Even knowing that it was his last class ever as an undergraduate did not help motivate Peter Penrod. In a normal student such proclivity for sloth at that stage would have been termed “senioritis,” but such behavior was the norm for Penrod. His roommates, who were all carrying a full load of fifteen credits to his five, had no sympathy for him. Generally jealous of his excess of free time, his roommates were, however, proud of him for being more physically active and riding his bike to campus. Penrod himself actually enjoyed riding to class and looked forward to it on the days he did not have class, which were most days. That Thursday Penrod mounted his bike full of enthusiasm for his mode of transportation, but not his destination.
She knew the exact length of her bus, and it was obvious at a glance that it was not going to fit. Julia Franks had been driving the same bus for eight years and had never seen a worse detour. Whoever had decided on the detour route obviously had not thought of the buses that would have to squeeze down the smaller side streets. Franks could overhear students complaining that they should have walked, that the bus was taking too long. She felt that their tone suggested that it was somehow her fault as the driver. A grimace gripped her face as she began to turn onto an even smaller street.
Officer Warrick rolled his eyes. Jealous, younger officers grumbled their disappointment as they were assigned their duties for the day. For whatever reason, they thought he and Morris had gotten the better assignment. A veteran on the force for more than a decade, Warrick knew better, as did Morris, who was only marginally less unexcited. Both knew that they would be spending the day crowd-controlling confused and curious civilians. Warrick gripped his jacket, picked up the keys to his bike, made eye contact with Morris, and exited the station.
A little less than a mile from the entrance to campus, Penrod saw a long line of cars. Traffic at this time and place was not entirely unusual, but he had never seen it this extreme. Not in any hurry to get to class, Penrod decided to just wait in line with the cars. Stoppages did not usually take very long here and he was content to wait.
She waited ten seconds before losing patience. Franks was tired of all the loud students on her bus. She would have been on break by this time normally, but the detour had changed her schedule without asking. She began to make the right hand turn knowing full well she was not going to fit if the car in the other lane did not move. As she got closer, she gave the other driver the same glare that melted courage in the hearts of students who knocked on her doors as she pulled away from the curb. Franks, notorious for keeping rigidly to schedule, did not stop once she started to leave a stop. The other driver got the message and began pulling up onto the curb to get out of her way.
Three officers, not including Morris, who had probably stopped at Ferrell’s Donuts on the way, were already on the scene. Warrick dismounted his cycle, placed his gloves on the seat and began walking over to the roadblock that the officers had setup up with their motorcycles. One was standing in the road, directing cars while the other two were standing back a bit, chatting. Behind them, the SWAT team was unloading from their truck. Warrick waved to the two by the bikes and went out to relieve the officer directing traffic.
Traffic was not normally this slow. Penrod glanced at his watch and saw that, as much he would like to continue to wait and enjoy the time outside, he was going to be late if he did not move faster. Sighing, he moved maneuvered right into the proper bike lane and began pedaling forward. Even though he knew in the back of his mind that he was getting closer to where he did not want to be, he did take pleasure in passing people sitting in their cars. They were stuck waiting while he had the freedom of mobility. As he neared the intersection the cars were stacked so closely together that he had to slip back into line. A fortuitous movement forward in traffic allowed both him and bus to get into line.
Muttering under her breath, Franks made the last turn of the detour and regained her normal route. The return to familiar and bus-friendly territory soothed her enough to not honk at the cyclist who pulled right in front of her. Students were yelling from the back of the bus, wondering if they could get off here. She aimed a death stare into her rearview mirror, which communicated silently yet clearly that no one would be getting off the bus until they reached a bus stop. Franks saw policemen ahead directing traffic into yet another detour and let out an audible curse that garnered snickers as well as groans from nearby students.
Warrick directed traffic with one hand and kept the other in his jacket pocket. Bored, he peered back at the SWAT team. He had heard over on his radio that someone had reported seeing a suspicious object. Warrick was doubtful. The last report had turned out to be part of an erotic scavenger hunt. The SWAT team had extracted a vibrating replica of Ron Jeremy’s left index finger. Despite the probability that they were ruining the fun of more middle-aged swingers, the SWAT team was always eager to get some action; it was a relatively quiet town and they were prone to boredom. Sudden shouts caught his attention just as he was turning his gaze back to the traffic. Warrick motioned for the approaching bus to stop. A glance to the biker left of the bus communicated the same message. He spun around in time to see that the “elite” team had developed slippery fingers. Probably a result of too much Ferrell’s, like Morris, who had still not arrived. Warrick unconsciously stepped backward as a dark object slid past his motorcycle and continued toward him. A confused murmur rose up behind him as passengers of the vehicles behind him saw a rolling object approaching and SWAT team members running after it. Wishing he had received any other assignment that day, Officer Warrick spun around and tried to communicate that everyone should calm down. As forcefully as he yelled and waved, Warrick felt as though he were underwater so sluggish were his motions and so muffled his cries. He felt the object thump heavily against his left foot and was swallowed up in a flash of white light.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Sunday, June 28, 2009
The Fruit Dilemma
Sunday the 14th began just as countless Sundays before it had. There was no hint of the horrors that were to come. The farmers were setting their produce out on their stands in the parking lot, early rising senior citizens were strolling by, and soon the church-going peoples would be stopping by on their way home from services. Sounds of the flea market around the corner could also be heard. In short: humdrum, everyday, boring-old-normal.
The first person to see anything out of the ordinary was Eliot. Eliot’s family attended the local Methodist church religiously, but because Eliot’s father, Jeffrey, was not fond of crowds, they frequently skipped the last ten minutes of the service so they could get to the farmers market before most other people. Eliot preferred the market to church because he was allowed to walk around and make noise. Not too much, naturally, but more than he could ever get away with in church.
Being just five, Eliot was the perfect height to spot any changes. His eyes were just level with most of the fruit bins. Unfortunately, because Eliot was five, his parents, and anyone else, were less likely to believe him when he said an apricot had winked at him.
The second person that noticed produce behaving unnaturally was Edith. At eighty-five, Edith considered herself somewhat of an expert on fruit. In fact, since retiring she had done extensive research and felt that there was little about the local produce she did not know. Therefore, when she observed an avocado with what appeared to be an arm, she knew that there was reason to be alarmed. Indeed, when the arm waved at her, she had the presence of mind to faint. At the end of the day she realized that this had saved her life.
The first screams erupted while the proprietor of the avocados, as well as other assorted vegetables, was jogging around to the front of his stand to aid Edith. Two stands away Mary was attacked by a tomato. She watched it rise up onto thin, wobbly legs in disbelief and then let out a thin, piercing shriek that hurt Jeffrey’s ears seven stalls away when she witnessed the fruit opening its eyes for the first time. Two black slivers appeared as it flicked open its thin red eyelids. Mary’s scream was cut short when the tomato leaped forward and lodged itself several inches down her throat.
Although he was initially irritated by Mary’s shrill screech, Jeffrey soon had his own problems. A short yelp from his son drew his attention. He looked down to see Eliot’s finger stuck fast in the jaws of a peach. He bent down to help his son, but froze when he saw a jack-o’-lantern smile cut jaggedly across a watermelon. A low, rumbling chuckle escaped from the depths of the leering melon and Jeffrey wished that he were still in church.
Up until that point only a handful of fruits and vegetables had exhibited unusual behavior, but the deep laugh signaled the end of sanity at the Sunday farmers market. Rank upon rank of oranges rose in unison alongside aubergines. Sinister grins spread across the dark skins of the purple fruits. Eliot grinned with childish delight; his father’s jaw dropped in horror. Then the true violence began.
Still smiling their dreaded smiles, the aubergines turned away for a moment. When they faced Jeffrey and the few other shoppers around him and his son, they were holding asparagus. A half breath later the spears had been launched. Jeffrey watched one of the green shafts sail by his face and slide into the cheek of a woman on his right as easily as his own teeth bit through asparagus on a normal day. That day was no longer a normal day. The coin had been flipped.
Jeffrey sprang into action. He reached down and grabbed a fistful of Eliot’s shirt and spun away from the stand. As he did, he took a spear of asparagus high in his right shoulder. It felt like hot iron; he grimaced. They moved quickly through the appalling killing field that the market had become.
Eliot saw a gang of jalapeno peppers push a cackling cucumber off a table as his father half carried him through the market turned battlefield. When the log shaped fruit hit the ground it rolled with alarming speed into a knot of people. Eliot watched, fascinated, as the fruit quit all movement just as quickly as a fly changes direction. Half a second later an elderly man’s cane came down on top of the fruit. Robert Stevenson IV was a proud veteran of the Vietnam War where he had caught several large pieces of shrapnel with his left leg. He had pleaded with the medic that amputation was not necessary and lost. Subsequently, he leaned heavily on his cane at all times to help him use his wooden leg. Robert Stevenson IV fell that day with much dignity, but where the Vietcong had failed, vicious pineapples and cruel cantaloupes did not.
Jeffrey switched Eliot over to his left hand; his right was weakening. His son was smiling as if it were a big game. Jeffrey was sure that his boy did not understand the fatal implications of what was happening around him. Unfortunately, Jeffrey understood all too well.
Mr. King had been selling cherries, pears, and cactus, or nopales as his best customer Mr. Casillas, who was standing just before him, called them, at the end the farmers market row for his entire life (it was the family business) and had often hawked his goods in what many would consider an aggressive manner, but he had never had his fruits literally leap at his potential customers. Both he and Mr. Casillas were stunned to inaction. A large, ugly pear, armed with nopales sprang onto Mr. Casillas’ shoulders. Unfortunately for Mr. Casillas, Mr. King prided himself on selling his nopales as nature provided them: with thorns still attached. This pear was particularly hard and unripe. It gripped a large circular nopales like a pro wrestler would a metal folding chair. The pear pumped the nopales through the air several times to seemingly no effect, but when Mr. Casillas slumped to the ground, eyes peering into the back of his own head, Mr. King saw light through scores perforations in his cheeks.
Mr. King did not see what happened next because mangoes wielding a four-inch paring knife sliced through his Achilles tendons. Had Mr. Casillas maintained consciousness a few moments longer he would’ve seen the pear that had felled him joined by several of his fellows, these armed with cherries. As it was, the mob of pears bounded over Mr. Casillas and dug into the macadam on the other side of his body. The same ugly, lumpy pear stood above his comrades and began whirling a pair of cherries over its stem like a warrior with bolas. Within moments the red orbs were a blur; the pear released them.
Jeffrey, still dragging his son, let out a small breath. He had reached the end of the row. Before stretched the parking lot. Screams of terror mixed with maniacal laughter behind him, but there was no fruit in sight ahead.
The cherries cut through the air. Most people, upon seeing cherries charging through the air level with their head would simply open their mouth and gamely try to catch them. Of course, normally cherries don’t sprout wicked looking barbs like a puffer fish. These did. The pear’s aim had been true. His target would fall.
Jeffrey made the fatal mistake of pausing. He looked down at Eliot. Eliot returned his look with a gleam of wonder in his eyes. Jeffrey envied the innocence that allowed his son weather the situation without fear. He put Eliot in front of his body protectively and set out for the car.
No cherries had ever flown as swiftly, nor had then ever killed someone in such a brutal manner. The barbs, equal in length to their communal stems, whipped through the hair on the back of his head like a shark’s fin through water. Next they entered the skull itself with the same sound as an axe sinking into a hefty log.
Eliot had felt his father push him forward and began running to the car. Sometimes, if the market was not very crowded and they finished early, Jeffrey was in a good enough mood to race him to the car. Such races often commenced with a slight push so that Eliot would have a head start. He took off in delight.
The first person to see anything out of the ordinary was Eliot. Eliot’s family attended the local Methodist church religiously, but because Eliot’s father, Jeffrey, was not fond of crowds, they frequently skipped the last ten minutes of the service so they could get to the farmers market before most other people. Eliot preferred the market to church because he was allowed to walk around and make noise. Not too much, naturally, but more than he could ever get away with in church.
Being just five, Eliot was the perfect height to spot any changes. His eyes were just level with most of the fruit bins. Unfortunately, because Eliot was five, his parents, and anyone else, were less likely to believe him when he said an apricot had winked at him.
The second person that noticed produce behaving unnaturally was Edith. At eighty-five, Edith considered herself somewhat of an expert on fruit. In fact, since retiring she had done extensive research and felt that there was little about the local produce she did not know. Therefore, when she observed an avocado with what appeared to be an arm, she knew that there was reason to be alarmed. Indeed, when the arm waved at her, she had the presence of mind to faint. At the end of the day she realized that this had saved her life.
The first screams erupted while the proprietor of the avocados, as well as other assorted vegetables, was jogging around to the front of his stand to aid Edith. Two stands away Mary was attacked by a tomato. She watched it rise up onto thin, wobbly legs in disbelief and then let out a thin, piercing shriek that hurt Jeffrey’s ears seven stalls away when she witnessed the fruit opening its eyes for the first time. Two black slivers appeared as it flicked open its thin red eyelids. Mary’s scream was cut short when the tomato leaped forward and lodged itself several inches down her throat.
Although he was initially irritated by Mary’s shrill screech, Jeffrey soon had his own problems. A short yelp from his son drew his attention. He looked down to see Eliot’s finger stuck fast in the jaws of a peach. He bent down to help his son, but froze when he saw a jack-o’-lantern smile cut jaggedly across a watermelon. A low, rumbling chuckle escaped from the depths of the leering melon and Jeffrey wished that he were still in church.
Up until that point only a handful of fruits and vegetables had exhibited unusual behavior, but the deep laugh signaled the end of sanity at the Sunday farmers market. Rank upon rank of oranges rose in unison alongside aubergines. Sinister grins spread across the dark skins of the purple fruits. Eliot grinned with childish delight; his father’s jaw dropped in horror. Then the true violence began.
Still smiling their dreaded smiles, the aubergines turned away for a moment. When they faced Jeffrey and the few other shoppers around him and his son, they were holding asparagus. A half breath later the spears had been launched. Jeffrey watched one of the green shafts sail by his face and slide into the cheek of a woman on his right as easily as his own teeth bit through asparagus on a normal day. That day was no longer a normal day. The coin had been flipped.
Jeffrey sprang into action. He reached down and grabbed a fistful of Eliot’s shirt and spun away from the stand. As he did, he took a spear of asparagus high in his right shoulder. It felt like hot iron; he grimaced. They moved quickly through the appalling killing field that the market had become.
Eliot saw a gang of jalapeno peppers push a cackling cucumber off a table as his father half carried him through the market turned battlefield. When the log shaped fruit hit the ground it rolled with alarming speed into a knot of people. Eliot watched, fascinated, as the fruit quit all movement just as quickly as a fly changes direction. Half a second later an elderly man’s cane came down on top of the fruit. Robert Stevenson IV was a proud veteran of the Vietnam War where he had caught several large pieces of shrapnel with his left leg. He had pleaded with the medic that amputation was not necessary and lost. Subsequently, he leaned heavily on his cane at all times to help him use his wooden leg. Robert Stevenson IV fell that day with much dignity, but where the Vietcong had failed, vicious pineapples and cruel cantaloupes did not.
Jeffrey switched Eliot over to his left hand; his right was weakening. His son was smiling as if it were a big game. Jeffrey was sure that his boy did not understand the fatal implications of what was happening around him. Unfortunately, Jeffrey understood all too well.
Mr. King had been selling cherries, pears, and cactus, or nopales as his best customer Mr. Casillas, who was standing just before him, called them, at the end the farmers market row for his entire life (it was the family business) and had often hawked his goods in what many would consider an aggressive manner, but he had never had his fruits literally leap at his potential customers. Both he and Mr. Casillas were stunned to inaction. A large, ugly pear, armed with nopales sprang onto Mr. Casillas’ shoulders. Unfortunately for Mr. Casillas, Mr. King prided himself on selling his nopales as nature provided them: with thorns still attached. This pear was particularly hard and unripe. It gripped a large circular nopales like a pro wrestler would a metal folding chair. The pear pumped the nopales through the air several times to seemingly no effect, but when Mr. Casillas slumped to the ground, eyes peering into the back of his own head, Mr. King saw light through scores perforations in his cheeks.
Mr. King did not see what happened next because mangoes wielding a four-inch paring knife sliced through his Achilles tendons. Had Mr. Casillas maintained consciousness a few moments longer he would’ve seen the pear that had felled him joined by several of his fellows, these armed with cherries. As it was, the mob of pears bounded over Mr. Casillas and dug into the macadam on the other side of his body. The same ugly, lumpy pear stood above his comrades and began whirling a pair of cherries over its stem like a warrior with bolas. Within moments the red orbs were a blur; the pear released them.
Jeffrey, still dragging his son, let out a small breath. He had reached the end of the row. Before stretched the parking lot. Screams of terror mixed with maniacal laughter behind him, but there was no fruit in sight ahead.
The cherries cut through the air. Most people, upon seeing cherries charging through the air level with their head would simply open their mouth and gamely try to catch them. Of course, normally cherries don’t sprout wicked looking barbs like a puffer fish. These did. The pear’s aim had been true. His target would fall.
Jeffrey made the fatal mistake of pausing. He looked down at Eliot. Eliot returned his look with a gleam of wonder in his eyes. Jeffrey envied the innocence that allowed his son weather the situation without fear. He put Eliot in front of his body protectively and set out for the car.
No cherries had ever flown as swiftly, nor had then ever killed someone in such a brutal manner. The barbs, equal in length to their communal stems, whipped through the hair on the back of his head like a shark’s fin through water. Next they entered the skull itself with the same sound as an axe sinking into a hefty log.
Eliot had felt his father push him forward and began running to the car. Sometimes, if the market was not very crowded and they finished early, Jeffrey was in a good enough mood to race him to the car. Such races often commenced with a slight push so that Eliot would have a head start. He took off in delight.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Squid Eyes Open: Fahrenheit 451
Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury
First of all, "fahrenheit" should be the spelling word of the day. Second, I have heard references to this book all over the place, and I knew the basic premise of the book, but I'm glad that I read it. Now I understand the allusions and got to enjoy the action of the story. The main character, Guy Montag, is a fireman in a future that has no room for books or critical independent thought. Mass media, i.e.: television, has distorted society for the worse. It is a short, fast paced novella and well worth the time. Squid Stories says: read it!
First of all, "fahrenheit" should be the spelling word of the day. Second, I have heard references to this book all over the place, and I knew the basic premise of the book, but I'm glad that I read it. Now I understand the allusions and got to enjoy the action of the story. The main character, Guy Montag, is a fireman in a future that has no room for books or critical independent thought. Mass media, i.e.: television, has distorted society for the worse. It is a short, fast paced novella and well worth the time. Squid Stories says: read it!
Friday, June 5, 2009
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Blushing Pilgrims
It had been a supremely romantic evening. Actually, the whole day had a certain charm about it. A chance meeting upon a sunny beach on a Croatian island that concluded with a dinner invitation. The accepted invitation lead the girl to his campsite overlooking the blue sea marked only by the lighthouse on its own private island. As the sun went down a delectable feast was cooked over the campfire, which provided light for the red wine and singing that followed the meal. Everything went so well up to that point, but then she had to return to her hostel.
He offered to walk her back into town since it was dark and his campsite was a bit on the outskirts. As they were hiking down the hill through the trees she stumbled. Despite having imbibed a good amount of wine, or perhaps because of it, he reacted quickly enough to catch her before she could fall. In the darkness he held her firmly and closely. She could feel his breath on her face as he leaned closer.
The kiss was not over quickly, nor did hands stand still waiting for it to finish, but just as the sun had inevitably set, so too did the embrace have to come to an end. They broke apart, breathless, staring at each other in the darkness. She could not truly see him, but she knew he was smiling; so was she. They resumed their trek down the hill holding hands in silence.
They reached the road and strolled in the direction of town. Out from underneath the trees, the sky, full of stars, was open above them. Necks craned back, they moved slowly. He stole a glance and saw the sinew of her neck bathed in moonlight. Feeling an uncontrollable urge bubbling up, he quickly looked back to the night. All too soon the lights of the city began to intrude on the glory of the universe’s lights.
As soon as they entered town proper the walk seemed to go by in a blur. It seemed like mere seconds from when they had exited the woods of the hill to when they were at the gate of her hostel. Not many words beyond little murmurs of awe at the magnificence of the constellations had been uttered thus far, but after a long embrace and a short kiss, she told him to wait. With a playful look, she spun and ran through the gate into the courtyard. She pointed to a bench below a tulip tree, grinned broadly and disappeared inside. Smiling, feeling lighter than a balloon, he sat and waited.
Five minutes went by that did not see her return. With nothing to distract him, he could feel the wine fuzzily in his head. He was not sure what she was doing that took so long, but he closed his eyes and resolved to wait a bit longer.
His eyes snapped open. Unsure how much time had passed, he stood and stepped toward the open door to the hostel. Unfortunately, just inside the hallway turned and he could see nothing, although there was a light on somewhere that was a spilling yellowish glow in his direction. Sighing, he walked out the gate and sat on the curb. He stared up at the stars and meandered through the pleasurable memories of the night.
She pointed to the bench and skipped into the hostel. The lamp in the hallway was on, just as the landlady has promised her, and lit the way to her room at the end of the hall. The door to her room swept open silently as she pushed it. She reached for the light switch, but froze when she thought she saw something shift in the corner. Staring intensely at the corner, she could feel the wine pounding in her head.
Convinced that her imagination was going the way of wild things, she decided she did not even need the light. She climbed onto the bed on her hands and knees to get to her duffel on the far side. In the center of the bed her progress was brought to a rude halt. Immediately after she felt a sudden pressure on the mattress behind her, a rough cloth was thrust between her teeth. The cloth prevented her from being too loud, but she was too shocked to scream anyway. As the person holding the gag pulled her back into a standing position off the bed, she watched the shadow in the corner detach itself from the wall.
She heard a metallic click and a silver blade shone dully in the darkness of the room, floating in front of the silhouette as it crept nearer. The thumping of her heart set a counter tempo to the throbbing of the wine in her head and her body began pumping adrenaline in excessive amounts. She did not waste any energy on making a sound.
She snapped her head back, felt the crunch of a nose breaking and her captor crumpled, pulling her down. As soon as she hit the floor she rolled to the side and tried to determine where the other figure was. She peered over the bedcovers. The corner was empty.
If the light had been on, there would have been no way the knife would have missed. Fortunately, in the darkness she blended in with the bed enough that the blade just missed her neck as it flew in the wall with a dull thunk. She sprang over the bed, mouth twisted with a silent snarl, not sure about the direction.
The shadow was not ready for such bold aggression and even though her thrust was not in precisely the right direction, the movement was startling enough to prompt action. She hit the floor, balled and rolled to the corner as the figure bolted for the door. She pushed off the wall in a full dive.
A shadowed hand touched the door. She was fully horizontal floating over the bed. The hand pushed, the hinges began to respond, silently. Her fingernails grazed dark, rough cloth. An instant later she was on top of the black figure in the hallway. Her attacker’s head was buried six inches into the plaster wall. She sat on her knees, straddling the unmoving body. Her chest heaved as she tried to calm herself amidst the cacophony of her pounding heart and screaming head. Her ears heard nothing.
Having gone over the complete day in his mind and finding no fault in any of his actions, he sighed and rose. He cast a final glance back through the gate at the hostel door before turning back toward his distant campsite. The wine was slowly ebbing as he went around the corner and his thoughts turned toward lonely sleep.
Her breathing under control, she walked calmly back into her room. She stepped over the body of her other assailant and picked up her duffel. It only took a few moments of rummaging around to find what she was looking for. She pocketed the object and brushed her fingers through her hair briefly.
The hallway lamp did not lighten the shadow that had been her attacker. She walked past the body without a glance and exited the hostel through the front door. The bench where she had wanted him to wait was empty. Her heartbeat slowed even more. Leaning her head against the dark bars of the gate, she did not see him in the street. Her shoulders slumped as she turned back toward the hostel with a sigh.
He offered to walk her back into town since it was dark and his campsite was a bit on the outskirts. As they were hiking down the hill through the trees she stumbled. Despite having imbibed a good amount of wine, or perhaps because of it, he reacted quickly enough to catch her before she could fall. In the darkness he held her firmly and closely. She could feel his breath on her face as he leaned closer.
The kiss was not over quickly, nor did hands stand still waiting for it to finish, but just as the sun had inevitably set, so too did the embrace have to come to an end. They broke apart, breathless, staring at each other in the darkness. She could not truly see him, but she knew he was smiling; so was she. They resumed their trek down the hill holding hands in silence.
They reached the road and strolled in the direction of town. Out from underneath the trees, the sky, full of stars, was open above them. Necks craned back, they moved slowly. He stole a glance and saw the sinew of her neck bathed in moonlight. Feeling an uncontrollable urge bubbling up, he quickly looked back to the night. All too soon the lights of the city began to intrude on the glory of the universe’s lights.
As soon as they entered town proper the walk seemed to go by in a blur. It seemed like mere seconds from when they had exited the woods of the hill to when they were at the gate of her hostel. Not many words beyond little murmurs of awe at the magnificence of the constellations had been uttered thus far, but after a long embrace and a short kiss, she told him to wait. With a playful look, she spun and ran through the gate into the courtyard. She pointed to a bench below a tulip tree, grinned broadly and disappeared inside. Smiling, feeling lighter than a balloon, he sat and waited.
Five minutes went by that did not see her return. With nothing to distract him, he could feel the wine fuzzily in his head. He was not sure what she was doing that took so long, but he closed his eyes and resolved to wait a bit longer.
His eyes snapped open. Unsure how much time had passed, he stood and stepped toward the open door to the hostel. Unfortunately, just inside the hallway turned and he could see nothing, although there was a light on somewhere that was a spilling yellowish glow in his direction. Sighing, he walked out the gate and sat on the curb. He stared up at the stars and meandered through the pleasurable memories of the night.
She pointed to the bench and skipped into the hostel. The lamp in the hallway was on, just as the landlady has promised her, and lit the way to her room at the end of the hall. The door to her room swept open silently as she pushed it. She reached for the light switch, but froze when she thought she saw something shift in the corner. Staring intensely at the corner, she could feel the wine pounding in her head.
Convinced that her imagination was going the way of wild things, she decided she did not even need the light. She climbed onto the bed on her hands and knees to get to her duffel on the far side. In the center of the bed her progress was brought to a rude halt. Immediately after she felt a sudden pressure on the mattress behind her, a rough cloth was thrust between her teeth. The cloth prevented her from being too loud, but she was too shocked to scream anyway. As the person holding the gag pulled her back into a standing position off the bed, she watched the shadow in the corner detach itself from the wall.
She heard a metallic click and a silver blade shone dully in the darkness of the room, floating in front of the silhouette as it crept nearer. The thumping of her heart set a counter tempo to the throbbing of the wine in her head and her body began pumping adrenaline in excessive amounts. She did not waste any energy on making a sound.
She snapped her head back, felt the crunch of a nose breaking and her captor crumpled, pulling her down. As soon as she hit the floor she rolled to the side and tried to determine where the other figure was. She peered over the bedcovers. The corner was empty.
If the light had been on, there would have been no way the knife would have missed. Fortunately, in the darkness she blended in with the bed enough that the blade just missed her neck as it flew in the wall with a dull thunk. She sprang over the bed, mouth twisted with a silent snarl, not sure about the direction.
The shadow was not ready for such bold aggression and even though her thrust was not in precisely the right direction, the movement was startling enough to prompt action. She hit the floor, balled and rolled to the corner as the figure bolted for the door. She pushed off the wall in a full dive.
A shadowed hand touched the door. She was fully horizontal floating over the bed. The hand pushed, the hinges began to respond, silently. Her fingernails grazed dark, rough cloth. An instant later she was on top of the black figure in the hallway. Her attacker’s head was buried six inches into the plaster wall. She sat on her knees, straddling the unmoving body. Her chest heaved as she tried to calm herself amidst the cacophony of her pounding heart and screaming head. Her ears heard nothing.
Having gone over the complete day in his mind and finding no fault in any of his actions, he sighed and rose. He cast a final glance back through the gate at the hostel door before turning back toward his distant campsite. The wine was slowly ebbing as he went around the corner and his thoughts turned toward lonely sleep.
Her breathing under control, she walked calmly back into her room. She stepped over the body of her other assailant and picked up her duffel. It only took a few moments of rummaging around to find what she was looking for. She pocketed the object and brushed her fingers through her hair briefly.
The hallway lamp did not lighten the shadow that had been her attacker. She walked past the body without a glance and exited the hostel through the front door. The bench where she had wanted him to wait was empty. Her heartbeat slowed even more. Leaning her head against the dark bars of the gate, she did not see him in the street. Her shoulders slumped as she turned back toward the hostel with a sigh.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Squid Eyes Abound
I had heard of the Project Gutenberg, but just enough to know it existed. This morning I actually found a link to it, and investigated. Apparently the project was started way back in the 70s with the goal of digitizing the 10,000 most consulted books at no charge. Now the project has expanded way beyond those bounds and currently consists of over 28,000 books available in multiple languages and some even in audio format. So here is another place where you can read literature for free on the internet. Enjoy.
http://www.gutenberg.org/wiki/Main_Page
http://www.gutenberg.org/wiki/Main_Page
Squid Eyes Open: Room with a View
A Room with a View by E.M. Forster
A nice short novel about a young woman, Lucy Honeychurch written in 1908. If you're wondering (like I was) how the room with a view fits into the book, look no further than the first page. Instant satisfaction on that note. By contemporary standards, you can see where the book is heading, but it is nonetheless a fun read, mostly because you get to see early 20th century English culture. Some of the characters are ridiculous, even in context. I laughed out loud at least twice while reading about Cecil, who just might be my favorite character. Now, this is not an action thriller (I guess it is technically a love story); the style may not be for everyone, but it was good enough to keep me reading. I say, if you've ever thought about reading this book, you should. I say it is worth reading.
A nice short novel about a young woman, Lucy Honeychurch written in 1908. If you're wondering (like I was) how the room with a view fits into the book, look no further than the first page. Instant satisfaction on that note. By contemporary standards, you can see where the book is heading, but it is nonetheless a fun read, mostly because you get to see early 20th century English culture. Some of the characters are ridiculous, even in context. I laughed out loud at least twice while reading about Cecil, who just might be my favorite character. Now, this is not an action thriller (I guess it is technically a love story); the style may not be for everyone, but it was good enough to keep me reading. I say, if you've ever thought about reading this book, you should. I say it is worth reading.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Emptied Account
Joe shifted his weight from his left foot to his right. Waiting in line was not his favorite activity. Especially at the bank. It was obviously that the woman in front of him was fed up as well; she was talking to herself. He couldn’t make out what she was saying, but it was clear that she was not happy. Even the security guard by the front door looked bored.
Joe had tried to avoid coming inside. The bank often resembled the DMV, although, honestly, nothing is worse than the DMV. But the bank was bad enough to make Joe think of the DMV. The least they could do was have more than one teller open at a time.
Usually, Joe would just use the ATM machine out front. His trip today had been prompted by Joe’s concerns about how his account was coping with the current economic crisis. To his dismay, Joe had read the fatal message:
Not what Joe wanted to read. He was hoping it was a mistake. It wasn’t possible to have a completely empty account, was it? Wasn’t there a minimum amount that had to stay in the account for it to exist?
So Joe was in the process of contacting his bank, which consisted of his waiting in line. He knew he should be more worried about his financial state, but he was mostly just pissed off. Originally he was pissed at the people who had botched the economy, and then the more immediate people who handled his investments. But right now all of his anger was aimed directly at the ATM machine with the bad news and the bank it was connected to, which also happened to be the building that contained the stupid line he was standing in. The teller was going to get an earful when his turn came.
“NO! DON’T YOU DARE!” the woman in front of him was shouting. Joe stared, trying to figure out whom she was talking to. “DAD, YOU ASSHOLE! LEAVE ME ALONE! I DON’T WANT TO SEE YOU!”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” the security officer tapped the woman on her shoulder. “WHAT!” She whipped around to face the man. As she turned Joe saw the Bluetooth headset in her ear.
“We don’t allow cell phones in the bank. If you would like to continue your conversati—“
“I’m done!” she said and turned back around. The security guard returned to his spot by the front. Joe’s heart was still up slightly, but both the security guard and the teller seemed to take it in stride. Apparently upset people were not unusual in the bank. Not all that surprising, really.
A resounding crash rocked the building. Amidst the sound of metal scraping against metal, through a shower of sparks, Joe watched the security guard lurch forward past him into the woman as he was thrown to the floor. The instant after his hands hit the floor they were surrounded by shattered glass.
Not knowing what had caused the crash, Joe looked around before rising to his feet. Looking forward, he noticed a twisted piece of steaming metal lodged where the handle of the door leading to where the teller stood.
Joe half rose to see where the metal had flown from. As he turned toward the front of the bank (the same place where the security guard had been shoved from, which made sense slowly in Joe’s brain), he noticed green confetti. He also saw what he would find out later was a 1956 Ford Mercury wagon. It wasn’t a classic car that someone had lovingly taken care of over the decades, but a beat up old tank of a car that the owner hadn’t bothered to replace.
Joe couldn’t see the driver because there was smoke spewing from the front of the car. He stood all the way up and grabbed a piece of the confetti that was flying around. As he looked closely at it, the hamsters in his brain racing madly on their wheels, and he realized that it was a portion of a twenty-dollar bill. He snatched another one, more complete than the first.
Without a conscious thought process, Joe moved toward the car scanning the floor. Four feet from the front bumper, which was three full feet in the bank, Joe saw his first undamaged dollar bill, inches away, a landslide of them, pouring from the wreckage of the ATM machine that had stood in front of the bank.
The same ATM that had bluntly told Joe that he was broke now lay broken in countless pieces with its wealth spilled before him. Joe hesitated long enough to look back at the unconscious security guard and the woman he had hit who also appeared to be out for the count.
Joe began shoving money into his pockets. In his frenzy he missed his pockets several times, pushing green paper directly into his pants instead. He didn’t care; it was all going with him.
His pants stuffed full, Joe whipped off his shirt and began shoveling money into it as though it were a duffel bag. Suddenly Joe was glad that he had been slowly gaining weight over the years. Bigger shirts hold more money.
Shirt full, Joe lurched one step toward the door, noticed cash leaking from the bottom of his pant leg. Joe was struck with one last bit of money-carrying inspiration. He bent down and stuffed some bills into his shoes without bothering to take them off.
Unable to jam any more money into his clothing, Joe burst through the front door and scrambled to his car. The teller, still inside, watched Joe leave.
“The perpetrator has yet to be caught,” the reporters face looked very real on Joe’s new high-definition flat screen television. “If you don’t remember, a Bank of America was struck by a 1956 Ford Mercury wagon driven by Michael Farlane, an elderly man who died moments before he crashed of a heart attack. His daughter, Kristine Farlane, was inside the bank during the incident. A trapped bank employee watched an unknown man who was waiting in line haul away money that had been in the ATM machine that Mr. Farlane crashed into at the front of the bank. The security guard was unconscious and the security cameras were shorted out by the crash. The identity of the thief remains a mystery.”
Joe had tried to avoid coming inside. The bank often resembled the DMV, although, honestly, nothing is worse than the DMV. But the bank was bad enough to make Joe think of the DMV. The least they could do was have more than one teller open at a time.
Usually, Joe would just use the ATM machine out front. His trip today had been prompted by Joe’s concerns about how his account was coping with the current economic crisis. To his dismay, Joe had read the fatal message:
ACCOUNT EMPTY
CONTACT YOUR BANK
CONTACT YOUR BANK
Not what Joe wanted to read. He was hoping it was a mistake. It wasn’t possible to have a completely empty account, was it? Wasn’t there a minimum amount that had to stay in the account for it to exist?
So Joe was in the process of contacting his bank, which consisted of his waiting in line. He knew he should be more worried about his financial state, but he was mostly just pissed off. Originally he was pissed at the people who had botched the economy, and then the more immediate people who handled his investments. But right now all of his anger was aimed directly at the ATM machine with the bad news and the bank it was connected to, which also happened to be the building that contained the stupid line he was standing in. The teller was going to get an earful when his turn came.
“NO! DON’T YOU DARE!” the woman in front of him was shouting. Joe stared, trying to figure out whom she was talking to. “DAD, YOU ASSHOLE! LEAVE ME ALONE! I DON’T WANT TO SEE YOU!”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” the security officer tapped the woman on her shoulder. “WHAT!” She whipped around to face the man. As she turned Joe saw the Bluetooth headset in her ear.
“We don’t allow cell phones in the bank. If you would like to continue your conversati—“
“I’m done!” she said and turned back around. The security guard returned to his spot by the front. Joe’s heart was still up slightly, but both the security guard and the teller seemed to take it in stride. Apparently upset people were not unusual in the bank. Not all that surprising, really.
A resounding crash rocked the building. Amidst the sound of metal scraping against metal, through a shower of sparks, Joe watched the security guard lurch forward past him into the woman as he was thrown to the floor. The instant after his hands hit the floor they were surrounded by shattered glass.
Not knowing what had caused the crash, Joe looked around before rising to his feet. Looking forward, he noticed a twisted piece of steaming metal lodged where the handle of the door leading to where the teller stood.
Joe half rose to see where the metal had flown from. As he turned toward the front of the bank (the same place where the security guard had been shoved from, which made sense slowly in Joe’s brain), he noticed green confetti. He also saw what he would find out later was a 1956 Ford Mercury wagon. It wasn’t a classic car that someone had lovingly taken care of over the decades, but a beat up old tank of a car that the owner hadn’t bothered to replace.
Joe couldn’t see the driver because there was smoke spewing from the front of the car. He stood all the way up and grabbed a piece of the confetti that was flying around. As he looked closely at it, the hamsters in his brain racing madly on their wheels, and he realized that it was a portion of a twenty-dollar bill. He snatched another one, more complete than the first.
Without a conscious thought process, Joe moved toward the car scanning the floor. Four feet from the front bumper, which was three full feet in the bank, Joe saw his first undamaged dollar bill, inches away, a landslide of them, pouring from the wreckage of the ATM machine that had stood in front of the bank.
The same ATM that had bluntly told Joe that he was broke now lay broken in countless pieces with its wealth spilled before him. Joe hesitated long enough to look back at the unconscious security guard and the woman he had hit who also appeared to be out for the count.
Joe began shoving money into his pockets. In his frenzy he missed his pockets several times, pushing green paper directly into his pants instead. He didn’t care; it was all going with him.
His pants stuffed full, Joe whipped off his shirt and began shoveling money into it as though it were a duffel bag. Suddenly Joe was glad that he had been slowly gaining weight over the years. Bigger shirts hold more money.
Shirt full, Joe lurched one step toward the door, noticed cash leaking from the bottom of his pant leg. Joe was struck with one last bit of money-carrying inspiration. He bent down and stuffed some bills into his shoes without bothering to take them off.
Unable to jam any more money into his clothing, Joe burst through the front door and scrambled to his car. The teller, still inside, watched Joe leave.
“The perpetrator has yet to be caught,” the reporters face looked very real on Joe’s new high-definition flat screen television. “If you don’t remember, a Bank of America was struck by a 1956 Ford Mercury wagon driven by Michael Farlane, an elderly man who died moments before he crashed of a heart attack. His daughter, Kristine Farlane, was inside the bank during the incident. A trapped bank employee watched an unknown man who was waiting in line haul away money that had been in the ATM machine that Mr. Farlane crashed into at the front of the bank. The security guard was unconscious and the security cameras were shorted out by the crash. The identity of the thief remains a mystery.”
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Squid Eyes Abound
Just this morning I stumbled onto a website that has thousands of books online for free. If you ever wanted to read the old "classics," this website has a ton. It also has short biographies of the authors which are also interesting.
http://www.readprint.com/
http://www.readprint.com/
Krispy Kreme Brûlée
“Fletcher, tell me everything you know about the Krispy Kreme case. I need to hear the facts from a different point of view.”
Officer Fletcher patted his ample stomach as he collected his thoughts. “Three Krispy Kremes have been burned down in the last three weeks. One each week. All three are clear-cut arson cases. Acetone accelerant. Only clue is a pair of thin tire tracks. Which puts the prime suspects on bicycles. All done before the red light was on. Early risers.”
“What time does the red light usually come on?”
“Depends on which Double-K you go to. I usually hit up the one on 4th and Mission; it goes on around 5:30.”
“Downtown red lights at 6,” someone said nearby.
“Willow and Dale used to red light at 6:15,” another helpful officer said.
“You guys know your Krispy Kreme,” Detective Johnson said. He opened his lunch and saw carrots. His wife must’ve talked to his mom again. She was big on eating healthy.
“Best donuts ever.”
“No one does it better.”
“Thanks guys. Let me know if we get anything new. In the meantime, I want officers on location at the remaining Krispy Kremes with their eyes peeled for people on bikes.” Johnson walked to his office and shut the door. It had been five days since the last Krispy Kreme had been burned down; he knew he didn’t have long before the next one was struck. He just didn’t understand why Krispy Kreme was being targeted. A rival donut shop maybe? Krispy Kreme seemed to be pretty popular among the officers. There was a knock on his door.
“Come in.”
“Sorry to bother you, detective, but I’ve found something, I think,” a nervous young officer was at the door. He was holding a map.
“Let’s hear it.”
“Well, sir, I’ve marked all the Double-K’s with red circles on this map. Circles, like donuts, red like the red light, y’see.” Johnson glared at the young man. He gulped and plunged ahead. “Sir, do you know where the closest Double-K will be if we lose those last two?”
“Where?” The officer flipped over the map. The reverse side showed a larger area encompassing the entire county.
“Bishopstown.”
“So?”
“Sir, if my calculations are correct, it will be impossible to get red lighted donuts and still make it to the station on time in the morning.”
“There are other donut shops in town, we’ll be fine.”
“Sir! I’m sorry, but Double-K is the only donut shop! Substitutes will not be accepted!” the formerly nervous officer stormed out of Johnson’s office.
Johnson mulled the conversation over in his head. Just as he seemed to be onto something, there was a new uproar. “NOOOO!”
“Sir!” the formerly haughty face of the formerly nervous officer was now pale with horror. “The last two Double-K’s were just hit. No donuts were saved.”
Johnson left the station dejected. They had found the same tire tracks that day, but no one had spotted any cyclists. He had let the station down. What were they going to do without Krispy Kreme? Clueless, Johnson drove to visit his mother at her retirement home.
“Hi Mom.” Johnson bent to kiss his mother in her wheelchair, clearly upset.
“What’s got you down?” The sharp scent of nail polish remover was strong. Johnson glanced at her fingernails: they were a crisp purple.
“This Krispy Kreme case; every shop in town has been burned down. Distracted, Johnson’s eyes wandered. He saw several large jugs of nail polish remover by her closet. Nail polish remover contained acetone…
“Well, whoever it was, I applaud them.” Johnson turned to look at her in disbelief.
“Why? I’ve had a couple of their donuts before, they’re pretty good.”
“More than a couple, I’d say. Look at your belly.” She jabbed a finger into his softening midsection. “It’ll do the entire department good with those Krispy Kremes gone. Your wives will appreciate it.” Johnson’s gaze sharpened as he examined his mother. Her wheelchair wheels were about right distance apart…
“Mom, what did you do today?”
“Knitting. That’s all we old people do in this place.” She pulled up a half-finished scarf that matched her purple nails. It couldn’t have been her, Johnson thought. Could it?
Officer Fletcher patted his ample stomach as he collected his thoughts. “Three Krispy Kremes have been burned down in the last three weeks. One each week. All three are clear-cut arson cases. Acetone accelerant. Only clue is a pair of thin tire tracks. Which puts the prime suspects on bicycles. All done before the red light was on. Early risers.”
“What time does the red light usually come on?”
“Depends on which Double-K you go to. I usually hit up the one on 4th and Mission; it goes on around 5:30.”
“Downtown red lights at 6,” someone said nearby.
“Willow and Dale used to red light at 6:15,” another helpful officer said.
“You guys know your Krispy Kreme,” Detective Johnson said. He opened his lunch and saw carrots. His wife must’ve talked to his mom again. She was big on eating healthy.
“Best donuts ever.”
“No one does it better.”
“Thanks guys. Let me know if we get anything new. In the meantime, I want officers on location at the remaining Krispy Kremes with their eyes peeled for people on bikes.” Johnson walked to his office and shut the door. It had been five days since the last Krispy Kreme had been burned down; he knew he didn’t have long before the next one was struck. He just didn’t understand why Krispy Kreme was being targeted. A rival donut shop maybe? Krispy Kreme seemed to be pretty popular among the officers. There was a knock on his door.
“Come in.”
“Sorry to bother you, detective, but I’ve found something, I think,” a nervous young officer was at the door. He was holding a map.
“Let’s hear it.”
“Well, sir, I’ve marked all the Double-K’s with red circles on this map. Circles, like donuts, red like the red light, y’see.” Johnson glared at the young man. He gulped and plunged ahead. “Sir, do you know where the closest Double-K will be if we lose those last two?”
“Where?” The officer flipped over the map. The reverse side showed a larger area encompassing the entire county.
“Bishopstown.”
“So?”
“Sir, if my calculations are correct, it will be impossible to get red lighted donuts and still make it to the station on time in the morning.”
“There are other donut shops in town, we’ll be fine.”
“Sir! I’m sorry, but Double-K is the only donut shop! Substitutes will not be accepted!” the formerly nervous officer stormed out of Johnson’s office.
Johnson mulled the conversation over in his head. Just as he seemed to be onto something, there was a new uproar. “NOOOO!”
“Sir!” the formerly haughty face of the formerly nervous officer was now pale with horror. “The last two Double-K’s were just hit. No donuts were saved.”
Johnson left the station dejected. They had found the same tire tracks that day, but no one had spotted any cyclists. He had let the station down. What were they going to do without Krispy Kreme? Clueless, Johnson drove to visit his mother at her retirement home.
“Hi Mom.” Johnson bent to kiss his mother in her wheelchair, clearly upset.
“What’s got you down?” The sharp scent of nail polish remover was strong. Johnson glanced at her fingernails: they were a crisp purple.
“This Krispy Kreme case; every shop in town has been burned down. Distracted, Johnson’s eyes wandered. He saw several large jugs of nail polish remover by her closet. Nail polish remover contained acetone…
“Well, whoever it was, I applaud them.” Johnson turned to look at her in disbelief.
“Why? I’ve had a couple of their donuts before, they’re pretty good.”
“More than a couple, I’d say. Look at your belly.” She jabbed a finger into his softening midsection. “It’ll do the entire department good with those Krispy Kremes gone. Your wives will appreciate it.” Johnson’s gaze sharpened as he examined his mother. Her wheelchair wheels were about right distance apart…
“Mom, what did you do today?”
“Knitting. That’s all we old people do in this place.” She pulled up a half-finished scarf that matched her purple nails. It couldn’t have been her, Johnson thought. Could it?
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Squid Eyes Open: Alice
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll.
I read the entire book in one long sitting. Carroll wrote both this book, and the sequel Through the Looking Glass, and What Alice Found There, specifically for a girl named Alice that Carroll actually knew in real life. Of course, in real life, Carroll was not Carroll, but Charles Dodgson. Another warp of reality there. If you saw the Disney movie Alice in Wonderland, then you already have a good idea of the story. Small differences arise because the film also borrowed from the sequel. For example, Tweedledee and Tweedledum are originally from the sequel. Several poem parodies throughout the book that are fun, even if you don't know the originals (I didn't, except for one). If you want more facts and analysis, check out Wikipedia. If you want to know if it is worth your time, I say yes.
Feast your squid eyes on the pages of Alice's Adventures: it is a fun read, and not terribly long.
"We're all mad here..."
I read the entire book in one long sitting. Carroll wrote both this book, and the sequel Through the Looking Glass, and What Alice Found There, specifically for a girl named Alice that Carroll actually knew in real life. Of course, in real life, Carroll was not Carroll, but Charles Dodgson. Another warp of reality there. If you saw the Disney movie Alice in Wonderland, then you already have a good idea of the story. Small differences arise because the film also borrowed from the sequel. For example, Tweedledee and Tweedledum are originally from the sequel. Several poem parodies throughout the book that are fun, even if you don't know the originals (I didn't, except for one). If you want more facts and analysis, check out Wikipedia. If you want to know if it is worth your time, I say yes.
Feast your squid eyes on the pages of Alice's Adventures: it is a fun read, and not terribly long.
"We're all mad here..."
SQUID EYES OPEN IS A GO
Book reviews suck. No one liked doing them in elementary school, but at least they weren't hard. I have since become more appreciative. It's nice to know what people truly think about books, that way I can decide if I want to invest my time reading them. Now, if you didn't know, good writing goes hand-in-hand with avid reading. This means that I am constantly reading as well as writing. Since I have this wonderful ability to share what I am writing, I don't see why I shouldn't also share what I am reading. Squid Eyes Open will be short, to-the-point reviews of books that allow you to decide if they are worth your time without giving away too much of the plot. They may be silly or serious, but I will do my best to keep them from becoming supercilious.
Commence Operation: Squid Eyes Open.
Commence Operation: Squid Eyes Open.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Predator
I wrote this first story several years ago for a creative writing class that I took. I wrote it after the first day of class. My peers liked it better than anything else I wrote that quarter. It was definitely a fun one to write, mostly because it is based on true events. Enjoy.
Predator
I like my new haircut. I can feel every little breeze now that it has been shorn so close to my head. The rays of the sun warm it whenever I wander out of doors. People like to rub their hands over the short, spiky hairs. They say it feels good. I like the way it feels, too. For some reason, it is very relaxing and has a soothing effect, much like that of a massage. Overall, I am very pleased with the cut. I feel more in tune with the world around me, more sensitive to the little things.
Dammit. Shoo. Go away. Stupid fly keeps landing on my head. I know it’s landing there because I feel its little feet. Shoo. I wave my hand around like a crazy person. That’s what I get for trying to sit and relax on a Saturday. My parents wanted me to mow the lawn, but I said no way, this is my day off. I’m gonna sit here and chill. Man, was I wrong. Dumb fly, what are you doing inside anyway?
My dad walks into the room. Not knowing the extreme annoyance that I’m suffering through, he asks why I’m waving at nothing and talking to nobody. There’s a fly, I tell him. Kill it, he says. He claims to have killed several over the course of the summer. How many, I demand. He is very vague about the number, but adamant that it was a goodly sum. I don’t believe him. Probably more like one. It’s a slow day, however, so I go and grab the fly swatter from the top of the fridge.
Unfortunately, it is not a huge fly, but a rather puny little one. I creep through the family room, trying to track the tiny black speck as it zips through the air. It is virtually impossible to see it against the dark background of the unlit room. I lose track of it. Then it reappears. Then it’s gone again. Then it’s back, and gone. I give up in frustration and sit down.
Still holding the swatter, I sit and wait, surveying the most visible patch of space in the room. The light colored tile floor is an excellent backdrop. Suddenly, a much larger fly cruises into the zone I’m scrutinizing. Because it is bigger, it is easier to track. I leap to my feet, not caring that it’s a different fly. I’m after blood now and I won’t discriminate. All flies are created equally gross in my eyes.
I tiptoe after it, into the kitchen now. Its bloated black body is easy to follow. Short jagged hair adorns its twisted legs. Bulging green eyes explode from its grotesque body. Its wings beat a dull buzz into the air as it lazily weaves through the kitchen. I’m right behind it, following every move. My grip on the swatter uncompromised by the sweat that coats my palm.
As it crosses in front of a window, I slide closer. It lands. The sinister silhouette is only slightly warmed by the dim moonlight. With all possible stealth, I hover in as close as I can. Without warning, it skitters six inches across the glass, then stops, just as suddenly. I am motionless. Even my eyes don’t dare move. It moves another inch. Then the moment. Every predator knows the moment. Just before the kill there is a moment of peace, of perfect calm. Everything, for just a split second, is just the way it should be. All worries and concerns are meaningless, all wants and needs are fulfilled. The universe is in perfect harmony. But only for a split second. With a quick flick of my wrist, a light snap on the window, it is over. Nothing remains but a smear on the window. I examine the swatter to discover the crushed, mangled body of what was possibly the kinsman of the bane of my night.
With a feeling of triumph, I return to the chair I was occupying before the nuisance began. I tell my dad that I am a hunter and a killer. I show him the proof that he couldn’t show me. I wash off the swatter and the window under the orders of my mother. I once again sink into the chair, ready to finally relax and enjoy the evening. As I lean back, a familiar feeling returns to my newly shorn head. Damn.
Predator
I like my new haircut. I can feel every little breeze now that it has been shorn so close to my head. The rays of the sun warm it whenever I wander out of doors. People like to rub their hands over the short, spiky hairs. They say it feels good. I like the way it feels, too. For some reason, it is very relaxing and has a soothing effect, much like that of a massage. Overall, I am very pleased with the cut. I feel more in tune with the world around me, more sensitive to the little things.
Dammit. Shoo. Go away. Stupid fly keeps landing on my head. I know it’s landing there because I feel its little feet. Shoo. I wave my hand around like a crazy person. That’s what I get for trying to sit and relax on a Saturday. My parents wanted me to mow the lawn, but I said no way, this is my day off. I’m gonna sit here and chill. Man, was I wrong. Dumb fly, what are you doing inside anyway?
My dad walks into the room. Not knowing the extreme annoyance that I’m suffering through, he asks why I’m waving at nothing and talking to nobody. There’s a fly, I tell him. Kill it, he says. He claims to have killed several over the course of the summer. How many, I demand. He is very vague about the number, but adamant that it was a goodly sum. I don’t believe him. Probably more like one. It’s a slow day, however, so I go and grab the fly swatter from the top of the fridge.
Unfortunately, it is not a huge fly, but a rather puny little one. I creep through the family room, trying to track the tiny black speck as it zips through the air. It is virtually impossible to see it against the dark background of the unlit room. I lose track of it. Then it reappears. Then it’s gone again. Then it’s back, and gone. I give up in frustration and sit down.
Still holding the swatter, I sit and wait, surveying the most visible patch of space in the room. The light colored tile floor is an excellent backdrop. Suddenly, a much larger fly cruises into the zone I’m scrutinizing. Because it is bigger, it is easier to track. I leap to my feet, not caring that it’s a different fly. I’m after blood now and I won’t discriminate. All flies are created equally gross in my eyes.
I tiptoe after it, into the kitchen now. Its bloated black body is easy to follow. Short jagged hair adorns its twisted legs. Bulging green eyes explode from its grotesque body. Its wings beat a dull buzz into the air as it lazily weaves through the kitchen. I’m right behind it, following every move. My grip on the swatter uncompromised by the sweat that coats my palm.
As it crosses in front of a window, I slide closer. It lands. The sinister silhouette is only slightly warmed by the dim moonlight. With all possible stealth, I hover in as close as I can. Without warning, it skitters six inches across the glass, then stops, just as suddenly. I am motionless. Even my eyes don’t dare move. It moves another inch. Then the moment. Every predator knows the moment. Just before the kill there is a moment of peace, of perfect calm. Everything, for just a split second, is just the way it should be. All worries and concerns are meaningless, all wants and needs are fulfilled. The universe is in perfect harmony. But only for a split second. With a quick flick of my wrist, a light snap on the window, it is over. Nothing remains but a smear on the window. I examine the swatter to discover the crushed, mangled body of what was possibly the kinsman of the bane of my night.
With a feeling of triumph, I return to the chair I was occupying before the nuisance began. I tell my dad that I am a hunter and a killer. I show him the proof that he couldn’t show me. I wash off the swatter and the window under the orders of my mother. I once again sink into the chair, ready to finally relax and enjoy the evening. As I lean back, a familiar feeling returns to my newly shorn head. Damn.
SQUID STORIES IS A GO
Squid Stories is officially launched. Squid Stories is a growing collection of short stories that I have written. I am writing them because it is something that I enjoy. I am posting them here because other people enjoy reading them as well. If you think a story is particularly good, let me know; if you think a story sucks, keep it to yourself. Of course, any constructive criticism is welcomed and encouraged. The more feedback I get, the better the stories will get.
Begin Operation: Squid Stories.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)