Normal

This month's challenge was to write an entire story arc in only dialogue with any number of characters. I wanted to try out using some characters from some earlier works.

Normal

Rose: “He won’t go to his appointments, Charlie. They just keep calling and all I want is for him to go.”

Charlie: “Devan…”

Devan: “I go and I’m home.”

Charlie: “Are you missing your office visits?”

Silas: “Obviously, you don’t trust the chap. “

Charlie: “Answer me straight. Have you gone to Dr. Hansen?”

Silas: “She shouldn’t be here in our space, in our home.”

Devan: “Me, bus, Hansen, bus, home. I talk and I bus.”

Charlie: “Rose, maybe you’re napping when he leaves?”

Rose: “You’d believe him over me? Really, Charlie?”

Charlie: “Rose… I’ll try and keep an eye on him.”

Devan: “She wants me gone. Away. Not here.”

Silas: “She wants you caged. Kept away from her.”

Devan: “Schedule is set. I go and I’m home.”

Charlie: “He’ll go to the appointments and he’ll be out more. I’ll drive him there.”

Rose: “Charlie… you know he doesn’t like me. I don’t like him here.”

Charlie: “Rose, he’s still adjusting to everything.”

Devan: “Normal with us, with this.”

Silas: “She’s the cause. She’ll never understand.”

Rose: “It’s been months, Charlie. He should be done with this immature act.”

Charlie: “…Okay.”

For Once

I seldom write poetry. In fact, I really think I suck at it. But I've been in somewhat poor spirits lately, so I'm sorry to just dump this here rather than leave it hidden in some spiral notebook for all eternity.

With the Stars

Another Gamers with Jobs bi-weekly challenge has appeared! This time it was: Write a story from first person, without using the pronoun "I." 

401 words.

With the Stars

Charity

341 words.

Charity            

            Charity balls were the last place he wanted to find himself. The only people that looked remotely normal were the wait staff. Slipping around the throng, he passed some god-like warrior with a menacing faux machete on his belt. He paused briefly to contemplate the two before he pushed forward.

            These tickets had come months ago, back when he was with her. Back when he was going to have a damsel in distress on his arm. Passing another couple, he frowned as his eyes remained transfixed on the woman head of him.

            It wasn’t that she was nearly nude that bothered him. Several of the guests were wearing less than a tea cozy. He was paralyzed by the sight of her. She still came; her date holding her possessively around the waist. A gruesome monster strolled in the space between the, blocking his view for a moment. Forcing his focus elsewhere, he found himself at the dessert table. Noticing the usual range of high class sweets, he took note of the extravagant rollercoaster cake, surprisingly untouched. For a charity, this was some rather expensive food.

            Hoping to distract himself, he grabbed a small plate and wandered away. His tail was a firm train as he pushed between people and planted himself as the wallflower. With the majority of guests in costume it was tough to determine who was who. All he wanted was someone to talk to, to keep his mind off of her.

            His mind had other plans, continually returning to her. She was currently feigning interest as her date chatted with what he assumed to be fellows. Recognizing them as big rats from The Nutcracker, he smirked, finding that image rather fitting. But as he observed them, his eyes returned to her.

            They had said it was mutual, that this was for the best. It felt like another of her mind-games. A simulation to prove he wasn’t over her; that he needed her so he would be more than just “that guy.”

            He didn’t want to be “that guy.”

Action Figures and Trinkets

So I know it's been forever since I've posted anything. I would blame my English 101 course. It's been using up all of my spare writing time.

133 words. 

Action Figures and Trinkets

He dumped the contents of the box, eyeing the oddities. They were mementos from years past; things he used to hold dear, things he used to keep near. But here they were, haphazardly thrown into a box. His girlfriend noticed the items, picking up the action figures and trinkets.

            “Whose are these?” She turned an item over in her hand, trying to figure out the purpose. Perusing them, he frowned and kept quiet, the memories flooding his mind with each piece. “Babe?”

            “Hmm?”

            “Who did these belong to? You?” She couldn’t see the sentimental value to these treasures as she dropped them back into the box. Glancing at her, he continued to observe for several moments. Catching sight of his reflection in an old mirror, he hesitated.

            “Just somebody I used to know.”

The Old Bear

It's been quite a while since I had something to post. Writing this made me sad. Can you guess who it is?

240 words.

The Old Bear

Dust had collected on the antique dresser. Toys still lurked in the corners of the room, hiding in window seat drawers. Photos yellowed with age in the oval frames. Staring at the items, he smiled. The room should have changed more. It should have grown with the boy. Instead it remained locked in his childhood.

            Stepping over that creaky floorboard, his fingers traced some of the letter-blocks and his small treasures. Smiling, he took in each corner of the room. Drawings clung to the walls with withering tape on their slowly curling corners. Seeing his name scribbled in an unruly scrawl, he smiled. Everything here was signed with his full name.

            He’d long since given up going by his full name. Chris to some, Topher to others. It was simpler this way, faster than his five-syllable given name. Only his grandmother and true friends still called him that.

            Reaching his bed, he gingerly sat on its edge, the springs groaned at the unfamiliar weight. Reaching to the pillow, his fingers brushed over synthetic fur, feeling how soft it had remained. The old bear sat propped with the others, arranged delicately across the comforter.

            Holding the toy close, he studied his deep glass eyes and frayed red sweater. Feeling the tag tickle his fingers, he turned the bear over to see his initials, CR. Tears sprang to his eyes at the backwards R.

            “Silly old bear,” he whispered, holding him close.

Can't Sleep

This is something I've been mulling over for a while. Another piece inspired by our HR Manager's collaboration and their song "99 & 9." 

114 words.

Can't Sleep

            Hugging her knees, she stared at the roaring waves. The cool sand sent shivers up her spine. Everyone had long since left the sunny dunes and cooling water; but here she remained. Her eyes skimmed the whitecaps, searching for nothing.

            The sanded deck steps were long behind her, leading up to the illuminated porch and its creaking door. Everyone was asleep, resting up for the adventures ahead.

            She couldn’t sleep.

            No one bothered to ask if she wanted to be there; they always made her come.

            She didn’t want to sleep here.

            They didn’t know the truth; the things that transpired on this beach a decade past.

            She didn’t want to be here anymore.

We Already Do

Written to the song "99 & 9" by Each & All - a HR manager at my work. She is phenomenal and I love her voice.

118 words.

We Already Do          

            Feeling the breeze whip past them, they huddled on the sand, staring out into the gray. It was straight through the night, which brought them to the ocean. Shoulders touching, they shivered as the wind streamed through their clothes as though they had none.

            Reaching over, she opened the pot, holding the lid in the hand not clenching the container. The contents were swept up, spreading out over the sea and dunes. Only the crashing of the waves filled the silence. After several minutes, it was empty and they remained.

            “We’ll really miss you, Willow,” he said, eyes out on the water.

            A smile crept on her face, tears at the corners of her eyes. “We already do.”

History

This actually spawned from a conversation with my mom. Not necessarily like this, but she thought Lincoln had a weird spelling. I thought people only named their kids Lincoln because they had a weird president fetish. C'est la vie.

198 words

History           

            “Lincoln? Who the fuck names their kid, Lincoln?”

            “Stop. He’s a nice guy and isn’t just someone to one-night-stand.” Rolling her eyes as she drank she glanced around the bar, taking in the availables, the couples and the creepers.

            “So when you two fuck, do you ask him to sign your Gettysburg Address?”

            “Or do you make him wear a tall hat and fake beard?” Nearly choking on her drink, she swallowed painfully, eyes shut.

            “The Gettysburg Address was a speech; didn’t you take US History? And no, we don’t reenact the President and his wife screwing in the 1800s,” she shook her head.

            “Well, I’d make him wear the hat at least,” Grace said, shrugging as she busied herself with her drink.

            “Or reenact as President Lincoln’s naughty intern he needs to punish,” Brie added. “Oh, Mr. Lincoln, I cut down that cherry tree and need to be punished,” she said, a sudden southern lilt to her voice. “Just bend me over your office desk and—“

            “Shut the hell up! I will date whoever I want!” She slammed her short glass on the tabletop. “Fuck you both.” Dropping some bills on the table she stormed off.