Did you forget about tonight?"

"Not yet. I'd remember open bar."

"We have to see the exhibit this time. And try not to throw up on the V train again."

"I'm not making any promises...are they going to have the little sandwiches this time?"

"I'm not sure sweetie. Gotta run. See you at 7!" and with that, in a blink of an eye, she kisses my cheek and dissappears down 23rd St.

I'm not sure if it's jealousy but I liked it better when she didn't have superpowers.

We met outside the museum that night at 7:10. It's hard to believe any respectable superhero can make it on time to date, let alone two of them. We walked the exhibit arm in arm, and headed out for a drink.

"It's great the things you can get free.", I shouted over the music at the lush Midtown bar. Some company or another had sent her a card for two complimentary drinks. Her sliver sandals shone brilliantly in the blurred cityscape light as it danced among the flapping of her black skirt. Her earrings sparkled as we blazed across town.

Afterwards we zipped over to Jersey City where my friend's band were playing at a local bar. The sound rocked our internal organs and the cheap booze made us stumbly, so we decided to hoof it home like regular folk and leave the superpowers out of it for a night.

The wait for the train is usually a panic inducing, claustrophobic, nightmare of a wait for one with speedy powers such as mine. But tonight I hardly noticed the thirty-nine minutes it took to finally come. We were finally Manhattan bound, when, after a few sloppy kisses and through slurred speech, she presented me with a gift.

"It's an iWorld." She smiled up at me expectantly. My confused look elicited a further explanation.

"It's the cell phone, instant messager, mp3 player with GPS and a digital camera that also records video and audio."

That druken haze in her eyes didn't match the tone of her voice. Suddenly, when discussing this gadget, a company salesman had taken control of my girlfriend.

"Thanks baby." Something felt off, but I accepted the gift. I hugged my appreciation as we fumbled to the side nearly falling from our seats as the train screeched to a halt.

As I activated the camera function on my new toy, I turned and snapped a picture of her as we ascended the subway stairs. The LCD screen caught the dramatic lighting of the moon as we stepped outside, illuminating her hair, draped alongside an inebriated smirk.

As the days passed I tinkered with my new gizmo. Seems it truly does it all, which kicked in my suspicious nature. If this thing catches on like McAllister's numerous other expensive junk, available worldwide, then everyone will be capturing everything everywhere. Recording life around them and going back to it later to confirm it. Rather than just live our lives, we'd all just be directing a slideshow of images complete with soundtrack and then emailed off to family and friends. Isolated in our heads, viewing the world instead of interacting with it. Television is only the beginning.

My head started to pound and my nose began to bleed. "Whoa, I gotta remember to watch the crazy talk.", I said to myself.

The following saturday Helena and I danced through the ballroom they call New York, spinning and leaping as we soared along with the city night frozen in an instant below us. I spun her out, but as she pounced from a traffic light, I saw a misstep. She began to arc too far as she twirled about like a whirling dervish, spinning wildly towards a display window. Instincts drove my body forward, letting my mind figure out the plan for itself.

Two kicks had launched me towards the light post, and pausing horizontally for just a millisecond, I supercharged my next leap. I rocketed across the street, rotated as I skimmed across the hood of a taxi, and ricocheted off a mailbox, just catching her in my arms as she swooned and fainted. My feet grinded to a halt on the pavement, and instantly time popped all around me as my sneakers exploded into shrapnel.

"What's happened to you Helena?" I cradled her in my arms as we glided home across the Williamsburg Bridge.

She didn't wake until she was tucked in her bed. I applied the cold compress to her forehead and smiled down at her. She smiled back but it felt sad somehow.

"How you doing kiddo?" I held her hand.

"I'm fine. I just need some waffles..." she hoarsely whispered. "And OJ, and toast..."

I kissed her hand as she drifted to sleep. I went to look for my iWorld to see what I could do. Once I found it, I couldn't imagine who to call, who would know how to help a sick superhero. She tossed and turned the whole night and despite her wishes, I decided to bring her to the emergency room.

On the run there, she looked up at me with hopeless eyes. I never felt so useless. The doctors took her from me and told me not to worry and to get some rest. I couldn't sleep so I paced around the neighborhood, then jogged around the city and eventually ran the entire state. This wasn't something I could outrun.

I grabbed a coffee at a rest stop somewhere in Pennsylvania. The caffeine wore off somewhere in Ohio and I slept on the benches in the lounge for an hour of two. I popped a caffeine pill and made it to Lake Michigan as the sun rose up behind me.

My mind began to decompress as the tension drained from my body. Why was I running? What had happened to Helena? Why did I feel such overwhelming guilt? I took out my iWorld and began recording. I went over the details I could remember. Seemed as if I was stuck in a high gear for the past week. Oddly enough I wasn't able to produce many memories since that delivery to the McAllister building...

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 2 replies

any of you familiar with charles d'ambrosio?

Wed, 02 Nov 2005 16:00:29 GMT

he's written a number of essays and shortstories, both award winning. just curious if he's on your radar.

jef

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 1 reply

"EMERGING WOMAN" & "Voodoo Fairy Tales"

Melinda/ — Thu, 08 Dec 2005 16:03:25 GMT

Below I have listed two great spoken word events for December.
-----------------------------------------
The Perpetual Motion Roadshow - "Voodoo Fairy Tales"
Tuesday night, December 13th - 7:30pm
Modern Times Bookstore
888 Valencia Street, San Francisco
http://www.moderntimesbookstore.com

The Perpetual Motion Roadshow is an indie press touring circuit, an unholy combination of a vaudevillian variety show and a punk rock tour. Each month, three new lively indie performers pile in a car and do seven cities in eight days, doing shows with the bold guarantee: NO BORING READINGS OR YOUR MONEY BACK! Transnational, it loops the northeast May-October and makes runs down the west coast during November-April. Founded by No Media Kings, we've been making our own fun since 2003 -- running on pure volunteer power and dirty dirty gasoline. More info at http://perpetualmotionroadshow.com

In December the San Francisco show will having touring writers:

Jordan Fry lives in Niagara Falls ON, travels to Ottawa ON regularly, and
practices voodoo in St. Catharines ON. he has been known to publish his
own writings as well as the writings of other writers. he enjoys hot sex
on winter afternoons and smoking cigars by candlelight. you can contact
him through http://www.greyborders.com

Bret Fetzer's macabre fairy tales have been described as having "a vicious
but enchanting whimsy" and "the wayward inevitability of 'real' folk
tales...firmly rooted in the dark, rich mulch of myth" (Seattle Weekly).
His collections 'Petals & Thorns' and 'Tooth & Tongue' are available
through <http://www.pistilbooks.com>. Fetzer's storytelling matches his stories, "telling odd fairy tales with such intrigue that his hour on the stage seems to vanish in an instant" (The Stranger). His plays have been
produced by alternative theaters around the country.

Brendan McLeod is the winner of the 2004 National Individual Finals at the
Canadian SpokenWordlympics, awarded to the to SLAM poet in Canada. He is
Vancouver's 2005 Grand SLAM poetry champion, and finished second in the
world at Holland's World SLAM championships. His recent readings include
the Dylan Thomas Festival, Swansea, UK, the Canadian Festival of Spoken
Word, and the Rotterdam International Poetry Festival.

And local favorites:

Lori Selke is a writer and editor about town. Her work has appeared
recently in Homewrecker, Stirring Up A Storm, Glamour Girls, and
Everything You Know About Sex is Wrong.

Charlie Anders is the author of Choir Boy (Soft Skull Press 2005). She only, knows one breakdancing move, but she does it all the time.

Bay Area nonprofit worker and journalist Josh Wilson will read a short excerpt from his social-science fiction novel 'The Separation,' that tells of how the future is no refuge from the past.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

EMERGING WOMAN
A spoken word event with a look into what it takes to be a woman these days.
December 16th -Doors - 7PM and show - 7:30PM- 9:30PM
Make Out Room - 3225 22nd Street, San Francisco
$5- $15 - all proceeds to benefit the Women on Way Festival (http://venue9.com/wow.html)

Back in many of our grandparent's or parent's day, womanhood was achieved when you had your first visit from Aunt Flow, lost your virginity, or gave birth; and someone patted you on the back and said "You are a woman now."
But that isn't the case these days. Womanhood has become less about a predetermined certain moment, preconceived notion, or even a certain body part. It takes something totally different to be a woman these days, and we have the tales to prove it.

Come hear some great stories on the subject of womanhood form: Jeri Cain Rossi, Lori Selke, Sherilyn Connelly, Katrina James, Charlie Anders, Shauna Rogan, Julia Serano ,Gina de Vries, Angie Krass ......

Drink some happy hour cocktails! from 6pm to 10pm
$3 micro pints, $2 pabst pints, $3 well

And stay around for "SONIDO" -DJ Willie Cologne plus special guests play
60s and 70s Latin, Boogaloo, Cumbias, Soul, Bhangra,
Booty Bass and more
$5 after 10pm

---------------------------------------------------
the BIOs I have:

1) Jeri Cain Rossi, a recent evacuee from New Orleans and new resident to San Francisco. she has been published by creation books, London, and manic-d press, San Francisco. she will be reading from a work-in-progress, her john doe poems: yeh, I fucked you, published in part by new mouth from the dirty south, New Orleans.

2) Lori Selke is a writer and editor about town. Her work has appeared
recently in Homewrecker, Stirring Up A Storm, Glamour Girls, and
Everything You Know About Sex is Wrong.

3) Sherilyn Connelly is a San Francisco-based writer. She's featured at shows throughout California such as K'vetch, The Unhappy Hour, Poetry Mission, Siren, Ladyfest Bay Area, the TGSF Cotillion, and The Vagina Monologues. Her writing can be found on paper in I Do / I Don't: Queers on Marriage by Suspect Thoughts Press, Jennifer Blowdryer's Good Advice for Young Trendy People of All Ages anthology, Girlfriends, Morbid Curiosity, and her own self-published chapbooks. Her stage work includes acting in productions of Night of the Living Dead, The Hitch-hiker's Guide to the Galaxy and Zippy the Pinhead (as Karen Carpenter), as well as adapting and directing a live-action Twilight Zone episode. She also hosts a radio show Monday nights from 8-10pm on Pirate Cat Radio, and co-produces the cult public access show kittypr0n, which you should watch.

4) Katrina James was first published in 1998, and has been creating a steadily growing body of erotic tales ever since. She also co-produced the cult public access show "kittypr0n" and has acted in and worked behind-the-scenes on several local stage productions, including "Batman," "Night of the Living Dead," Hitch-hiker's Guide to the Galaxy," "The Twilight Zone," "Zippy the Pinhead," and the upcoming "Emperor Norton: The Musical." She currently lives in San Francisco with her two cats.

5) Julia Serano is a writer, spoken word artist, musician and gender
activist. She has presented and performed her work at universities,
high schools, cafés, clubs, libraries, poetry slams, and at queer and
women‚s events across the United States. Currently, she is writing a
book about trans women, gender, and feminism, tenatively titled
"Feminine Wiles", to be published by Seal Press in 2007. For more info
about Julia‚s various creative endeavors, visit her website at
www.juliaserano.com

6) Charlie Anders is the author of Choir Boy (Soft Skull Press 2005). She only, knows one breakdancing move, but she does it all the time.

7) Shauna Rogan s a writer living in San Francisco. Her work has appeared in Red Booth Review, Mississippi Review, and Spike Magazine under the cheesy pseudonym 'Lisa Stopless'. She currently works in a retirement home and in her spare time can be found lurking in arcades.

8) All whiskies arise for the Mississippi Madam of Mayhem! Angie Krass performs her high voltage, rambunctious comedy throughout the Bay Area. Sharing her experiences, and kaleidoscope-like observations, with a southern flair for storytelling. She is currently touring with her new show “Sex, Biscuits, Jesus and Me”.

9) Gina de Vries is the co-editor, with Diane Anderson-Minshall, of [Becoming]: young ideas on gender, sexuality, and identity (Xlibris Press, 2004); a contributor to That's Revolting!: Queer Resistances to Assimilation (Soft Skull Press, 2004); a contributing writer to Curve and On Our Backs magazines; and a contributor to the second issue of Full zine, "pants on fire." She has spent the past few years focusing her political energies around the fight for comprehensive, sex-positive sexuality education; the movement for sex-workers' rights; and the inclusion of bi and trans women in dyke spaces. She hopes she doesn't sound humorless in this bio.
---------------------------------------------------------------
More info at:

http://ww.lilycat.com
me@lilycat.com

Thank you and have a most wonderful day!

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 1 reply

Cherry Bleeds is back, short story submissions accepted

tonydushane — Wed, 02 Feb 2005 17:48:45 GMT

CHERRY BLEEDS - www.cherrybleeds.com

Hello Bleedsers,

I had a bit of a super-freak-out over the last couple of months because I got involved in too many projects and decided that Cherry Bleeds was low on the priority list.

Well, after my drunken stupor of stupidity, and a firm bitch slap from a dear friend, I realized the importance of keeping Cherry Bleeds going. Shit, I've been doing it for almost 5 years, it's a self moving machine now.

The February 2005 issue is really strong. I had a lot more submissions to work with since I've been flaking over the last few months. :)

Anyway, this is me saying, thanks for reading us, it means a lot....and expect more literary transgression in the next five years.

Submissions are being accepted for future issues. Read the guidelines on the website.

Here's the contents for issue #121:

Robert Guskind: Reflections on Bambi and the Sky Blue Impala
Tony DuShane: Sinking
Delphine Lecompte: Don't Forget to Swagger
C. C. Parker: Mud
Stacey Graham: Sex for Drugs
Victor Valdez: People Like You & Me
Rob Rosen: Tasteless Joe
Will Carpenter: It's Where Happiness Comes to Die

A COMPLICATED KINDNESS by Miriam Toews is Literary Love

CHERRY BLEEDS - www.cherrybleeds.com

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 4 replies

Writing grad student desperately seeking survey participants!

lauren_liora — Sat, 03 Dec 2005 20:47:18 GMT

Hello everyone!

My name is Lauren and I'm a student in the MA in Creative Writing program at Kennesaw State University here in Georgia. I have been a member of tribe.net for almost a year and have spent the last few months lurking about several writing tribes. I love participating in the tribe.net community which is why I have chosen it, specifically the writing tribes, to profile for my final project in my research class this semester.

I would really, really appreciate it if any of you writers here on tribe.net would be willing and able to participate in my project and answer my questionnaire! This survey is completely anonymous and I would be delighted to share the results of my project in two weeks when I have turned the project in to my professor.

Please message me privately with any questions and with your answers to my questionnaire. Thank you guys SO much for helping me out! I truly appreciate it!

Lauren (aka Liora)

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 2 replies

Read and commentd

cjif12 — Sat, 24 Dec 2005 17:50:47 GMT

Last fall I had to put my truck in the shop. It needed a new transmission and as luck would have it, I did not have anywhere near enough money to get it fixed, so I told the shop mechanic to just hold off until I could get the money, it might be a couple of months. I’m disabled and on a fixed income, so the amount of money I needed: five hundred dollars, seemed like a million.

The first thing I did after the truck went in the shop was go down to the city bus station and buy a bus pass which was good for one month and only cost me $15.00. It normally costs a dollar to ride one bus one way, but with the bus pass it would enable me to ride any bus every day for a month and as many rides as I wanted.

My main disability is I can’t walk very well, so riding city buses has disadvantages, too. Sometimes to make a transfer a person might have to walk a few blocks. But all in all, riding the city bus seemed like the logical thing to do.

One afternoon when I was headed out to the hospital on the edge of town I had to catch a bus that only went out there four times a day. The result was I took one bus out to where I would catch the next bus, but there was a forty-five minute wait for the next bus. It must have been about thirty-five degrees outside and by the time the bus got there I had just about froze my ass off.

After I got on I found a seat about half way back. It was late afternoon and most of the riders were people coming home from work. We made a stop and this young man got on, he looked like he might be nineteen or somewhere close to that and he dropped ninety cents in the bus box, but he was a dime short. After searching his pockets and coming up empty and the bus driver was not going anywhere until he got his dime, the young man turned to the people on the bus and asked if anybody could spare a dime. I did not notice anybody around me diving for their purses or pockets so I reached in my pocket and gave the man a dime. He gave it to the bus driver and then thanked me and sat down.

I was amazed that no one else was willing to cough up a dime.

The rest of that day was pretty uneventful.

About a week later the temperature dropped another notch to the point that in the middle of the day it would be about twenty five degrees outside. So when I figured out everywhere I had to go, I tried to work my bus schedule where I would not be waiting on a bus for more than fifteen minutes. But as it turned out one bus ran twenty minutes late so the result I was sitting on an ice cold bus bench for thirty-five minutes. When the bus finally pulled up I felt like the ice man.

The bus was mostly full, so I grabbed the first seat I saw which was next to a woman that looked like she was about twenty two. She immediately started talking, “You look like you are about to freeze to death.”

I was still shaking, even though I was wrapped up pretty good. “Yeah, the bus was late.”

“That’s because at the last stop before yours, the handicap lift broke and the driver had to get out and fix it before the guy in the wheelchair could load up.”

Hearing this did not make me feel thankful that I wasn’t in a wheelchair. But the bus was real warm and I was starting to thaw out. “Shit happens,” I replied.

The woman kind of giggled at that. We rode in silence for a few minutes and then she said,
“Where are you headed?”

“Job interview. Then I’m going to have to wait for another hour to catch this bus back to town. It’ll be dark by then and colder. If the bus runs late I may build a fire at the stop. I’ll just burn the bus bench.”

“So where is your interview?” she asked.

I thought she was a little nosey but what the hell. “It’s about four blocks from the bus stop. The shape I’m in I’ll be dead by the time I walk eight blocks and then wait on this bus for an hour. But that’s the way the ball bounces.”

“Oh.” is all she said.

After riding for another fifteen minutes we finally got to the bus stop I was looking for and both the young woman and I got off. I watched her as she crossed the street and then I headed for my job interview which was at a Subway. I talked to the manager for about ten minutes and then she interrupted me and said I was hired and could start tomorrow at five p.m.

That was great. I told the manager I had to catch a bus so I waited at the Subway for about twenty minutes hoping I would cut the amount of time I had to wait out in the cold. I did not want to wait too long, because sometimes the bus would run early and I did not want to miss my ride.

I finally left and by the time I had walked the four blocks to the bus stop I was really cold. I was surprised to find the young woman I had met on the bus sitting on the bus bench. When I walked up I said, “Are you going back to town?”

“No. I’m waiting for you.” she replied.

Well that threw me for a loop. Kind of had me searching for words for a minute when she said, “I live in those apartments right across the street and I thought you could wait for your bus inside where it is warm.”

Well, I couldn’t turn that kind of a deal down. “Okay, I really appreciate that.” I replied.

I followed her across the street, her apartment was right on the street, downstairs. When we got inside she said, “My name is Kathy Stewart.”
“Glad to meet you. My name is Bill Anderson.”

“Did you get your job, Bill.” she asked as she took off her coat and scarf. She was wearing jeans and a sweater and I couldn’t help but notice that she was almost flat chested.

“As a matter of fact I did.” I replied as I took off my own coat. I looked around the living room. It was neat but sparsely furnished. One chair, a small coffee table and a thirteen inch television sitting on an apple crate. Then on the longest wall there were concrete blocks with two by twelve boards forming a floor to ceiling bookcase that was loaded with books. Since I’m an avid reader I walked over to the bookcase and looked at a few titles. I immediately noticed that all of the books delt with witchcraft and herbolgy. I turned to where Kathy was standing and said, “You must be a witch.”

She did not hesitate, “Yes. But do not be alarmed. I’m a good witch.”

At the far end of the bookcase I noticed a small table covered with a velvet red cloth and in the center was a stone bowl that looked like it might have been hand carved. I walked over and picked it up and looked at it more closely.

From behind me, Kathy said, “That’s what I grind things in when I cast a spell or when I grind my herbs down.”

I kind of laughed and said, “Promise me you won’t turn me into a frog.”

That made her laugh out loud and she said, “Okay, I promise I won’t turn you into a frog.”

“So how long have you been a practicing witch,” I asked.

“I’m new at this. I’ve only been doing it seriously for about ten years.”

Since I thought she was in her early twenties I was doing the math in my head when she said, “I’m thirty-two.”

“You read minds, too.”

“Not really. But I could see the bewilderment on your face and took a wild guess that you thought I was younger.”

“You’re good. And you’re right.” I said.

I went over to the door and looked out. No bus in sight. I looked at my watch. I still had about fifteen minutes before the bus ran. When I turned around, Kathy had disappeared into another room. Then I heard her call out, “Just make yourself at home. I’m changing clothes. I’ll make some hot chocolate, it’ll warm you up.”

I sat down in the only chair. “Don’t bother. My bus will be here in a few minutes.”

Kathy came into the living room, she was wearing lounge pajamas with an almost transparent blue robe that was decorated with fire-breathing dragons. The pajamas were multi-colored, blue, green and yellow and had wizards all over them. They were very loose and therefore completely hid the shape of her body.

Now she was attractive. The outfit did it. “I like that,” I said.

“You might as well take it easy. The bus broke down and it will be a while before they can get another bus out here.” she stated matter-of-factly.

“How do you know that? “ I asked.

“Actually, I heard it on the news right before I walked over to meet you. I knew if you had to sit out there for a few hours then you really would be cold and probably sick, too.”

“That’s just great. Oh, I’m sorry. I really do appreciate you inviting me into your house. You sure are trusting.” I was speaking without thinking because of hearing the bus was broke down that would put me back downtown way late to catch my other bus home.

“I’m in a real fix. I’ll miss my other bus. And there’s no way I can walk ten miles home.

“Well,” she started, paused and then finished, “If you are not afraid of me turning you into a frog.” ..... short pause, “You could spend the night.”

“Oh, that would be too much. Maybe I can get hold of somebody to come pick me up.”

“Now you are making me mad.” she said but I couldn’t tell it because she had a smile on her face. “You really are afraid of me, aren’t you?”

“No, I just don’t want to take too much advantage of your already way to generous offer.”

“Hey, it’s my call. I enjoy having company. I’ll start supper. How’s frog stew sound?” she laughed.

I noticed she laughed a lot. “That sounds great to me as long as I’m not the frog.”

She laughed again and went into the kitchen. I heard her open the refrigerator and rattle some pots and then she entered the living room carrying two bottles of Corona. Instead of hot chocolate, how about a beer?”

I took the beer and said, “Thanks.”

As she was walking back into the kitchen I asked, Is it okay for me to smoke?”
She called back, “Sure go ahead. But the only think I smoke is pot.”

I lit a cigarette. It was the first one I had had today, but it went well with the cold beer. I turned on the television and the news was on. I watched and when the weather came on they said it was going to snow in the wee hours of the morning. ‘Great’ I thought ‘If we get much snow the buses probably won’t run.. ‘

I turned off the televison and went to the bookcase found a great big book called: Complete Guide to Potions. I sat down in the chair and started turning pages. The recipes reminded me of my mother’s cookbooks. I was beginning to smell good smells coming from the kitchen. Kathy stuck her head out of the kitchen and said, “Supper will be ready in just a minute. Find anything interesting?”

“Good. .....Not yet. I was looking for the potion that turns me into a frog.”

“You won’t find it in that book.” she said. She then entered the living room carrying a small table and set in down in the middle of the room. It was just high enough that you could sit on the floor. “Sorry, but we’ll have to eat Chinese style.”

“That’s okay.”I replied.

“Supper should be ready in about fifteen minutes. I made this herb tea for you,” she said as she handed me a hot steaming cup of tea.

I took the cup and sipped the brew. It had a unique taste that I didn’t really care for but it wasn’t that bad so I was determined to drink it so as I not to offend my host.

“So , how is it?” Kathy asked.

“Not bad,” I answered.

“Is that the truth?” she asked.

“No, not really. But it is different.”

“So tell me all about your disability.” she ventured.

“Not that big of a deal. I’m fifty-two years old and I’ve been a diabetic since I was twenty-six. I didn’t really watch my sugar levels the first ten years and now I have neuropathy in my legs and feet, which keeps me from walking much. That four blocks to the job interview about did me in.” I said as I sipped my herb tea.

“You don’t sound down about it.”

“No, I figure there are a lot of other people worse off than me. This is the hand I got dealt. Now I just have to play it out.” I said.

Kathy got up and went around the room lighting candles which were on the coffee table and the bookcase and then she took two off of the bookcase and put them on our little table. When she turned off the lights, shadows danced on all of the walls. Then she returned to the kitchen.

My tea cup was empty and I took a swig of my beer, mainly to get the taste of the tea out of my mouth. Kathy walked in carrying two plates and some silverware and she placed them on the table and told me I could set them up while she got the food. She returned carrying a Dutch oven. She then returned to the kitchen and returned once more carrying a plate of steaming cornbread. I lifted the top off of the pot. It looked like beef stew to me with a lot of vegetables

“Smells good,” I said as I watched her sit down Indian fashion. I noticed her ankles for the first time and both were slim and graceful and both had some kind of tattoos on them and I said, “Oh, you have tattoos.”

“Yes and no. I have one tattoo. With many different scenes within. I’ll show you after supper.” she replied.

Now my curiosity was aroused. I laid the lid to the Dutch oven to one side and ladled out some stew on my plate. Took a slice of cornbread, put too much butter on it - because that’s the way I like it - and then crumbed it up in my stew. Then I took my first bite and I just don’t know how to describe in properly. It was like nothing I had ever eaten before. It was definitely beef stew, but it had so many different flavors I did not recognize and it was fantastic. “This is delicious” I said. And then, “What’s in it?”

“Thank You. In addition to what you’d traditionally find in beef stew there are about twenty-five different herbs and spices. You might call it my own special witches recipe.”

“Well...whatever. It is truly the best stew I’ve ever eaten.”

Then I concentrated on eating and watching Kathy eat. She crumbled her cornbread into the stew just like I did. But where I took great big bites, she ate rather daintedly. .

I finished first and lit a cigarette and just watched her eat.

“I’m a slow eater,” she commented.

She did not say anything while she finished eating. Then she pushed her plate to the side and fumbled in her pocket and produced a short joint. She held it up and said, “Do you want a hit?”

“NO. But you go ahead. I never really got into pot and it has been twenty or more years since I took a hit.”

“Okay,” she said as she lit her joint.
She inhaled deeply and then exhaled and distinguished the rest of the joint. “Ah-h, now that’s much better. Do you want another beer?”

“Sure.” I replied.

She got up and went to the kitchen and returned with two beers. She handed me one, set hers down and then stood up straight and removed her robe. Then she started unbuttoning her pajama top. “Close your eyes and don’t open them until I say,” she said.

“Okay, they’re closed.”

I heard her clothes rustling and then she said, “Okay, you can open your eyes now.”

And what I saw when I opened my eyes blew me away. The tattoo covered her whole body, arms, legs, back, everything. It was one large multi-colored, fire-breathing dragon with two heads. A huge wizard stood before the dragon. The wizard covered most of her stomach and chest area and he wore a pointy hat. The background which seemed to cover every inch of her body except for her feet, hands, and neck consisted of bright, green vegetation and
red, yellow, and black snakes. Although Kathy was completely nude, I could not tell it. She wore the tattoo like an outfit.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“It’s beautiful. But, did it hurt? How long did it take?”

“Yes, at times it was uncomfortable. And I’ve been working on it for eight years. It is not finished.” she said and sat down.

I sipped my beer which was making me a little light-headed and just studied the many facets of her art work. I tried to make out her nipples and when I finally realized I was looking at them- they were blended into the dragon, I kind of blushed and looked away.

Kathy reached up and tried to cup her almost completely flat breasts and said, “Not much here. Most men prefer big breasts. But I like these just fine.”

I was getting uncomfortable. I did not know what this young woman, twenty years my junior, expected of me. I knew I could not perform. The combination of my diabetes, diabetic neuropathy, and four kinds of blood pressure medicine had left me impotent for over five years. Of you’re my libido was not affected and I was having all kinds of thoughts right now that I could not control. I wanted to jump up and smother her with kisses and put my tongue in places.....well, you get the drift.

“They’re okay. Uh, I, uh, “ I stammered.

Then I felt myself getting an erection. This really surprised me because it had been awhile since I had had one. Of course I’m a normal male. I occasionally masturbate and do it until I ejaculate but when I do I never get an erection. So when I became impotent, it pretty much ended my sex life with partners. I made eye contact with Kathy and she was smiling. “Why don’t you get out of those clothes. I want to see what you look like,” she said.

I’ve never thought that I am shy. However, it had been some time since I had disrobed in front of a woman. So I was a little slow and awkward at getting started. “Stand up,” she commanded.

I did and when I was standing before her she began to unbutton my shirt. I really didn’t know what to do, so I reached up and cupped her little mounds of breasts in my hands and began to finger her flat nipples, which now that I was up close I noticed that the actual areolas were as big as silver dollars. As I caressed her nipples they began to harden and grow. Kathy had the shirt unbuttoned and was working on my belt. When she undid it she slid my pants and boxer shorts down to my ankles and I stepped out of them and removed my shirt. Then she reached down and took my erect penis in her hand. “This is some big boy,” she said.

But I knew that was a lie. It had never been longer than five inches, even when it was hard and even when I was twenty. I just never had had a big penis.

I felt like I was in a trance. Here I was about to make love to a beautiful, young, tattooed woman. And she seemed to be the one that wanted it. I embraced her and started to kiss her on the lips, but she pulled back. “Bill, I don’t kiss. Too many germs.”

Now that was a little strange. But I pulled back and then placed my mouth over her left nipple.
“Is this okay,” I mumbled around her breast.

“Oh-h-h, yes,” she replied.

Then we eased down to the floor and made love for what seemed like hours. Then we drifted off to sleep in each others arms.

The next morning I woke up alone on the floor, naked and cold. I sat up and looked around. The living room was completely empty except for my clothes which were piled up next to me with my long overcoat on top. I stood up and walked to the kitchen. It was spotless and it was also empty. I looked in the cabinets and they also were empty. Then I walked to the bedroom. Not a thing was in it. Just four bare walls and a doorway leading into the bathroom. I went into the bathroom to relieve myself. I must have peed for a full three minutes. It felt so good to empty my bladder.

I looked at my watch and it said: four fifteen. But it was light out, so that must mean it was afternoon. I could dress for work and just make it. So I went back into the living room and put my clothes on, then my overcoat and hurried out the door to my new job. I didn’t understand what was happening but I knew I would figure it out later.

My bosses name at Subway was Melissa. She greeted me as I came through the door. “Just work the cash register tonight. I want to watch and see how you handle money. Let me show you how it works. It is pretty simple.” Melissa said.

I took off my overcoat and went to work. The cash register was simple and soon after I got there the store got busy. By nine o’çlock we had done over six hundred dollars in sandwiches. Melissa told me that we closed at midnight and that it usually took about half an hour to clean the store. I took a break, smoked a cigarette and called a friend who I knew was working a security post and got off at midnight and asked if he would give me a ride home. He said he would and I finished my cigarette and went back to work. I stayed too busy to think much about the night before.

We had the store swept, mopped and cleaned by twelve-twenty and I went out to wait for my friend. It was cold. My friend, Bob showed up about twelve-forty-five. “Sorry, about the wait. My relief ran late.”
Bob said.

“No problem. I’m just glad I could catch a ride.” I said as I reached into my pocket to get some money to offer Bob for the ride. When I pulled my hand out of my pocket I was holding a wad of cash. I quickly counted it. It was two thousand dollars. ‘Whoa, what’s going on here?’ I thought. When I had left home the day before I only had ten dollars in cash. I pulled a five dollar bill out of the wad and quickly stuck the rest of the cash in my pocket. I offered the five to Bob. He took it. “Thanks, this will help out.” he said. “What have you been up too, old timer?” he asked.

"Nothing much, same old same old, you know the routine." I replied.

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

please read and rate!!!

Christine — Thu, 15 Dec 2005 17:09:19 GMT

The thick branches of a dead tree sway in the cold wet night air. Black clouds begin to move in, taking over the moon and drowning out its light. A bolt of lightning flashes down from the heavens and a loud boom of thunder shake the earth. Soon heavy bullet like raindrops begins to fall to the street below. Sitting alone in a back alley you will find Silva. Once the rain had begun, she ducked into this ally hoping to escape it for the night. Her black sweatshirt was soaked through and her blue jeans were worn and beginning to tatter.
Silva had been in hiding ever since the night her parent’s had been murdered. The police said they would protect her. They put her into the witness protection program thinking they would be able to save her from her own past. After a few months, once she had finally settled in, there was a knock at her front door. Her happiness soon faded when she saw the figure of a tall thin man in a black trench coat standing on her doorstep. His hat hung low on his forehead shadowing his eyes in darkness. His once black boots were covered in dirt from his travels. Silva immediately averted her eyes to the floor and stepped back letting the thin man in. As he walked, his coat opened in the wind revealing his black slacks and burgundy vest. In his pocket was a gold watch with a chain attached to it; her fathers watch. She closed the door behind him, and without looking at him she softly said, ”I’ll get my things.”
She had no intention of leaving with him. Of everything she had learned the one thing that really stuck with her was how to protect her thoughts. Silva turned and began her walk up the stairs. She wasn’t half way up when the thin man began to speak to her. “What’s the matter Silva? I can sense your sadness and even some anger, but I don’t seem to be able to figure out what’s going on in your head.” The sound of his voice made her shiver. It was deep, rough, and raspy. It reminded her of a person who had smoked for to many years and now had to struggle to speak.
“Its nothing Sir. I’ll get my things so we can be on our way.” She began again moving up the stairs and into her bedroom. She always knew the police would never be able to keep her safe. She knew that one-day, sooner than later, she would open her door and he would be standing there. She closed her eyes suppressing tears and an image of her parents flashed in her head. She could see her fathers face, his blue love filled eyes looking at her, telling her without speaking how much he loved her. She could smell her mothers perfume and hear her soft voice singing to some random song she heard on the radio. She had always loved to sing. Then the image of their bodies, broken and bloody broke through her happy thoughts so she opened her eyes again. This time she couldn’t help but let out a few tears.
She had been prepared just incase this day would come. She always knew in the back of her mind that she would need to escape her own “safe house”. She walks into the master bathroom and into the shower. She pulls back the wallpaper from the inside wall of the shower and it reveals a door. She pushes it and it opens to a ladder set up against the outside wall of the house. A small duffle bag has been prepared just incase she ever needed it. She grabs it, climbs down the ladder, and runs over to a car parked down the block. From out of the duffle bag she pulls out the keys and gets in the car. She starts it up and begins her speeding drive down the narrow highway. She would drive until she needed gas, then would fill up and drive again until she felt like she had run far enough away. How far would that be?

~*~

Silva had been running for almost 2 years now and she had never felt that she had run far enough. No matter where she went something always made her think of what had happen with her parents. She always thought about her past as a young teenage girl. She didn’t know any better. It was all fun and games. She didn’t know that when she wanted to get out of it there would be consequences like that.
It’s been almost a year and a half since the last time she saw the thin man. She never notified the police about anything. She knew that once she was in their system again he would find her again. She was strong. She had learned a lot those 3 years in the group. They all knew she was special when she was first brought in by Lucas, her best friend. It was all very simple. They always said things like “clear your mind” and “just picture it in your minds eye”. They wanted her to move things with out touching it. Simple. Its something she learned she was able to do years ago when she was a young child. Silva always knew she was different but she didn’t know how dangerous being different was.
Silva sat between the dumpster and a brick wall trying to hide her self in the shadows. She leaned her head to the right side and let it rest gently against the wall. She closed her eyes and began to fantasize about what her life use to be like. She pictured herself running up the walkway of her white two-story house into her fathers open arms. She could smell the fresh cookies her mother had been baking. She remembers how her father’s mustache used to rub against her neck and tickle her. She was only 15 when Lucas brought her to that group. Now she wishes he never had.

~*~

On her 15th birthday she had a dinner at her house. Most of her friends came over and her mother baked up all sorts of goodies. It was late when everyone had finally left, everyone except Lucas that is. He said he still had his gift to give to her. He handed her a box about the size of her hand. She opened it up and found a red cloth on the inside. Silva looked up at Lucas unsure of what to make of it. He took it out and wrapped it around her eyes. He told her not to worry. He said he had a surprise for her and that her parents already knew about it.
The walk felt like it went on forever. Silva didn’t know what to expect. She knew it wouldn’t be anything bad because Lucas would never do anything to hurt her. They had been best friends ever since the 1st grade. As he led her by the hand he asked her to stop and not move. He let her go and in her blindness she could hear the soles of his shoes slapping against the wet pavement. A loud bang ripped through the air and shook Silva from the inside out. From somewhere far in the distance Lucas shouted “sorry Silva, my fault”. Everything fell quiet for a few long moments then the sound of Lucas’ shoes running toward Silva broke the silence. “Come on Silva. I had to open the door. Your gunna love this place. I’ve been a part of this group for months, ever since my 15th birthday. Sorry I couldn’t tell you. Please don’t hate me. They told me I couldn’t tell, but once you became of age I could bring you in.” The level of his voice rose, as did his excitement.
“Alright Silva we’re here. Now close your eyes. I’m gunna take your blindfold off.” Silva did as she was instructed and soon the pressure from the cloth wrapped tightly around her head was released. Even through her shut eyelids she could see the brightness of a light ahead of her. Suddenly there was the sound of people running toward her. She could feel fear setting in and her heart started to beat faster but she still held her eyes shut tightly. From somewhere off to her left there was a loud crash that made her body jump. She could feel her heart beating faster and faster. Beads of sweat began to form on her forehead and her body started trembling. She was beginning to panic. The light above her began to flicker on and off. Her heart raced faster and faster as did the light. It began to grow brighter and her heart was beating so fast she thought it would jump out of her chest. The people around her moved faster and faster and the light grew brighter with every passing second. Then Silva yelled out. “Stop it!” As her words left her mouth the light bulb above exploded into pieces and everyone was left in darkness. Silence took over.
All of a sudden the ground began to shake. It shook with such violence Silva fell to the ground, as did everybody else. When the earth stood still once again lights all around the room began to light up. A set of double doors at the end of the room opened by themselves and a man walked in. Everyone sat in silence on the cold concrete floor and watched the man enter the room. As he walked, it looked as if his feet didn’t touch the ground. Silva watched him float down the stairs and approach her. From under his black hooded cloak he looked down at her. His face was covered in the darkness the hood provided. He held out a cold thin hand to her and she took it. With more force than she expected he pulled her up to her feet and Silva almost fell forward. He snapped his fingers and everyone in the room jumped up and formed a line against the wall to his right.
“Lucas.” His voice was deep and sounded very old and raspy. Lucas approached and stood by Silva’s right side. “Lucas, is this the one you have told us about? Is this the one you say is special?” Special? Silva fumbled the word around in her head. What did they mean special?
“Yes it is sir. She is my best friend and I trust her, which is why I have brought her to you. You should see what she could do. There have been times when-”
“Silence!” Lucas jumped back a step and stood quiet and still. “Did you bring me something, something personal of the family?”
“Yes sir I did. It’s the oldest thing the family had. Silva’s dad had always talked about this watch and how it had been passed down in the family.” Watch? What watch? Silva’s eyes widened as the thin mad held out a pale hand and Lucas dropped a gold item in is palm. As he held the item up in front of himself Silva felt a sting of anger. It was her great grandfathers pocket watch, a watch that had been in her family for years. She couldn’t believe that Lucas would steal it from her father. Silva took a step forward intending to snatch the watch out of the thin mans hand but suddenly stopped. Something had come over her body and she couldn’t move. She stood still, staring up at the watch as it spun in circles.
Silva gathered her strength and spoke. “Why do you need my fathers watch?” Her voice scared her. As she spoke, her voice was soft and quiet. She swallowed hard and spoke again, this time louder and with more anger in her voice. “That’s my fathers watch. I want it back.”
“Silva!” She turned and looked at Lucas. She didn’t know why, but she detected fear in his eyes. “You don’t want to talk to him like that. You need to be-”
“Get back in line Lucas!” The man yelled, cutting him off mid sentence. Lucas quickly turned away and ran back to his place in the line. Silva stood looking up into the shadows of where his face would be. He turned and opened his coat and placed the watch inside of it. He then lifted his hands to his hood and removed it. Silva stood in shock as she stared into his black eyes. His face was thin and looked almost skeleton like. His eyes sank deep into their sockets and had no color. They were pitch black. He dropped the robe to the floor and she examined him. His body was as thin as his face. He reminded her of one of those people you saw in those pictures of the concentration camp survivors. He wore black slacks and black shinny shoes. He had on a long black trench coat like jacket and underneath it he wore a burgundy vest with her fathers pocket watch in place. The nails on his fingers were long and black, and his hands looked like if you squeezed them to hard they would crumble.
Silva stood stiff and silent and stared hard at the thin man. She was afraid. She didn’t know why but she was frightened. “Its alright Silva. Don’t be afraid.” Her head filled with thoughts of what all this could mean. Why am I here? What is this place? Who is this man? “All your questions will be answered shortly Silva. Don’t worry. No one is going to hurt you. We’re here to teach you.” What’s going on? How does he know what I am thinking? “You’ll soon learn. Soon you will be able to use your gifts in more ways than moving simple objects.” He placed his cold hands on her temples. “You’re a strong one Silva, I can feel it. Soon you will grow more powerful than any other I have ever taught.”
A clap of thunder brought her crashing back down into reality. She hadn’t noticed the tears that had built up in her eyes. Nightfall had come and Silva shuddered on the cold concrete floor. She closed her eyes and tried to picture her father. He always made her feel better. Despite the cold rain and hard floor Silva soon drifted off into sleep. She could see Lucas sitting at a table with 3 other boys. Lucas would hold up a flash card, facing the back to the three boys. Then they would study the blank backside of the card and write down what number they thought was on the other side. Sometimes they were right, most of the time they were wrong.

~*~

With in the first year of her training Silva had learned the thin mans name. No one ever referred to him by his actual name. That was a punishable offence. His name was Sotelo; everyone called him Sir. Silva learned something else her first year of working with Lucas and Sotelo, if someone messed up to many times they disappeared. The first time she noticed this happening was about 7 months into the program. Silva had become quick friends with a girl named Fay. She had stumbled into this place by mistake one day about 2 and a half months ago. Sotelo wanted to test her and see if she was worthy of staying. They sat her at a table for hours at a time holding up cards and having her guess what was on the other side. They gave her puzzles and mazes and timed her to see how long it took her to complete the task. In the end, she was not what they were looking for.
For about a week Silva would walk into the cold basement room and immediately scanned the room for Fay, and everyday for a week Fay was not there. She had begun to worry about her. It wasn’t right that she, or anybody for that matter, would not show up here like they were supposed to. Silva decided to talk to Lucas.
“Nope. Sorry Silva, I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“What do you mean you don’t know Fay? I’ve hung around her every day since she arrived here. Are you alright Luke?” Silva looked into his eyes and saw that he honestly didn’t know whom she was talking about. She turned and walked toward the large double doors and stopped, facing them. She was about to knock when Sotelo’s voice shouted out to her. “Come in Silva.” Silva stepped back as the doors swung open only wide enough for her to walk in. As soon as she was inside they shut themselves closed.
“I’m sorry to bother you Sir but I had a question.” Silva’s voice shook with fear. “I wanted to know about one of my friends. Her name is-”
“Fay.” He said. Silva stood in silence waiting to hear what he had to say. She looked around the room noticing all the items that were lying around. Probably items belonging to all the people out there, that now belongs to him. “Do you like what you are seeing Silva? Go ahead, choose one if you wish.”
“No Sir, I couldn’t. I just wanted to know why Fay hasn’t been here. It’s not like her to simply not show up. I’m worried about her.”
“Why is it Silva, that when you asked Lucas about her, he didn’t know who you were talking about? Why is it that you are able to remember such a simple ordinary girl like Fay, and no one else does? Why do you think that is, Silva my dear?” She stood silent not knowing weather to answer him or not. When she did decide to open her mouth to speak he cut her off before she could even begin. “Your mind is stronger than I had originally thought. Come here child.” Silva stepped forward. Sotelo pointed to a chair so she sat down. “I want to tell you something. Before you Lucas was the strongest I had here. He’s smart and quick to learn, but he has to take time to get something. With you it all come naturally. You don’t have to train your mind to work; it just works like it’s supposed to. You’re just like me Silva. You and I will be around for a long time while people like Fay are forgotten. She was not strong enough; her mind was not sharp enough. She couldn’t handle it. So her, and any others like her, will be disposed of. We want only the best of the best here. Now, what will you do with the knowledge I have chosen to give to you?”
“Disposed of?” Those were the only two words a shocked Silva could manage to release. What’s happening here? Are they killing these people?
“I want you to be my apprentice. I want to personally see you grow, train your mind to do the impossible. When I am ready to move on, I want you to take over this project in my place. Can you do that for me Silva?” Sotelo looked into her eyes searching for an answer. “I’ll give you until tomorrow to think it over. Now go. Get back to the tables with Lucas and help him.” Silva stood up and walked out. When she sat at the desk with Lucas she didn’t look at him.
“Silva? What happen? Are you okay? Talk to me.” Sotelo stepped out onto the floor and shouted out for everyone to get to work. Lucas held up the first flash card to Silva but she wouldn’t look at it “Silva!” Lucas whispered. “You better get to work. Now tell me what’s on the card.” Sotelo searched the faces of his students. Some were half way through their decks already yet Silva had not started. He approaches the desk where Lucas and Silva sat.
“What’s on the other side of that card Silva? Look at it and tell me what it says. What number do you see?” Silva didn’t answer. He became annoyed and slammed his fist down on the table. Silva and Lucas jumped in their seats. “Look at the card and tell me what it says Silva!” He shouted in anger. She immediately looked up and wrote down a number. “249. Excellent Silva, now the next one. 1355. That’s right. Keep it up Silva.”
That night Silva went home and thought about what Sotelo said. After thinking a lot about Fay and Lucas she came to a decision. The next morning she went to see him. It was still early so no one had arrived yet. She came up to the huge double doors and knocked. “Come in Silva. I’ve been expecting you.” Silva slowly and quietly walks in the room and stops a few feet away from Sotelo. “So have you come to a decision?”
“Yes sir I have.”
“Lets have it then.”
“Yes. I’ll do it. I want to learn everything I can from you and take your place when you decide to leave. I want you to teach me how to live.” A smile came over Sotel’s face revealing a set of yellow and black teeth. It was this decision that would cost Silva her life.

~*~

A truck speeds by and shakes the ground where Silva slept. She opens her eyes to see an almost clear sky. The ground was still wet from the nights rain, but the warmth of the sun felt good on her face. Silva stands up and picks up her duffle bag. She walks into the nearest café and into the restroom. Looking at herself in the mirror was harder to do everyday. She cleaned herself up as best she could then walked out and up to the front counter. She ordered a small meal and coffee. She needed to keep her strength up. She would have to be extremely careful and focused in these next few days. It was all about to begin. She was almost there.
The next year seemed to fly by. Silva stood at Sotelo’s side and watched his every move. He wanted to teach her personally so he could make sure she knew everything she needed to know to take his place.
“Okay Silva, today I want you to learn to protect your thoughts. You don’t need anyone getting into your head. That’s how they beat you.” Sotelo held out a hand to Silva and stood her up. He walked her to the center of the room, and placed his hands on her temples. “Now Silva, you need to clear your mind of all thoughts. Don’t think about anything. Just listen to your own breathing and concentrate on the pressure I’m going to apply to your temples. Just breath Silva.” Silva cleared her mind of everything but a brick wall. She concentrated on its color, the size of the bricks, any deformations it may have. She didn’t think about anything but that wall. Sotelo released her head and stood facing her. For a few seconds he attempted to get into her head. Sotelo closed his eyes and saw nothing but the brick wall. He used so much power trying to get into Silva’s head that he fell to the floor exhausted. Silva’s eyes shot open as she heard Sotelo’s body hit the floor. She rushed to help him up just as he burst out into laughter.
“I’m sorry Sir. Let me help you up.” Silva attempted to help him to his feet, but he brushed her hand away.
“I can’t believe you. I can’t believe what just happen, what you did.” Silva could feel tears building up behind her eyes. She was sure she had done something so wrong she would have to be punished. “No Silva you didn’t do anything wrong. You did everything right, fantastic. I can’t believe how strong you are. Not even I got how to do that on the first try. Its amazing.” Sotelo held out his hand to a near by cane, and it came flying toward him. With no effort at all he caught it and helped himself up. “You’re something else Silva, something I’ve never encountered before.”
That night Silva and Lucas went out for some fast food. “So tell me Silva, what’s it like? What’s it like working so closely with Sotelo? Tell me everything.” Lucas sat silently looking like a child waiting for his bedtime story. His eyes were bright with curiosity and his lips were curled up into a smile.
“I cant Luke. I can’t tell you anything. That’s one of the rules. I can’t even tell my parents what’s gong on. I want to so badly. I want to show them all the things I have learned to do these past couple of years. I want to share with them all the wonderful things Sotelo has taught me. I cant do that, I’m sorry.” Silva saw Luke’s eyes drop. He fell back into his chair and crossed his arms.
“You know Silva, I was once the strongest one there. Sotelo told me that he wanted me to take his place. He actually told me this right before I brought you into this. He wanted me.” Luke’s voice began to rise as he sat straight up in his chair. “I was supposed to work with him, not you! I can’t believe you Silva.” Luke jumped out of his chair and stormed out the door. Silva sat in silence, stunned at the scene that had just occurred. The next day Silva wanted to ask Sotelo about Luke. Was what he said really true? Luke was truly angry. Silva decided not to say anything to Sotelo.

~*~

It was the end of Silva’s second year. She was almost 18 now. Sotelo had taught her a lot about self-control and mind power. He had shown here that there was more to the world than what people simply looked at. Things had a deeper meaning to them and she was now able to see that. It was the night before her birthday and she had again made another attempt to talk to Luke. “Don’t worry so much Silva. You’re the chosen one remember?” He looked at her and shook his head. She opened her mouth to speak to him just as he turned his back and walked away, mumbling to himself something about tonight. Silva decided just to go home.
She took the long way home tonight. Her head was flooded with thoughts about her childhood with Luke. She could remember swinging with him on the swings, then jumping off just to see who would fly the farthest. They would share everything with each other. It was then that Silva came to a decision. If this stupid position is going to cost me my friendship with Luke then I don’t want it. She would tell this to Sotelo tomorrow. He wouldn’t be happy with what Silva would she was going to tell him, but at least she would still be able to keep her best friend.
As Silva opened the front door to her house she ran into Luke. He was standing there with her parents, and they didn’t look very happy. Luke walked over to Silva and gave her a tight hug. He then stepped back from her and looked at her parents, then back at her. “I’m sorry Silva but you’re my best friend. I had to tell them what you’ve been doing. I’m worried about you.” It was then that a cruel smile took over Luke’s face. “I’ve got to get home.” He grabbed Silva again for one last hug and to whisper a few more words into her ear. “Don’t worry Silva, I’ll tell Sotelo you said goodbye.” With out turning back Luke walked out the front door.
“Where have you been Silva?” Her fathers voice was loud and angry. “And don’t lie to me this time.”
“I’ve been hanging out with some friends. What’s going on? Why was Luke here?”
“Friends?” Her mothers voice was shaky and she sounded like she wanted to cry. “Is that what this man is to you, your friend? How could you Silva? How old is this man? How did you meet him?
“And your doing drugs?!” Her fathers face had turned a bright red. Tears began to stream down her mothers face. Soon there were black lines of mascara running down her cheeks. “Devil worshiping? Have we taught you nothing? Didn’t we raise you better than this? First you drop out of school, now you’re doing drugs and hanging out with a man who is 4 times your age? What’s going on in that head of yours?”
“Dad I-”
“Don’t bother Silva. You are not to leave this house again until I say its okay. You are not to see this man again. You are checking into a drug treatment center first thing in the morning. At least Luke is a real friend to you Silva. He worries about you enough to betray your trust and tell us all of this. What your life is like now.”
“Luke’s lying. I don’t do drugs! I do not worship the devil. I’m special. Don’t you realize this? I’m a part of something special now. I wanted to tell you guys all about it. I wanted to tell you everything, but Sotelo said I couldn’t say anything to anyone. He told me I couldn’t tell you anything. I’m sorry. I’ll quit.” Silva fell down to her knees crying repeating over and over again the words “I’ll quit”. Her mother rushed over to her fallen daughter and wrapped her arms around her.

~*~

Silva awoke the next morning filled with anger. Lucas had betrayed her trust and thrown away everything Sotelo had ever told them about keeping the group and himself a secret from the outside world. Today Silva would tell Sotelo she had to leave the group. It was not worth hurting her family over. Nothing is worth that. Silva stormed out of her house. She needed to talk to Sotelo now.
As she walked past all the people, she could feel them staring at her. With out stopping she pulled back the double doors and walked in to find Sotelo and Luke talking. “What’s going on?”
“You’ve come to tell me something Silva. That will be all Lucas.” Sotelo waved him off, so Lucas turned and walked out. “So tell me Silva, how is it that your parents know about us? How is it that you think you are just going to walk out on me, away from all of this?”
“I don’t know what to tell you. Yes, my parents do know. I didn’t tell them, but they know. Now that they do I have to leave. Its hurting my family too much. I don’t want my family to be in pain because of something that I am doing.”
“I know all about it. Do you honestly think that Lucas would be able to lie to me and get away with it? That boy has a lot to learn. I’ll take care of your family for you. Don’t worry Silva, they wont be in pain because of your actions. I understand what you are telling me. Don’t worry about it. Go home now. Go be with your family.” Silva had the urge to run up to him and hug him.
“I didn’t know if you would understand. Thank you so much. Thank you for understanding my position in all of this. Thank you So-, I mean Sir.” Silva was excited and joyful at how everything turned out. As she walked back out through the double doors, Lucas was there waiting for her.
“Don’t think this is over Silva. This is something you can’t run away from.” Those were the last words Lucas ever spoke to Silva. Silva ran home as quickly as she could. As she ran through her front door her father was standing in the living room. She ran up to him and jumped into his arms. “Its over daddy.” Was all she whispered into his ear. That night Silva, her mother, and her father all sat down at the dining room table and had dinner together for the first time in just about 3 years. They talked about everything. Silva told them all the things she had learned, about how Lucas had changed, and about Sotelo.
“I knew you were different from the day you were born.” Silva’s mother spoke with excitement in her voice. “When you were a little girl you used to throw things around your room with out ever leaving your bed. I would walk in there and you would have things flying around, it used to scare me. Then one day it all stopped. You would still move things every once in a while, but not like you used to. I had talked to your father about it a few times, but we didn’t know what to do. There wasn’t anywhere we could send you. I mean, there wasn’t anything wrong with you. You would even tell me things I was thinking. Things that I really didn’t want you to know. You usually only did that around Christmas and your birthday. I would come home and find you covered in rapping paper, playing with your gifts. You would make me so mad sometimes.”
“So you’ve always known. You’ve always known that I could do these things?”
“Of course we did. You’re our daughter. We love you very much, so when you had dropped out of school and was never home we worried about you. I guess Lucas telling us those things just pushed us over the edge.
“Silva, you can come to us for anything. You can tell us anything. You know that don’t you?”
“Yeah dad I do. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you what I was doing. But I talked to him today and told him that I couldn’t be a part of it any longer. He said it was okay. He told me that you guys wouldn’t have to hurt anymore because of something that I was doing. I quit.” Silva was satisfied with the conversation that happen that night at the dinner table.

~*~

The next morning Silva slept in late. It had been a long time since she had done that. She took her time getting out of bed and getting dressed. She was happy. As Silva skipped down the stairs she smiled at the conversation she had had with her parents last night. She couldn’t wait to tell them more about all the things that had happen over the past few years. She would never get the chance.
Silva walked into the kitchen and found it in shambles. The table had been overturned; some chairs had been smashed into pieces. There was glass everywhere, and the back door was kicked open. As Silva stepped over the wreckage, her eyes began to fill with tears. She already knew what she was going to find. She walked out of the kitchen and into the living room. There were bloodstains all over the peach carpet. A side table had been broken and furniture had been thrown everywhere. Pictures had been torn off the walls and the frames ripped open. Silva continued her inspection of the house, walking into her fathers study next. It was when she entered this room that she let out a terrible heart-piercing scream. Her parents’ bodies lay side by side in the center of the room. Her mothers’ hands looked as if she had tried to defend herself from a knife attack. There were slices through the palms of both her hands. Her legs were tied together at the ankles and her mouth had duct tape over it. Her throat had been slashed open.
Her father’s body was soaked in blood. His shirt had been ripped open exposing several stab wounds to his chest. His hands were bound together with duct tape, and just like her mother his throat was slashed. The sights of their broken bloodied bodies made Silva vomit. Silva ran out of the house and over to the neighbor. She pounded on the door non-stop until someone finally came rushing to open it. Barely able to breath Silva muttered the words “murder” and “call the police”. Not knowing exactly what was going on the neighbor picked up Silva asking her what happen. Finally Silva let out a loud cry “Sotelo killed my parents! Call the police please! Their dead. Both of them are dead. Oh God what did I do? He killed them.”
“Ma’am. Excuse me ma’am.” Silva looked up at her neighbor through tear-blurred eyes. Suddenly her body began to shake and the voice became louder. “Ma’am!” Silva jumped in her seat. She looked around to see herself sitting in the same café; the waitress was standing next to her. “I’m sorry ma’am, but you can’t sleep in here. Did you need anything else? More coffee?”

~*~

It was mid afternoon by the time Silva got moving again. She bought a bus ticket and boarded the bus going home. She took a seat in the back and placed her duffle bag under her feet. As the bus got moving, the driver got a call over the radio. The sound of it made Silva shudder. It sounded like the many radios the police carried that awful day
“You’re going to have to tell me everything. Start from the beginning and tell me what you know.” The officers’ voice was soft and calm. Silva sobbed uncontrollably not able to mutter a word. “Can someone get me a blanket for this poor girl please? How old are you sweetheart?”
“I’ll be 18 tomorrow.” Silva said between sobs. “What am I supposed to do now?” She listened to the sound of the ambulance as it arrived, along with a few more police cars. The sound of the stack from the police radios made Silva uncomfortable. She shut her eyes trying to block out the noise, but it was no use. The sounds around her became louder and louder in her ears. “Stop it,” she said softly. Her body began to shake. She pressed the palms of her hands over her hears as hard as she could trying to block out the scene around her. “Stop it,” she said, this time louder. “Stop it!” Silva finally yelled out. The siren on top of the ambulance blew up into a million pieces; all the police radios rang out with a loud screeching sound before finally falling into dead silence. Silva looked up and saw all the shocked faces looking around at each other wondering what had just happened. Not knowing what to do, Silva stood up and ran down the block.
Many hours had passed since Silva had run away from the dreadful scene at her home. It was almost dawn of the next day before she returned back to her house. She wanted to go in. She wanted to pretend as if the day had never happen. Silva pushed through the yellow caution tape and covered her front door and entered a darkened house. She walked into her fathers study and stared at the bloodstains on the floor where her parents’ deceased bodies had once been. Memories of the last conversation she had with her parents at the dinner table filler her head. She wanted to cry more than ever now. She wanted to run up to her room and fall onto her bed and just be there forever. She knew she would have to leave this place. Where would she go?
Just as Silva turned back and walked through the rest of the house she heard it. It was a voice she would never forget. “Come with me Silva.” Those words made Silva’s heart drop. She turned in the direction of the voice and stared at the thin shadowy figure. “Come on Silva, let’s go home.”
“I am home.” Silva snapped back. She shut her eyes and pictured a brick wall.
“No Silva your not. This is not a home anymore. You didn’t want your parents so suffer any longer for your decisions so I fixed that. I made it so that you would be able to fully concentrate on your training, so you would be able to learn with a clear conscience.” Suddenly, every light in the house turned on. Sotelo squinted in the brightness of the lights until his eyes adjusted. “Good Silva. You’re very good at what you do.” Silva continued to concentrate on her brick wall. She saw every color, every line, and every crack in every bricks. “What are you thinking Silva? You think you can use my own methods against me?” Sotelo stared at Silva and saw her brick wall. Slowly it began to crumble. It swayed back and forth and shook in Silva’s mind. Silva concentrated harder. She opened her eyes to see Sotelo standing less than two feet in front of her, blood running from his nose. She closed her eyes once again. Sotelo could feel his body begin to shake. Blood flowed freely from his nose and ears now, and he knew he could hold on no longer.
“Hello?” A strangers voice filled the house. “Silva, are you here? You need to come with us honey. We’ll take you somewhere safe.” It was the same police officer from before. He must have seen the lights on in the house and had known that only Silva would come back into a place like this. Sotelo opened his eyes and held out his hand to a cookie jar that sat across the kitchen. It lifted itself up and flew into the living room, crashing against the wall.
“Listen to my words Silva and listen well. I’ll be back for you. You choose to have this life. Always remember that.” The kitchen door pulled its self open and hit the counter. Its window shattered into a million pieces of glass. The officer ran into the kitchen just in time to see Sotelo walking out the back door.
He quickly rushed over to Silva and grabbed her by her shoulders. “Are you alright? Silva look at me, are you alright?” Once Silva opened her eyes the officer ran out the back door in pursuit of the thin man he had just seen escaping. He looked in every direction, but there was no sign of him. The officer moves back into the kitchen and notices Silva has still moved from her spot. “Lets go Silva, I’ll take you some place safe.” Before Silva knew it a year had passed and she had moved to three different safe houses. Sotelo had followed her to each one. For some reason the fourth one was different. Months had passed and there was so sign of him. Silva thought she had finally gotten rid of her past, until that one day she answered her front door and saw him standing there.

~*~

The bus came to a jolting stop. Silva’s body jerked forward while she slept. Opening her eyes, she looked around to see the familiar town surrounding her. She was home. She walked off the bus and down a few blocks. Before she knew it she was standing in front of her house. The white paint had grown dingy and gray; the house was no longer welcoming. The windows had been boarded up, and the grass had grown tall. No one had been in the house since the night the officer came in and found Silva and Sotelo in the kitchen.
Silva continued her walk down all the same streets to that familiar basement entrance. Before walking in Silva prepared herself for anything and everything. She readied her mind for the battle that was about to come. First she thought about her brick wall, she added her parents, their murder, her life, and felt strong. She was ready to stop running, she was ready to get her life back.
Silva walked into the basement. Nothing had changed. She could hear the voices off all the different people calling out numbers. As she walked through the center of the room the voices fell silent. All eyes watched Silva slowly make her way to the two double doors. She continued to picture the brick wall and her parents. She could hear their voices telling her how much they loved her. She could feel the love they once showered her in, and she continued to love them right back. As she walked, she help up her right hand to the double doors, and they pulled themselves open. She entered the lions’ den.
The first person she noticed in the room she recognized right away.
“Silva? I thought you were dead.”
“No Luke, not yet.” Silva held out both her hands at Luke, palms out. She closed her eyes as Lucas began to claw at his throat.
“No Silva, please.” She opened her eyes and watched as his body fell to the floor.
“Did you give my parents mercy? Did you stop when they begged you to?” Silva balled her hands up into fists and finally dropped her arms at her sides. Lucas lay motionless on the concrete floor.
“Bravo my dear, bravo.” Silva spun around and caught Sotelo’s black eyes staring back at her. “I’d always known you would come back to me. I knew you couldn’t stay away. Its your destiny.”
“No!” Silva shouted out as her hands flew up into the air. She closed her eyes and pictured herself choking him. She pictured her hands wrapping tightly around his throat, she could hear him gasping for breath, and she could hear him- laughing.
“What did you think Silva? Did you honestly think you would be able to waltz in here and just defeat me like that?” His voice went deep and became even scratchier as he talked. “You can’t beat me Silva. Haven’t you learned that yet?” Sotelo looked from side to side as object began to fly off the walls at Silva. Silva simply closed her eyes and avoided all of them. Sotelo became frustrated not being able to hit Silva so more objects began to fly around the room. Silva kept her mind steady and was able to avoid everything that came at her.
“Now I know you didn’t think it was going to be that easy, did you?” Silva smirked at Sotelo. He stepped forward intending to charge at her, but Silva caught him first. She shut her eyes and began to dig into his mind. Piece by piece she went through his memories, tearing each one apart. She stopped at the picture of her parents. She could see him in her house, murdering them. He made it look like a robbery so no real questions would be asked. If it weren’t for that police officer at the house that night no one would have realized that he was after Silva. Then, her fathers’ gold pocket watch flashed before her eyes. She held out her hand and the item came flying out of Sotelo’s vest pocket landing safely with Silva.
After a few long minutes Silva opened her eyes again to see Sotelo on his knees on the floor pressing his palms against his temples. Blood began to stream out of his nose, ears, and eyes. His hands here turning purple from the amount of pressure he was applying to his head. Sotelo lifted his head and looked up at Silva with reddened eyes. “Thank you Silva.” He whispered as he fell to the ground. Sotelo was dead. Silva glared down at his fallen body not knowing what to do. She had her life back.
As Silva pushed through the double doors to the main basement area, the ground began to shake. All eyes turned toward Silva as the lights began flashing on and off. Some of the youngest in the crowd began to scream. Then everything became still. The lights came back up and Silva watched every person in the room stand up and face her. One of the older boys ran up toward Silva and got down on one knee.
“Sir told us you would come. He told us that once you had freed him you would be our new leader. He said you were the chosen one. What would you like us to call you Ma’am?” Silva couldn’t speak. She could feel her stomach crawling up into her throat. “We’re here to work for you Ma’am. Sir told us that you had to come here to free him. He wouldn’t be able to be freed anywhere else. He had no real power outside these walls. Ma’am?” Tears streamed down Silva’s face. She couldn’t believe it. These past few years of running, hiding herself, not being able to have a real life, all of it happening for no reason. He had gotten the best of her. He got out of her what he wanted. He knew Luke wouldn’t have been able to kill him. He couldn’t get to Luke the way he did with Silva. Silva had lost everything; first her parents, her teenage years, and now her life. She had become the one thing she had been trying to escape, Sotelo’s replacement.

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

Call For Submissions

Mike — Tue, 15 Nov 2005 21:28:12 GMT

Instant City: a literary exploration of San Francisco is now

CALLING FOR SUBMISSIONS

Deadline for Issue 3 is December 1st (although feel free to submit after this deadline for issue 4).

Once again, we're putting out the call for submissions to our third issue. We are looking for fiction, non-fiction, and critical essays that take place in or are about the city of San Francisco. Experiments in narrative and form are encouraged.

Submissions should be under 3000 words. We prefer email submissions. Please include your name, a working email, and phone number and any other contact info in the body of the text.

We do accept simultaneous submissions, but please let us know. Email submissions and queries to:

submissions@instantcity.org

www.instantcity.org

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

A short story by Roald Dahl

sabiedabie — Sun, 02 Oct 2005 22:37:50 GMT

Death of an Old Old Man-Dahl:

Oh God, how I am frightened.
Now that I am alone I don’t have to hide it; I don’t have to hide anything any longer. I can let my face go because no one can see me; because there’s twenty-one thousand feet between me and them and because now that it’s happening again I couldn’t pretend any more even if I wanted to. No I don’t have to press my teeth together and tighten the muscles of my jaw as I did during lunch when the corporal brought in the message; when he handed it to Tinker and Tinker looked up at me and said, ‘Charlie, it’s your turn. You’re next up.’ As if I didn’t know that. As if I didn’t know that I was next up. As if I didn’t know it last night when I went to bed, and at midnight when I was still awake and all the way through the night, at one in the morning and at two and three and four and five and six and at seven o’clock when I got up. As if I didn’t know it while I was dressing and while I was having breakfast and while I was reading the magazines in the mess, playing shove-halfpenny in the mess, reading the notices in the mess, playing billiards in the mess. I knew it then and I knew it when we went into lunch, while we were eating that mutton for lunch. And when the corporal came into the room with the message – it wasn’t anything at all. It wasn’t anything more than when it begins to rain because there is a black cloud in the sky. When he handed the paper to Tinker I knew what Tinker was going to say before he had opened his mouth. I knew exactly what he was going to say.
So that wasn’t anything either.
But when he folded the message up and put it in his pocket and said, ‘Finish your pudding. You’ve got plenty of time,’ that was when it got worse, because I knew for certain then that it was going to happen again, that within half an hour I would be strapping myself in and testing the engine and signaling to the airmen to pull away the chocks. The others were all sitting around eating their pudding; mine was still on my plate in front of me, and I couldn’t take another mouthful. But it was fine when I tightened my jaw muscles and said, ‘Thank God for that. I’m tired of sitting around here picking my nose.’ It was certainly fine when I said that. It must have sounded like any of the others just before they started off. And when I got up to leave the table and said, ‘See you at tea time,’ that must have sounded all right too.
But now I don’t have to do any of that. Thank Christ I don’t have to do that now. I can just loosen up and let myself go. I can do or say anything I want so long as I fly this aeroplane properly. It didn’t used to be like this. Four years ago it was wonderful. I loved doing it because it was exciting, because waiting on the aerodome was nothing more that the waiting before a football game or before going in to bat; and three years ago it was all right too. But then always the three months of resting and the going back again and the resting and the going back, always going back and getting away with it. Everyone saying what a fine pilot, no one knowing what a near thing it was that time near Brussels, and how lucky it was that time over Dieppe and how bad it was that other time over Dieppe and how lucky and bad and scared I’ve been every minute of every trip every week this year. No one know that. That all say, ‘Charlie’s a great pilot,’ ‘ Charlie’s a born flyer,’ ‘Charlie’s terrific.’
I think he was once, but not any longer.
Each time now it gets worse. At first it begins to grow upon you slowly, coming upon you slowly, creeping up on you from behind, making no noise, so that you do not turn round and see it coming. If you saw it coming, perhaps you could stop it, but there is no warning. It creeps closer and closer, like a cat creeps closer stalking a sparrow, and then when it is right behind you, it doesn’t spring like the cat would spring; it just leans forward and whispers in your ear. It touches you gently on the shoulder and whispers to you that you are young, that you have a million things to do and a million things to say, that if you are not careful you will buy it, that you are almost certain to buy it sooner or later, and that when you do you will not be anything any longer; you will just be a charred corpse. It whispers to you about how your corpse will look when it is charred, how black it will be and how it will be twisted and brittle, with the face and the fingers black and the shoes off the feet because the shoes always come off the feet when you die like that. At first it whispers to you only at night. Then it whispers to you at odd moments during the day, when you are doing your teeth or drinking a beer or when you are walking down the passage; and in the end it becomes so that you hear it all day and all night all the time. There’s Ijmuiden. Just the same as ever, with the little knob sticking out just beside it. There are the Frisians, Texel, Vlieland, Terschelling, Ameland, Juist and Norderny. I know them all. They look like bacteria under a microscope. There’s the Zuider Zee, there’s Holland, there’s the North Sea, there’s Belguim, and there’s the world; there’s the whole bloody world right there, with all the people who aren’t going to get killed and all the houses and the towns and the sea with all the fish. The fish aren’t going to get killed either. I’m the only one that’s going to get killed. I don’t want to die. Oh God, I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die today anyway. And it isn’t the pain. I don’t mind having my leg mashed or my arm burnt off; I swear to you that I don’t mind that. But I don’t want to die. Four years ago I didn’t mind. I remember distinctly not minding about it four years ago. I didn’t mind about it three years ago either. It was all fine and exciting ; it always is when it looks as though you may be going to lose, as it did then. It is always fine to fight when you are going to lose everything anyway, and that was how it was four years ago. But now we’re going to win. It is so different when you are going to win. If I die now I lose fifty years of life, and I don’t want to lose that. I’ll lose anything except that because that would be all the things I want to do and all the things I want to see; all the things like going on sleeping with Joey. Like going home sometimes. Like walking through a wood. Like pouring out a drink from a bottle. Like looking forward to week ends and like being alive every hour every day every year for fifty years. If I die now I will miss all that, and I will miss everything else. I will miss the things that I don’t know about. I think those are really the things I am frightened of missing. I think the reason I do not want to die is because of the things I hope will happen. Yes, that’s right. I’m sure that’s right. Point a revolver at a tramp, at a wet, shivering tramp of the side of the road and say, ‘I’m going to shoot you,’ and he will cry, ‘Don’t shoot. Please don’t shoot.’ That tramp clings to life for the same reason; but I have clung for so long now that I cannot hold on much longer. Soon I will have to let go. It is like hanging over the edge of a cliff, that’s what it is like; and I’ve been hanging on too long now, holding on to the top of the cliff with my fingers, not being able to pull myself back up, with my finders getting more and more tired, beginning to hurt and to ache, so that I know that sooner of later I will have to let go. I dare not cry out for help; that is one thing that I dare not do; so I go on hanging over the side of this cliff, and as I hang I keep kicking a little with my feet against the side of the cliff, trying desperately to find a foothold, but it is steep and smooth like the side of a ship, and there isn’t any foothold. I am kicking now, that’s what I am doing. I am kicking against the smooth side of the cliff, and there isn’t any foothold. Soon I shall have to let go. The longer I hang on the more certain I am of that, and so each hour, each day, each night, each week, I become more and more frightened. Four years ago I wasn’t hanging over the edge like this. I was running about in the field above, and although I knew that there was a cliff somewhere and that I might fall over it, I did not mind. Three years ago it was the same, but now it is different.
I know that I am not a coward. I am certain of that. I will always keep going. Here I am today, a two o’clock in the afternoon, sitting here flying a course of one hundred and thirty-five at three hundred and sixty miles an hour and flying well; and although I am so frightened that I can hardly thing, yet I am going to do this thing. There was never any question of not going or of turning back. I would rather die that turn back. Turning back never enters into it. It would be easier if it did. I would prefer to fight that than to have to fight this fear.
There’s Wassalt. Little camouflaged group of buildings and great big camouflaged aerodrome, probably full of one-o-nines and one-nineties. Holland looks wonderful. It must be a lovely place in the summer. I expect they are haymaking down there now. I expect the German soldiers are watching the Dutch girls haymaking. Bastards. Watching them haymaking, then making them come home with them afterwards. I would like to be haymaking now. I would like to be Haymaking and drinking cider.

The pilot was sitting upright in the cockpit. His face was nearly hidden by his goggles and by his oxygen mask. His right hand was resting lightly upon the stick, and his left had was forward on the throttle. All the time he was looking around him into the sky. From force of habit his head never ceased to move from one side to the other, slowly, mechanically, like clockwork, so that each moment almost, he searched every part of the blue sky, above, below, and all around. But it was into the light of the sun itself that he looked twice as long as he looked anywhere else; for that is the place where the enemy hides and waits before he jumps upon you. There are only two places in which you can hide yourself when you are up in the sky. One is in cloud and the other is in the light of the sun.
He flew on; an although his mind was working upon many things and although his brain was the brain of a frightened man, yet his instinct was the instinct of a pilot who is in the sky of the enemy. With a quick glance, without stopping the movement of his head, he looked down and checked his instruments. The glance took no more than a second, and like a camera can record a dozen things at once with the opening of a shutter, so he at a glance recorded with his eyes his oil pressure, his petrol, his oxygen, his rev counter, boost and his air-speed, and in the same instant almost he was looking up again into the sky He looked at the sun, and as he looked, as he screed up his eyes and searched into the dazzling brightness of the sun, he thought that he saw something. Yes, there is was; a small black speck moving slowly across the bright surface of the sun, and to him the speck was not a speck but a life-size German pilot sitting in a Focke Wulf which had cannon in its wings.
He knew that he had been seen. He was certain that the one above was watching him, taking his time, sure of being hidden in the brightness of the sun, watching the Spitfire and waiting to pounce. The man in the Spitfire did not take his eye away from the small speck of black. His head was quite still now. He was watching the enemy, and as he watched, his left hand came away from the throttle and began of move delicately around the cockpit. I moved quickly and surely, toughing this thing and that, switching on his reflector sight, turning his trigger button from ‘safe’ over to ‘fire’ and pressing gently with his thumb upon a lever which increased, ever so slightly, the pitch of the airscrew.
There was no thought in his head now save for the thought of battle. He was no longer frightened or thinking of being frightened. All that was a dream, and as a sleeper who opens his eyes in the morning and forgets his dream, so this man had seen the enemy and forgotten that he was frightened. It was always the same. It had happened a hundred times before, and now it was happening again. Suddenly, in an instant he had become cool and precise, and as he prepared himself, as he made ready his cockpit, he watched the German, waiting to see what he would do.
This man was a great pilot. He was great because when the time came, whenever the moment arrived, his coolness was great and his courage was great, and more than anything else his instinct was great, greater by far than his coolness or his courage or his experience. Now he eased open the throttle and pulled the stick gently backwards, trying to gain height, trying to gain a little of the five-thousand-feet advantage which the German had over him. But there was not much time. The Focke Wulf came out of the sun with its nose down and it came fast. The pilot saw it coming and he kept going straight on, pretending that he had not seen it, and all the time he was looking over his shoulder, watching the German, waiting for the moment to turn. If he turned too soon, the German would turn with him, and he would be duck soup. If he turned too late, the German would get him anyway provided that he could shoot straight, and he would be duck soup then too. So he watched and waited, turning his head and looking over his shoulder, judging his distance; and as the German came within range, as he was about to press his thumb upon the trigger button, the pilot swerved. He yanked the stick hard back and over to the left, he kicked hard with his left foot upon the rudder-bar, and like a leaf which is caught up and carried away by a gust of wind, the Spitfire flipped over on to its side and changed direction. The pilot blacked out.
As his sight came back, as the blood drained away from his head and from his eyes, he looked up and saw the German fighter was ahead, turning with him, banking hard, trying to turn tighter and tighter in order to get back on the tail of the Spitfire. The fight was on. ‘Here we go,’ he said to himself. ‘Here we go again,’ and he smiled once, quickly, because he was confident and because he had done this so many times before and because each time he had won.
The man was a beautiful pilot. But the German was good too, and when the Spitfire applied a little flap in order to turn in tighter circles, the Focke Wulf appeared to do the same, and they turned together. When the Spitfire throttled back suddenly and got on his tail, the Focke Wulf half-rolled and dived out and under and was away, pulling up again in a loop and rolling off the top, so that he came in again from behind. The Spitfire half-rolled and dived away, but the Focke Wulf anticipated him, and half-rolled and dived with him, behind him and on his tail, and here he took a quick shot at the Spitfire, but he missed. For at least fifteen minuets the two small aircraft rolled and dived around and around in tight turns, watching one another, circling and watching like two boxers circling each other in the ring, waiting for an opening or for the dropping of a guar; then there would be a stall-turn and one would attack the other, and the diving and the rolling and the zooming would start all over again.
All the time the pilot of the Spitfire sat upright in his cockpit, and he flew his aircraft not with his hands but with the tips of his fingers, ad the Spitfire was not the Spitfire but a part of his own body; the muscles of his arms and legs were in the wings and in the tail of the machine so that when he banked and turned and dived and climbed he was not moving his hands and his legs, but only the wings and the tail and the body of the aeroplane; for the body of the Spitfire was the body of the pilot, and there was no difference between the one and the other
So it went on, and all the while, as they fought and as they flew; they lost height, coming down nearer and nearer to the fields of Holland, so that soon they were fighting only three thousand fee above the ground, and one could see the hedges and the small trees and shadows which the small trees made upon the grass.
Once the German tried a long shot, from a thousand yards, and the pilot of the Spitfire saw the tracer streaming past in front of the nose of his machine. Once, when they flew close past each other, he saw, for a moment, the head and shoulders of the German under the glass helmet, the goggles, the nose and the white scarf. Once when he blacked out from a quick pull-out, the black-out lasted longer than usual. It lasted maybe five seconds, and when his sight came back, he looked quickly around for the Focke Wulf and saw it half a mile away, flying straight at him on the beam, a thin inch-long black line which grew quickly, so that almost at once it was no longer and inch, but an inch and a half, then two inches, then six and then a foot. There was hardly any time. There was a second perhaps two at the most, but it was enough because he did not have to think or to wonder what to do; he had only to allow his instinct to control his arms and his legs and the wings and the body of the aeroplane. There was only one thing to do, and the Spitfire did it. It banked steeply and turned at right-angles towards the Focke Wulf, facing it and flying straight towards it for a head-on attack.
The two machines flew fast towards each other. The pilot of the Spitfire sat upright in his cockpit, and now, more than ever, the aircraft was a part of his body. His eye was upon the reflector sight, the small yellow electric-light dot which was projected up in front of the windshield, and it was upon the thinness of the Focke Wulf beyond. Quickly, precisely, he moved his aircraft a little this way and that, and the yellow dot, which moved with the aircraft, danced and jerked this way and that, and then suddenly it was upon the thin line of the Focke Wulf and there it stayed. His right thumb in the leather glove felt for the firing-button; he squeezed it gently, as a rifleman squeezes a trigger, his guns fired, and at the same time, he saw the small spurts of flame from the cannon in the nose of the Focke Wulf. The whole thing, from beginning to end, took perhaps as long as it would take you to light a cigarette. The German pilot came straight on at him and he had a sudden, vivid, colourless view of the round nose and the thin outstretched wings of the Focke Wulf. Then there was a crack as their wing-tips met, and there was a splintering as the port wing of the Spitfire came away from the body of the machine.
The Spitfire was dead. It fee like a dead bird falls, fluttering a little as it died; continuing in the direction of its flight as it fell. The hands of the pilot, almost in a single movement, undid his straps, tore off his helmet and slid back the hood of the cockpit; then they grasped his ripcord, grasping it with his right hand, pulling on it so that his parachute billowed out and opened and the straps jerked him hard between the fork of this legs.
All of a sudden the silence was great. The wind was blowing on his face and in his hair and he reached up a hand and brushed the hair away from his eyes. He was about a thousand feet up, and he looked down and saw flat green country with fields and hedges and no trees. He could see some cows in the field below him. Then he looked up and as he looked, he said ‘Good God,’ and his right hand moved quickly to his right hip, feeling for his revolver which he had not brought with him. For there, not a mere five hundred yards away, parachuting down at the same time and at the same height was another man, and he knew when he saw him that if could only be the German pilot. Oviously his plane had been damaged at the same time and the Spitfire in the collision. He must have got out quickly too; and now here they were, both of them parachuting down so close to each other that they might even land in the same field.
He looked again at the German, hanging there in his straps with his legs apart, his hands above his head grasping the cords of the parachute. He seemed to be a small man, thickly built and by no means young. There German was looking at him too. He kept looking, and when his body swung the other way, he turned his head, looking over his shoulder.
So they went on down. Both men were watching each other, thinking about what would happen soon, and the German was the king because he was landing in his own territory. The pilot of the Spitfire was coming down in enemy country; he would be taken prisoner, or he would be killed or he would kill the German, and if he did that, he would escape. I will escape anyway, he thought. I’m sure I can run faster than then German. He does not look as though he could run very fast. I will race him across the fields and get away.
The ground was close now. There were not many seconds to go. He saw that the German would almost certainly land in the same field as he, the field with the cows. He looked down to see what the field was like and whether the hedges were thick and whether there was a gate in the hedge, and as he looked he saw below him in the field a small pond, and there was a small stream running through the pond. It was a cow-drinking pond, muddy round the edges and muddy in the water. The pond was right below him. He was no more than the height of a horse above it and he was dropping fast; he ws dropping right into the middle of the pond. Quickly he grasped the cords above his head and tried to spill the parachute to one side sot that he would change direction, but he was too late; it wasn’t any good. All at once something brushed the surface of his brain and the top of his stomach and the fear which he had forgotten in the fighting was upon him again. He saw that pond and the black surface of the water of the pond, and the pond was not a pond, and the water was not water; it was a small black hole in the surface of the earth which went on down and down for miles and miles, with steep smooth sides like the sides of a ship, and it was so deep that when you fell into it, you went on falling and falling and you fell for ever. He saw the mouth of the hole and the deepness of it, and he was only a small brown pebble which someone had picked up and thrown into the air so that it would fall into the hole. He was a pebble which someone had picked up in the grass of the field. That was all he was and now he was falling and the hole was below him.
Splash. He his the water. He went through the water and his feet hit the bottom of the pond. They sank into the mud on the bottom and his head went under the water, but it came up again and he was standing with the water up to his shoulders. The parachute was on top of him; his head was tangled in a mass of cords and white silk and he pulled at them with his hands, fist this way and then that, bit it only got worse, and the fear got worse because the white silk was covering his head so that he could see nothing but a mass of white cloth and a tangle of cords. Then he tried to move towards the bank, but his feet were stuck in the mud; he had sunk up to his knees in the mud. So he fought the parachute and the tangled cords of the parachute, pulling at them with his hands and trying to get them clear of his head; and as he did so he heard the sound of footsteps running on the grass. He heard the noise of the footsteps coming closer and the German must have jumped, because there was a splash and he was knocked over by the weight of a man’s body.
He was under the water, and instinctively he began to struggle. But his feet were still stuck in the mud, the man was on top of him and there were hands around his neck holding him under and squeezing his neck with strong fingers. He opened his eyes and saw brown water. He noticed the bubbles in the water, small bright bubbles rising slowly upward in the brown water. There was no noise or shouting or anything else, but only the bright bubbles moving upward in the water, and suddenly, as he watched them, his mind became clear and calm like a sunny day. I won’t struggle, he thought. There is no point in struggling, for when there is a black could in the sky, it is bound to rain.
He relaxed his body and all the muscles in his body because he had no further wish to struggle. How nice it is not to struggle, he thought. There is no point in struggling. I was a fool to have struggled so much and for so long; I was a fool to have prayed for the sun when there was a black cloud in the sky. I should have prayed for rain; I should have shouted for rain. I should have shouted, Let it rain, let it rain in solid sheets and I will not care. Then it would have been easy. It would have been so easy then. I have struggled for five years and now I don’t have to do it any more. This is so much better; this is ever so much better, because there is a wood somewhere that I wish to walk through, and you cannot walk struggling through a wood. There is a girl somewhere that I wish to sleep with, and you cannot sleep struggling with a girl. You cannot do anything struggling; especially you cannot live struggling, and so now I am going to do all the things that I want to do, and there will be no more struggling.
See how calm and lovely it is like this. See how sunny it is and what a beautiful field this is, with the cows and the little pond and the green hedges with primroses growing in the hedges. Nothing will worry me any more now, nothing nothing nothing; not even that man splashing in the water of the pond over there. He seems very puffed and out of breath. He seems to be dragging something out of the pond, something heavy. Now he’s got it to the side and he’s pulling it up on to the grass. How funny; It’s a body. It’s a body of a man. As a matter of fact, I think it’s me. Yes, it is me. I know it is because of that smudge of yellow paint on the front of my flying suit. Now he’s kneeling down, searching my pockets, taking out my money and my identification card. He’s found my pipe and the letter I got this morning from my mother. He’s taking off my watch. Now he’s getting up. He’s going away. He’s going to leave my body behind, lying the grass beside the pond. He’s walking quickly away across the filed towards the gate. How wet and excited he looks. He ought to relax a bit. He ought to relax like me. He can’t be enjoying himself that way. I think I will tell him.
‘Why don’t you relax a bit?’
Goodness, how he jumped when I spoke to him. And his face; just look at his face. I’ve never seen a man look as frightened as that. He’s starting to run. He keeps looking back over his shoulder ,but he keeps on running. But just look at his face; just look how unhappy and frightened he is. I do not want to go with him. I think I’ll leave him. I think I’ll stay here for a bit. I think I’ll go along the hedges and find some primroses, and if I am lucky I may find some white violets. Then I will go to sleep. I will go to sleep in the sun.

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Publishing for children

grandpa_jim — Thu, 08 Sep 2005 17:08:01 GMT

Please check out this new tribe if children are your interest. It is intended as a playful meeting ground for diverse talents including writers, artists, musicians, voice over, distributors, animators.
tribes.tribe.net/publishingforchildren

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The Garden

WolfHeart — Fri, 26 Aug 2005 11:38:47 GMT

THE GARDEN

The rain had fallen softly throughout the night. I awoke to the sweet smell of wet grass. The aroma filled my senses. Spring flowers were awakening, opening to meet a new day. The sun had not begun to rise over the distant mountains. The air was sweet and cool, a hint of pine wafted down from the tall fir that stood as a beacon of strength in my front yard. I looked around at my neighborhood. Others were out and about, looking up and down the street ( I guess they were doing the same thing I was doing. However, I wondered in my mind, I wonder, do others appreciate what the earth-mother has bestowed upon us? Do they see things in the same light as I ? The sun begins to rise above the distant mountains, its warmth is disguised by the cool breeze that is flowing from east to west. Soon though, the heat will overtake the coolness. The light will overshadow the darkness. The day will be at hand. With a new day comes a new responsibility. Shall I mow the lawn after the grass dries? Or… shall I work in the garden, tending to the delicate herbs, voracious vegetables and the strong stalks of the Honest Abe corn? Walking to the backyard I notice a small group of pill bugs scurrying for shelter before the sun comes out. The ladybugs sit upon the damp leaves, drinking the rain water that sustains their very existence and chewing on the leaves. I do not mind if they harvest their meals from me. That is what I have a garden for anyway, to sustain life. Not only my own, but for all living creatures. I walk the distance down the side of the house, careful not to step in the pools of mud the rain left in its’ wake. The sunflowers seem to be bright this day, giving out a yellow-orange glow against the pale blue sides of my house, turning the blue to the most amazing shade of green. I stop in amazement as the color grabs me, holds me firm, and seems to hypnotize me. I am startled by the sound of a hummingbird, flying just feet above my head, on it’s’ way to the sweet water of the hummingbird feeder hanging from the eave of the back patio. Moving down the rain soaked path, slowly, carefully, trying to be as quiet as possible as not to disturb the hummingbirds feast. I spot out of the corner of my eye… a blue jay sitting on the fence in the darkest, most distant corner of the yard. He looks at me with a kind of disregard, knowing I would not pose a threat, his eyes search the yard intensely, quickly flicking from one spot to another. Suddenly, without warning, he swoops off the fence and into the middle of the yard, landing roughly. Ebony beak open, he grabs the worm he had spied peeking its head out of the soft damp ground, and flies off. Hummingbirds humming, ladybugs, pill bugs, blue jays feasting. This is indeed a glorious day. The goddess has graced us with perfection. I take in a deep breath, filling my lungs with the sweet, cool air. Senses reeling, I hear the softest sound. Faint, in the distance. It seems to be coming from the east. It begins to get louder yet it is still very soft to the ear. A kind of soft rumble that is faint yet quite clear.. My mind and my eyes return to the task at hand. Kneeling, I feel the dampness of the grass penetrating the cloth of my pants, cooling my knees. “The tomatoes are doing well today.” I think to myself, “as are the rest of my little friends.” I reach for the weed that threatens the baby-carrots delicate stem. Grabbing its stalk, and with a quick jerk, I end its life. “How sad, you haven’t a chance with me around.” I chuckle, saying a small prayer… “This weed, though by definition, is only an unwanted plant, had to perish, to give life to the nutrient strong carrot. A life is a life. No matter how insignificant we make it out to be. “Return its soul to the earth.” With that, I stand and walk over to the compost box and toss him in, to mix his energies and body with the others that have come before him. To allow him to decompose and make fertilizer, so he can again become a useful resource to the world around him. The hummingbird has gained a friend. Now, two are gathered near the feeder. Their wings whispering in the morning air, making their own breeze. Their lightening-fast action, causing the humming sound, fascinates me. Their tiny little hearts, sustaining such energy. The gods and goddesses sure knew what they were doing when they made these incredible little creatures. The two fly in unison, dodging each other gracefully in a game of cat and mouse. A butterfly flutters gracefully in the breeze, landing on an open ESOPs Daisy. She flutters her delicate wings as the breeze tries to push her off the petal. The noise I had heard earlier was getting louder.. the rumble. The leaves in the trees above me begin to sway, and the wind hits like an unwelcome visitor. Harsh waves of wind, rolling through the tree tops, pushing the trees first one way then relaxing just enough to make them sway the other, spewing leaves across the lawn and beyond the garden wall. As suddenly as it had arrived, the wind vanished. Passing along its way. A solitary warrior heading into battle. With an indistinguishable force and attitude, the wind pushes along… momentarily conquering its environment then passing us by, leaving turmoil in its wake. Reminding all of its destructive possibilities and infinite strength. The butterfly, which had been holding on for its life during its brief encounter with mother natures fierce wind, seems to shrug it off, and softly flutters away. I walk across the lawn, back to the garden spot and pick a few herbs that I can use this night, when the sun makes its daily retreat and the moon rises, shining her illuminating heart upon the earth. Heather, for the potion. sweet dill and juniper leaves from the near-by plant will provide several of the things I need. I reach down, picking the parsley leaves gently from their tiny branches, careful not to harm the little fellow. The corn seems to call my name. I am not one to ignore. (chuckling to myself ) I pick a sweet looking ear and place it in the tightly woven basket near my feet. “Ah, a salad would be nice I think” the lettuces of romaine and iceberg, and a bit of spinach leaves, a few radishes and a carrot to grate over the top. “Don’t forget the onion” I think aloud. I take all the ingredients and place them in the basket, making sure as to remove the herbs first and place the hardy vegetables underneath. I place the herbs back on top and stand, stretching my arms wide, and arching my back. Ah, a good stretch ! I gather up the basket in my left hand and wave farewell to my garden with the other. “Thank you for the herbs and the vegetables.” “Tonight I shall feast upon these vegetables and gain strength.” “Tomorrow, I will come to my garden, and plant a few new herbs, and water the garden.” Whenever I take, I feel I should return 3 fold. It is the way our ancestors lived and the way I believe I should live also. Never be without, but, never take without giving back in return. It has indeed been a perfect day in the garden. The warm sun, giving his light and providing vitamins. The rain, providing water for growth. The wind, cooling the air and moving pollen from one place to another, starting life anew. And the earth, which provides a place for all to grow, holds its nutrients, and uses its gravity to hold us close to her bosom. The world around us is indeed a grand and glorious place. It is our responsibility to keep it that way.

~WolfHeart April 7th, 2001~

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Short Stories on Amazon

Mon, 22 Aug 2005 20:18:14 GMT

Amazon has just launched a new feature, "Shorts." Basically it's an entire section of their site dedicated to short stories and essays penned by noted authors. I've provided the link below.

http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/browse/-/13993911/ref=amb_right-2_96032601_3/102-6841752-7088940

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Greetings!

WolfHeart — Sun, 21 Aug 2005 17:22:28 GMT

I am new here and have never let anyone read any of my writings.. but here goes... alittle longer that most... hope you enjoy...

THE GARDEN

The rain had fallen softly throughout the night. I awoke to the sweet smell of wet grass. The aroma filled my nostrils. Spring flowers were awakening, opening to meet a new day. The sun had not begun to rise over the distant mountains. The air was sweet and cool, a hint of pine wafted down from the tall fir that stood as a beckon of strength in my front yard. I looked around at my neighborhood. Others were out and about, looking up and down the street ( I guess they were doing the same thing I was doing. However, I wondered in my mind, I wonder, do others appreciate what the earth-mother has bestowed upon us? Do they see things in the same light as I ? The sun begins to rise above the distant mountains, its warmth is disguised by the cool breeze that is flowing from east to west. Soon though, the heat will overtake the coolness. The light will overshadow the darkness. The day will be at hand. With a new day comes new responsibilities. Shall I mow the lawn after the grass dries? Or… shall I work in the garden, tending to the delicate herbs, voracious vegetables and the strong stalks of the Honest Abe corn? Walking to the backyard I notice a small group of pill bugs scurrying for shelter before the sun comes out. The ladybugs sitting on the damp leaves, drinking the rain water that sustains their very existence. Chewing on the leaves. I do not mind if they harvest their meals from me. That is what I have a garden for anyway, to sustain life. Not only my own, but for all living creatures. I walk the distance down the side of the house, careful not to step in the pools of mud the rain left in its’ wake. The sunflowers seem to be bright this day, giving out a yellow-orange glow against the pale blue sides of my house, turning the blue to the most amazing shade of green. I stop in amazement as the color grabs me, holds me firm, and seems to hypnotize me. I am startled by the sound of a hummingbird, flying just feet above my head, on it’s’ way to the sweet water of the hummingbird feeder hanging from the eave of the back patio. Moving down the rain soaked path, slowly, carefully, trying to be as quiet as possible as not to disturb the hummingbirds feast. I spot out of the corner of my eye… a blue jay sitting on the fence in the darkest, most distant corner of the yard. He looks at me with a kind of disregard, knowing I would not pose a threat, his eyes search the yard intensely, quickly flicking from one spot to another. Suddenly, without warning, he swoops off the fence and into the middle of the yard, landing roughly. Ebony beak open, he grabs the worm he had spied peeking its head out of the soft damp ground, and flies off. Hummingbirds humming, ladybugs, pill bugs, blue jays feasting. This is indeed a glorious day. The goddess has graced us with perfection. I take in a deep breath, filling my lungs with the sweet, cool air. Senses reeling, I hear the softest sound. Faint, in the distance. It seems to be coming from the east. It begins to get louder yet it is still very soft to the ear. A kind of soft rumble. My mind and my eyes return to the task at hand. Kneeling, I feel the dampness of the grass penetrating the cloth of my pants. Cooling my knees. “The tomatoes are doing well today.” I think to myself, “as are the rest of my little friends.” I reach for the weed that threatens the baby-carrots delicate stem. Grabbing its stalk, and with a quick jerk, I end its life. “How sad, you haven’t a chance with me around.” I chuckle, saying a small prayer… “this weed, though by definition, is only an unwanted plant, had to perish, to give life to the nutrient strong carrot. A life is a life. No matter how insignificant we make it out to be. “Return its soul to the earth.” With that, I stand and walk over to the compost box and toss him in, to mix his energies and body with the others that have come before him. To allow him to decompose and make fertilizer, so he can again become a useful resource to the world around him. The hummingbird has gained a friend. Now, two are gathered near the feeder. Their wings whispering in the morning air, making their own breeze. Their lightening-fast action, causing the humming sound, fascinates me. Their tiny little hearts, sustaining such energy. The gods and goddesses sure knew what they were doing when they made these incredible little creatures. The two fly in unison, dodging each other gracefully in a game of cat and mouse. A butterfly flutters gracefully in the breeze, landing on an open ESOPs Daisy. She flutters her delicate wings as the breeze tries to push her off the petal. The noise I had heard earlier was getting louder.. the rumble. The leaves in the trees above me begin to sway, and the wind hits like an unwelcome visitor. Harsh waves of wind, rolling through the tree tops, pushing the trees first one way then relaxing just enough to make them sway the other, spewing leaves across the lawn and beyond the garden wall. As suddenly as it had arrived, the wind vanished. Passing along its way. A solitary warrior heading into battle. With an indistinguishable force and attitude, the wind pushes along… momentarily conquering its environment then passing us by, leaving turmoil in its wake. Reminding all of its destructive possibilities and infinite strength. The butterfly, which had been holding on for its life during its brief encounter with mother natures fierce wind, seems to shrug it off, and softly flutters away. I walk across the lawn, back to the garden spot and pick a few herbs that I can use this night, when the sun makes its daily retreat and the moon rises, shining her illuminating heart upon the earth. Heather, for the potion. sweet dill and juniper leaves from the near-by plant will provide several of the things I need. I reach down, picking the parsley leaves gently from their tiny branches, careful not to harm the little fellow. The corn seems to call my name. I am not one to ignore. (chuckling to myself ) I pick a sweet looking ear and place it in the tightly woven basket near my feet. “Ah, a salad would be nice I think” the lettuces of romaine and iceberg, and a bit of spinach leaves, a few radishes and a carrot to grate over the top. “Don’t forget the onion” I think aloud. I take all the ingredients and place them in the basket, making sure as to remove the herbs first and place the hardy vegetables underneath. I place the herbs back on top and stand, stretching my arms wide, and arching my back. Ah, a good stretch ! I gather up the basket in my left hand and wave farewell to my garden with the other. “Thank you for the herbs and the vegetables.” “Tonight I shall feast upon these vegetables and gain strength.” “Tomorrow, I will come to my garden, and plant a few new herbs, and water the garden.” Whenever I take, I feel I should return 3 fold. It is the way our ancestors lived and the way I believe I should live also. Never be without, but, never take without giving back in return. It has indeed been a perfect day in the garden. The warm sun, giving his light and providing vitamins. The rain, providing water for growth. The wind, cooling the air and moving pollen from one place to another, starting life anew. And the earth, which provides a place for all to grow, holds its nutrients, and uses its gravity to hold us close to her bosom. The world around us is indeed a grand and glorious place. It is our responsibility to keep it that way.

~WolfHeart April 7th, 2001~

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

My story " His Fantasy Girl " has been Published on Dreampassage website

Tue, 05 Jul 2005 06:05:34 GMT

a story i have written has been published on www.dreampassage.com feel free to read it and vote on it, go here to read my story ( his Fantasy Girl http://www.dreampassage.com/cgi-bin/dynamiccontentselect.cgi?genreType=fantasy&contentType=stories my last story ( Mermaids Island ) won 2nd place

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 2 replies

Not quite a short story, but...

Aeronious — Tue, 28 Jun 2005 19:35:21 GMT

I'm currently posting a novella in small sections that read like short stories.

http://romenovel.tribe.net/?_click_path=Application%5Btribe%5D.Tribe%5Bb495d78f-b04c-4668-b4e4-e8dcc47f4adf%5D&r=10704

Oh, and hello.

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

Aeon Speculative Fiction

marti — Fri, 24 Jun 2005 19:28:26 GMT

There's now a tribe for anyone interested in Aeon Speculative Fiction, the quarterly ebook magazine. Discuss the stories, meet the writers, get links to the story previews, talk writing, reading...

We hope to see you there.

aeonmagazine.tribe.net.

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

Fun with names

monkeylion — Mon, 06 Jun 2005 17:34:40 GMT

Well it seems that those darned spammers have given up on trying to trick me into reading their emails with real sounding sender names and have gone for my laugh box.

It still didn't work, but I appreciate the effort. What's your favorite?

Gardening L. Tidewater

Himmler K. Hymning

Incognito C. Cottonmouth

Manger F. Oversampling

Klee J. Lunch

Rosiest K. Dukes

Feast J. Hardship

Jeannette H. Grails

Squab E. Signatory

Remarque G. Bannered

Profuse S. Indented

Mincemeat T. Dredger

Scofflaw D. Damasking

Preamble T. Dixiecrat

Consume I. Extremely

Merrymaker E. Meander

Tennis I. Puppet

Openwork P. Cadenzas

Jawing Q. Railleries

Backing J. Move

Descriptor U. Lyra

Breathiest B. Alienation

Oxus O. Swisher

Foreskins B. Haughty

Emporium H. Pinkeye

Tubman A. Agenda

Brzezinski L. Halyard

Corine G. Otis

Greatness C. Purloining

Doubles B. Perfumed

Nissan U. Unison

Cants M. Eroticism

Drummed U. Pattern

Romanov G. Burro

Floyd Blankenship

Breathtaking Q. Intent

Revering C. Blackberrying

Delta L. Garrisoning

Retaliatory L. Casein

Dissolve I. Funeral

Stalingrad S. Horn

Education L. Exchange

Callipering G. Archenemy

Disporting U. Quadrilaterals

Lushness U. Buddy

Cachets J. Burn

Ageless O. Heralded

Priestley K. Karakorum

Okeechobee J. Gain

Abelson I. Stow

Juniper E. Serviceable

Entrant O. Particularly

Asphalts V. Redeemer

Thirty Q. Giannini

Greenbacks A. Genially

Poisoned R. Disestablishing

Shelton M. Ramsay

Fermentation D. Umbrage

Shrimps P. Impecuniousness

Torrider G. Pragmatics

Aluminum S. Countertenor

Competitive U. Bettors

Catcalled S. Mencken

Transporter H. Samovar

Conqueror A. Lividly

Constricting L. Pestled

Monotheism L. Enslaving

Goody H. Exactest

Granulating V. Hartman

Displacements V. Homily

Scorer V. Legislator

Discouragements U. Pneumonia

Barging A. Tweaked

Haddock F. Wainscotting

Careful H. Bacteriology

Really K. Seriously

Undeveloped H. Gab

Correctness K. Rewarded

Dobbin S. Countrified

Glibness I. Builder

Disuses H. Unhitched

Sweatshops G. Misplayed

Glummer H. Garnishing

Seashells B. Mirfak

Boyishness Q. Pennsylvanians

Struggle O. Falconry

Flourier F. Wrath

Reservedly U. Milligram

Habitation A. Encoders

Throbs H. Piss

Hourly T. Aesthetics

Congress V. Entitlements

Waugh L. Harp

Corespondents O. Manhunt

Vetch H. Existentialism

Wainscots M. Cleverest

HealthQuoteProvider

Wombs A. Revered

Prom D. Consortia

Kinship H. Tenderizes

Overlies H. Wonderlands

Pilothouse J. Relapsing

Outstaying C. Ellison

Gandhi T. Rachmaninoff

Legging O. Embraced

Vehemence I. Bemuse

Tractor L. Tipsier

Kippers G. Radios

Carpenter M. Accumulator

Immobilizing R. Signaled

Barr M. Sheepskin

Realizes P. Sanitation

Slakes P. Ultimate

Crash Q. Faced

Suggestively S. Angered

Unbranded S. Hatter

Videotaping U. Bangui

Faraday O. Grimaces

Important Cancer Info

Liliuokalani G. Punk

Sierras O. Strange

Arlington A. Imbeds

Trampoline A. Extolled

Sloshed U. Restrictively

Topographer J. Galleried

Swishest R. Calculuses

Pertains A. Guillotine

Defoggers J. Meanders

Crackdown H. Settings

Turbot T. Spinner

Confronting F. Tokens

Burlesques Q. Mortgage

Stingers J. Branding

Assisting H. Pathogens

Petrify K. Citrus

Entreated C. Convicts

Pope A. Saintliest

Immeasurably H. Squeakiest

Hermosillo E. Wighted

Meshing C. Hanger

Disobliges J. Partaker

Awaited H. Jauntiness

Madison H. Lynches

Nosh K. Ignoramus

Clef C. Harass

Nozzle M. Alembert

Decipherable Q. Emerald

Raindrops F. Lissome

Glops L. Patagonian

Cottages L. Bogeyman

Paperweights T. Unclearest

Cheapskates M. Mustang

Saxophonist F. Blab

Supplicant J. Darrin
_______________________

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 4 replies

Earth Shoes

Chris — Sun, 08 Aug 2004 14:31:32 GMT

Earth Shoes
by Christopher J. Bradley
(c)2004

A new door opens,
An indian walks in,
He sets down his tomahawk,
And welcomes Columbus,

Columbus responds,
And builds up the Coast,
Then returns to Spain,
And brings with him Portugal.

Another Door Opens,
And East India walks to America,
And the Buffalo welcome him,
And he rides the American Dream,
His batmobile a Mazda Prototype,
He engineers the future,
In the secrecy of his basement,
Where cold politics run amok,
And the vicious blond bombers,
Try to push their asses against headboards,
But he is smart enough to know,
That wine is not the solution,
To the puzzle presented by Rubik and Big Green.

And so the Indian Moves with Columbus,
To topple the tower of Babble,
And Make the world,
One Big Video Game,
And Buy A Big Hitachi,
While Takahashi Spreads the Virus,
To infect the unclean,
With the dope that keeps them in Darkness,
Just for a time to prevent an uprising,

And then gradually,
As the sun shines on an Ellis Island,
Long missing from our land,
Share the freedoms of America,
And buy a McDonald's Happy Meal,
For Every Kid in Ethiopia,
And Fundamentally Change the world,
For the better.

The dreams of this power child,
Will be realized,
In the scripting of the future,
And the apostles will see fire again,
And speak the language of the people,
Through the open doors of the Alta Vista Babel Fish,
On the morning that the shark burns chrome,
And the children of tomorrows children,
Come to learn,
That the pen is mightier,
Than any sword, known, to mankind,

You can take that to the bank,
And set me up with a loan,
Through the dragonfly,
Whose relationship to me,
Is sounder than the fury,
And warmer than a summer day,
At the skydome in Toronto,
And who doesn't mind,
That her cousin, sometimes,
Has to cry for help.

Tom Cruise is on the big screen now,
And Ray will be out soon,
And if you can put the two together,
In Hollywoood,
You know exactly where I'll be resting,
At 11:30 this morning,
While the ships sail out from port hope,
And St. Catherines,
And the race of the century,
Is unleashed from its moorings,

And the people of the mighty Niagara,
Are so in tune with Brooklyn,
That it matters not what we say or do,
Because they are in fabulous love with us,
The spirits sing from beyond the grave,
of 400 years of enslavement,
And Jazz, Hip Hop, RnB, Techno,
Detroit, Chicago, and Boston,
Montreal, and Daytona,
Huntsville, and Monte Carlo,
Paris and London,
Are on Eastern Standard Time,
And Grenich Mean is Serious,
No single human can grasp my meaning,
Without 2 humpback whales,
And a journey back to 1969 with Spock,
And a girl with a notebook that plays,
Knight Rider and Speed Racer,
And James Bond's Mother,
Because we're taking it to the foundations,
And they are made of Tensile Concrete,
Strung Across Synthetic Cement,
And these Shoes,
Are 100%
Earth.

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 6 replies

New Tribe: The Writing Life

sweetajuma — Wed, 30 Mar 2005 14:46:04 GMT

New tribe: thewritinglife.tribe.net

Good writing walks on its own two feet. It is not a reflection of yourself, but carries its own person, or persona. Persona is a voice that comes on its own...it is a mixture of your experience of others, yourself, or some believe that writers become a sort of channel...with a voice rushing through one from hands to typewriter/pen.

Fragments can bring about persona which I believe the best, "finished" or rather whole writing comes from. We can use these unborn babies for finished stories.

So for now, I'd like to write my daily or weekly fragments. No pressure, no critique, just write about life...internal or external. Some fragments may inspire others, or they may not...

This way, if you have a demanding job...but still want a writing life, you can have both. The small daily efforts (can be only 5 minutes) can turn into a big project, either alone or together.

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

B.A. the story of my life~

Fri, 25 Mar 2005 22:15:41 GMT

The girl walked slowly, lonesomely through out the city at night. A place that she had grown to love , San Francisco.
In her innermost thoughts, deep down she knew she had a problem. One that would most likely have to be addressed with her parents and co-horts. Her problem spanned not only from the loneliness but also for the ideal love that she had found.
A love that could never ever be consummated or talked about...

In her eyes , the girl had tears liquifying at an extreme rate, unbeknownst to herself whether they were tears of joy or tears of sadness. Even she hadnt a clue, the soft gentle prodding of her heart made her press on. She had been invited to her best girlfriends house for dinner in the castro, each step she took was painful, her best friend was a vegetarian and...

**To Be Continued..**

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

Story

Nick — Thu, 10 Mar 2005 05:01:52 GMT

of an old man in song

http://www.hoplit.net/stories/maestro.html

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

Short Story?

Sheridan — Sun, 06 Mar 2005 03:16:30 GMT

I've got a short story I'd like to post. However, if I post it, do I retain rights over it? Also, what if I want to submit it to a publication that does not accept simultaneous submissions? Does posting it here void me from that?

I'm very new to this, in fact, my short story probably isn't publishable. So any and all insights would be very helpful. Any help on submissions or even how I can get more people to read some stuff I've done would be helpful too.

Thanks

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 3 replies

CyberPunk FlashFiction Generator piece

mckenzee — Thu, 28 Oct 2004 15:49:33 GMT

My short story with the rules explained after.

http://www.livejournal.com/users/mckenzee/130145.html

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 3 replies

Sci-Fi publishing options

Russet66 — Thu, 09 Dec 2004 18:16:26 GMT

I have a friend (really, it's not me!) who has written a long short story (15K words) and is looking to submit it. He's researching all the sci-fi magazines out there, but I was wondering which ones, in your estimation, would be the best for submitting work. Anyone have a history of submitting to sci-magazines out there?

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 12 replies

"Offshoot" - a surreal new dimension

Pearl — Mon, 07 Feb 2005 07:00:49 GMT

OFFSHOOT

Pearl Fritz - Ap04M4

PART I

Khan found himself walking along a path paved with gray stone and mortar, lined with red brick and green, impersonal shrubbery intermingled with fuchsias that hung their purple heads shyly.  At the end of the path was a door that was opened as soon as he arrived at the doorstep.  She stood smiling in the doorway, dressed in medieval Japanese garb.  Her eyes spoke hospitality, her face a familiar friend with no name or reference to place it.  She was plain and homely; brown hair and peaches-and-cream complexion was shaped with rounded, gentle features that hid crazy streak a mile wide.
“I’ve met you before . . . I know you,” Khan was inclined to remark, but after that words failed him.
She tilted her head, “Actually, we’ve never met as a face to a face . . . but you’ll find the latter to be an understatement.”
A plait as think as a child’s pinky crept from behind her ear and fussed between two fingers of her right hand, which she then extended to shake, “Khan, I’m Mikit.”
When his hand was offered in return she clasped it in both hands, and with a bow she pulled him inside, shutting the door behind them with her hip.  Once inside the usually bold man walked with slow, timid reverence.  Stone floors and walls allowed a spacious foyer to be open to the sky without so much as a pane of glass to stop the weather from getting in.  Small fruit trees and leafy house plants bathed in a wash of warm, sleepy sunlight, surrounded by ballets of floating dust particles that stirred as the two individuals passed through.   Mikit seemed to float silently over the smooth floor in her sock feet.  The two legs of her two-color hakama matched her kimono:  a seam down the middle separating black on the right and white on the left.
Choosing between two possible arching, temple-like doorways the two entered a sitting room with no chairs.
“What tea do you like?” Mikit inquired as Khan looked about the new room.
“Earl Gray,” decided Khan.
“Mmm . . .” Mikit took the decision and savored it like poetry, “I’ll try vanilla nut this time.”
Khan was too busy taking in exquisite Persian rugs and simplistic Japanese vases.  A coffee table made to seat four kneeling visitors graced the middle of the room.  While Mikit minced to presumably the kitchen, Khan knelt by the table, glazed with awed bewilderment.  What was I doing before this escapade?  Am I asleep?  To his five senses it was as real to him as the café/bookstore he ran, but just then even that felt less a reality than a passing thought.
Mikit returned from the kitchen, closely followed by a surprising addition to the dream world.
“What the- why are you here, Paul?” exclaimed Khan, half rising.
Paul tilted his head, “Same to you.”
“I had writer’s block, so I decided to invite over initiative,” Mikit nodded towards Khan, “And creativity,” she nodded towards the now seated Paul.
Paul smiled amiably, “Writer’s block, huh?  I’ll see what I can do.”
Khan looked uncomfortable as Mikit handed him his tea.  A secret gleamed in the eyes of the girl sitting across the table from him.
“That’s why I called you to my humble abode, Paul-cat,” Mikit beamed.
Paul made a squeak at the endearment, “Ooo, I like that: ‘Paul-cat’.”  He giggled.
“And where exactly are we?” Khan tried to piece together a sequence of events that led to him walking up to Mikit’s front door.  Mikit faltered, swallowed, then sipped her tea.  Just when Khan thought she wouldn’t reply, she spoke up.
“Spandex space,” Mikit blurted hastily, then gained confidence and continued, “You know how cartoon characters will materialize objects too large for the containers they came out of?  Like . . . a mallet, an anvil, or a gun.  The explanation for this phenomenon has two names.  The most common term is ‘hammer space’, but I prefer to borrow the term ‘spandex space’ from a friend of mine, in honor of a certain Japanese cartoon pilot who wore spandex shorts and a tank top, yet somehow carried machine guns, grenades, detonators . . . yadda yadda yadda.”
Paul’s mouth quirked into an amused smile, “’Spandex shorts’?”
“Yup,” Mikit took another sip from her tea and winked.
“A cartoon.  We’re sitting in a cartoon phenomenon that shouldn’t exist,” Khan clarified slowly.   Alienated, he poked experimentally at the Persian rug as if sitting on it wasn’t enough proof of its existence.  Mikit and Paul watched with bemused expressions as Khan smelled and sampled his tea, knocked on the coffee table, and pinched his own arm.
“This is neither an elaborate hoax or a hallucination,” Mikit informed him.
“Oh, so shall I meet a gray rabbit with a carrot and a New York accent when I go into the next room?” asked Khan, “How did I get here?  Where on Earth are we?”
Mikit didn’t even bother to address the first two questions, “Spandex space is a different dimension, so ‘where’ is a fruitless question.”
“So . . . explain,” Khan set his tea on the table and folded his hands.
“What, that you’re all figments of my imagination?  That this is a house and everything in it is a whim created to give you two a nice environment where we can talk?  Or that the both of you are based on different aspects of my personality?” Mikit became impatient, “Look, I realize that you may have a tough time adjusting to this but I’ve called you here for a reason.”
“And that reason is writer’s block,” Paul filled in.
“Right.  At least somebody catches on quickly,” Mikit rolled her eyes, and for a moment they caught the light and gleamed cobalt.  Paul’s mouth quirked half opened as he tried to place the sarcastic speech pattern.
“Yo people!  Stop gawkin’ and let’s brainstorm.  I got a book ta write,” Mikit reminded moodily.
“Mmm-hmm, and what book would this be?” asked Paul, watching his host closely.
Mikit immediately calmed as she prepared to describe her novel.  Her eyes took on a greenish tint, “Well . . . it starts out with four, er, three teenagers in an abandoned building.  The first is an introverted, manly sixteen year old with an air rifle, the second is an adorable ass of a fifteen year old boy with long hair and a knack for making homemade grenades, and the third is a blonde, seventeen year old fruit who has not yet come out of the closet.   The blonde goes around barefoot, so of course he would cut his feet on some broken glass . . .”
Had Paul been listening, he probably would have had the same expression on his face as Khan.  The Persian man’s hand shook as he brought his mug of tea to his lips.  Mikit spoke faster and smoother at the same time.  Her speech pattern alarmed Paul in how much she sounded like himself despite the lack of a Georgian accent.
“ . . . Heman twists his ankle and gets helped out by a homeless girl who happens to look alarmingly like grenade boy, while Paul goes home with Calvin . . .” Mikit drawled.
That snapped Paul to attention, “Oh?  I am so-o-o sorry, Mikit dear, I wasn’t paying attention.  You’re saying I’m in this book?  Ooo, I like the sound of that, but do you know what I find so very sleek?  I could have sworn your eyes were brown, but then you got this familiar flare to your voice and you’re eyes were blue.  Now, we can talk about how the light hits the iris, but these chameleon tendencies strike chords with your speech pattern and the way you compose yourself.  I saw Duria in you a moment ago, and now I see myself.”
Mikit listened intently, “Ye-e-es?”
“Miss Green Eyes, why do you turn into Duria when you get sass to your lip?” asked Paul sweetly.
“Don’t you know?” Mikit asked coyly, “You, Duria, Khan, and Dokku are enhanced reflections of different aspects of my personality.  Well, I wouldn’t call Khan a personality so much as a function.”
“Ma’am, you’re nuts,” Khan commented dryly.
“You must have me confused with Paul, see, I don’t have any,” Mikit retorted, “Not now, anyway.”  Paul laughed; Khan glowered.
“Do the other’s know?” inquired Paul.
“No-o-o-o, I’ll jus’ ha’e ta call ‘em in, ne?” Mikit chirped cheerfully.

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 4 replies

narrative

jmparker — Wed, 02 Feb 2005 20:41:11 GMT

Hi,
I'm starting this tribe basically for writers struggling with how to structure narratives, but also for readers and theorists interested in discussing narratology, story structure, theory, etc.

http://raleigh.tribe.net/tribe/42f58694-c8cd-4a88-9f4e-12e11919afc1?r=10687

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

Posted, and currently under submission in NYC

JimJ — Thu, 09 Dec 2004 17:46:12 GMT

http://philly.tribe.net/thread/f411f8e4-ead3-48b7-88b8-309172a055b3?tribeid=a0b5712f-9c55-46cf-885b-22e0f96c0b68&r=10319

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

Introduction & Sample . . .

stillbeing — Wed, 22 Sep 2004 03:58:57 GMT

Hi, I'm very new to all this. I've been writing short stories and various other things since I was about 11, rarely sharing them with others.

Anyway, I'm 21, work, live in inner suburbs Melbourne with my housemate, my budgie, two rabbits and a small aquarium. If you'd like to know anything more, just ask . . . I keep a small collection of things I've written in recent times on a journal, feel free to browse ( http://www.livejournal.com/users/molly_cule/ )

Anyway, here's something written a few months ago from an idea I had whilst walking home. Any criticism or comments would be greatly appreciated.

------------------------------

The air here never changes. Walking through the city back home to my unit from work, it still smelt strange. It has for weeks, months, years even, though I suppose it’s only been recently that I’ve actually taken notice. Heavy with the smell of polyurethane, the air reeked of new foam, only dissipating in the controlled, clinical atmosphere inside the air-conditioned buildings.

Last Sunday I went for a drive to the country, just to get away from the smell and relax. But on reaching a quiet picnic spot by a disused train line, the air still smelt of foam, with the cool breeze tinged with the smell of varnish. The only difference out there was the air: cloudless except for a thin haze of grime on the horizon, like the grimy debris built up on an unwashed window. My sandwiches tasted surprisingly disappointing that day.

My city is a chemicals factory, belching away fumes in the quest for the bigger, better, faster, sleeker, sexier, more economic, more appealing, better selling. The clouds in the city aren’t as usual clouds are. Clouds can be light and wispy or like soft cauliflower, or drifts of cotton wool. The city’s clouds aren’t white at all, grey and dirty, ladened with poisons that nobody notices. When it rains, it rains acid with each droplet sizzling on the pavement with little wafts of acrid steam. I can see the paint on vehicles bubble and crackle, and the stonework on the grey façades of the city’s buildings slowly erode and crumble. But nobody seems to notice.

No, not everybody. One person I know can see what I can see. Perhaps there are others; after all, if two of us can see the billowing fumes of smoke in the air and the burning rain, then surely there must be others. We first bumped into each other at a café whilst trying to find a free table indoors on a humid and wet late spring afternoon, not wanting to risk the rain on the tired, old canvas shades over the outdoor tables. Tall and wiry, yet firmly built, his thick dark hair was flecked with grey and olive skin starting to show lines around the eyes and brow, though I believe he may be younger than his looks. He told me he was originally from Tyrol but it wasn’t as glamourous as it may sound. I guess I have no reason to doubt him. He smoked like his life depended on it, though he claimed it was just to try and rid his senses of the reek in the air. At the top of his lofty frame, his shoulders were almost continuously hunched, as if indicating a permanent shrug to the world or fighting off a cold wind. He told me he worked full time, though I’m not sure what, if anything, he actually did, for he was forever at the humble, dingy little café tucked into the courtyard between some office blocks and serving the greasiest souvlakis you will ever see in your life. Paper in one hand, black coffee in the other, and cigarette between lips, he never seemed to budge. I think maybe he owned a trendy bar somewhere. Such powerful shoulders on such a lightweight frame could spend evenings lifting boxes out of cellars, perhaps. He asked me where I worked. I said retail, in a shop selling fancy pens. He asked me if I enjoyed it; I shrugged. I guess the shrug is contagious, and probably the most fitting gesture of our time. It sums up our feelings and our attitudes so well.

The smell of Red Door drifted past following a prim young lady in a suit and high-heeled knee-high boots, gently wafting through the polyurethane haze.

I asked him for how long he could remember the air being like this. He said he could remember it being like this since he and his family moved to the city when he was thirteen, though it’s been so long since he could remember it being otherwise he really couldn’t be sure. I stared into my coffee, wondering if how long it would take before I forgot how the atmosphere was before I started to notice it too.

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 11 replies

Anybody else doing NaNoWriMo?

mckenzee — Thu, 09 Sep 2004 23:23:41 GMT

National Novel Writers' Month, write a 50,000 word story in the month of November. http://www.nanowrimo.org/index.php

I’ll be doing some research in Scotland this month for a novel I’ve had on the back burner for a few years. I’ll publish my daily progress in my Livejournal through the month of November.

According to my outline, it will need to be two chapters a day, or one short story :)

http://mckenzee.livejournal.com

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 13 replies

A new writers' group: small CHUNKS OF WRITING

sweetajuma — Wed, 01 Dec 2004 14:30:29 GMT

Hi. I just started a new tribe...it features one exercise a week. It is moderated...but if you make a request with your first exercise...you are in. I just want to make sure the members are respectful of others' work.

thanks!

Shannon

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 1 reply

Sold your e-book?

LifeAdventurer8 — Sun, 24 Oct 2004 19:23:52 GMT

Has anyone tried selling their stories online, as an e-book? Any success?

Thanks,
David

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 2 replies

far past the tide line

chinacoaster — Fri, 15 Oct 2004 08:21:42 GMT

far past the tide line

as TV body bags bulged
w/ both side’s children
my jeans did
with both side’s souls.

it was my anger
it was all my fear.

as napalm flamed neon skies
skinning my redden eyes
to its’ dark heart
Jagger cried,”.. . It’s just a kiss away” in my ear.

it was my anger
it was all my fear.

as I watched a last crusade of hope
my parents noticed frightened and silent
as my dreams bore fruit in mud and breakfast in bed.

it was my anger
it was all my fear.

as I lay wake now w/ night-sweats
remembering the nobility of my rage
and my cowardness

it was my anger
it was all my fear.

I still can’t forget those who lived
and what is remembered of those
who fought without and within.

far past the tide line
of my youth.

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

all the world and you babe

chinacoaster — Fri, 15 Oct 2004 08:16:40 GMT

all the world and you babe

for Marge

The world beat across the City
and back until you found yr. passage
into the corner cave.
Into it’s cool darkness amidst the noonday sun
you fell.

There among the weak, the wounded
the gausmeare trapeze artist
you found us.

And we held you
and we laughed and imbibed the grape,
the drippings of the grain and forgot
who
we
were.

But forgetting forged fiercer
screams finally heard only by you
alone
on a room
without a view.

And again you found us,
now
the broken bent gargoyles of your dream
and we held you
and we cried
and we laughed
and fought for serenity in our hearts.

And we watched
you grow
into the proud rose
of you
amongst the wine, gin, tangerine
memories.

And it it was good,
and it was enough,
and it was gravy,
just like
he said.
But the dampness of the earth has kissed your lips
and you left us and I will miss you,
will miss you long,
long
after
the last
call.

posted in * The Short Stories Club * - 0 replies

* The Short Stories Club *'s topics - tribe.net

She is transfigured now. (a short)

Tim

homesick

Portland Oregon Writers

Writing Sci Fi

Seeking Short Stories of a Carnivorous Nature

multiple perspectives by multiple authors

New Bard and Book Club FREE with forums

"Tom Rainmaker" A short story by MadMark.

The Return of Professor Jenkins. . .

Short Story Up

Call for Entries: A Child's Guide to Teasing Bees

Cthulhuvida, the handcarved webcomic, is now available in book form.

WRITERS WANTED...

Pen Noir Accepting Submissions

A Place for Short Stories -- help!

Guilty Pleasure gets a brain

Nature Writers?

Absence a new short story by M.R. Merris

Iberian Graffiti

Stories about foreigners living in China~

Ghost Story

A place to share short stories

New to this tribe

New tribe

always accepting submissions

POETS/WRITERS NEEDED to publish

Pen Noir ~ Web Zine Call for Submissions

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Ack...the TOU reaper is coming

Chapbook Contest/Call For Submissions

Creepy & True: An LA Halloween Story

When my friend set himself on fire...

!!DOGS!!

comment on this story I'm working on.critism welcome.

Call for Submissions

I invite you to "Crazy Charlie"

Opinions / feedback

A reading call

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Recommended Short Stories of Addiction - For a Good Cause

Z-Z-Z-z-zombies!!!!!

Half Life

The Cross

The Blade

New Dark Fiction Available Now

Longinius

The Inescapable Vibrating Quartz Crystals

Mezuzah Soup

Sinister Bedfellows: Anthology now available.

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Plotting short fiction from character

would you like to have a try?

Plot Hinge Serials launch

Spiderwords.com

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Submit: VIAL Magazine / Poison and Venom issue

Latest publication

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any of you familiar with charles d'ambrosio?

"EMERGING WOMAN" & "Voodoo Fairy Tales"

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Writing grad student desperately seeking survey participants!

Read and commentd

please read and rate!!!

Call For Submissions

A short story by Roald Dahl

Publishing for children

The Garden

Short Stories on Amazon