Tell me how you got that scar. 45 minutes
“The way I see it,” Steve slurred, his eyes shining with the yellow of a nearby lamp, “all we are really left with are memories and this body of ours.”
He puffed thoughtfully at his cigar, blowing the smoke into the night air. He leaned back on the imported granite boulder, its unnaturally flowing curves cradling the curve of his back. He wiggled his toes in the lovingly manicured grass and looked around the lush courtyard of his moderately opulent apartment complex. He took another puff and smiled.
“This is a beautiful night. I have had good food and excellent drink. I am smoking the finest Cuban cigar the son of a customs officer could ask for.”
He puffed again smiling. It had been an evening of opulence, beginning with an aged steak, cooked perfectly, as only the Old Loafer can. The restaurant had been ridiculously sophisticated, the low chatter and soft clinking a crooning song of comfort in that softly lit redwood room. We returned to his apartment to gather cigars and a dusty bottle of bourbon before venturing into the night, our footsteps and banter punctuated by the occasional clink of heavy tumblers.
“A beautiful night.”
I said nothing. I agreed, absolutely. The woody taste of the old bourbon washed over the complex sharpness of the cigars to create a flavor and feel I had never experienced with lesser cigars and more common liquors.
He smiled once more, looked at his cigar, and pressed it into the inside of his wrist. The impressive stack of ash smeared across his pale skin and the sizzle was masked by his sharp intake of breath. He held it there, smoking, his entire body clenched in a silent shaking screams.
“Memories,” he gasped, “are buried, are lost, are forgotten. If we lose our memories, then all we are have our dying day…”
He tossed the shredded stub of tobacco into a stately clump of reeds and held up his wrist. Twisted black and smeared gray and vengeful red spun a jagged circle on his pampered skin.
“…is a broken body. Time will not rob me of this night.”
I wondered for a moment where the years would lead us. This man, my dearest friend, might become a memory, lost to recollection. If I forgot him, he may have never lived at all. The night was certainly worth remembering, but the friendship was a treasure I’d grieve losing.
I looked for a moment at my cigar, the smoke slicking softly skyward, the ember pulsing with the beat of my heart, with the hush of the wind. I nodded across the puddle of light to Steve, who was smiling with tears on his cheeks and a tremor in his shoulders.
I chose the palm of my left hand. It seemed to itch with symbolic perfection, and in a night of esoteric philosophy and drunken ritual, the symbolism was fully appreciated.
I drew one last sample of the smoke, and it tasted sweet on my tongue as the ember flared red, ready, excited to singe its moment into time.
I felt the heat of it on my skin before I ever touched it to me, and for a second, I was jerked away from the moment, fear of regret freezing my hand.
“Be the hero,” came his whisper, “in your story. Don’t let life happen, and don’t let it happen. Make your life. Make your memories, or in the end, it was nothing at all.”
The pain was excruciating. My scream was caught, crushed, rolled into a tight, deep moan. The fingers of my anguished hand locked into a twisted claw as my body fought to escape my resolve. I fell to my knees, my entire world locked into that inch of flesh. A tearing piercing, demon claws that tore into me. I pressed the ember harder, my body a knot, my shoulders tightly clenched across my back.
I couldn’t take any more. My will failed, my body took control and flung the cigar to the ground. Flecks of orange skittered from the still smoldering end. My entire arm trembled, and my lungs filled again, shaking.
I knew I would never forget that night, but I wondered if I would remember how beautiful the grass looked beneath my feet.
You're probably looking for The Other Side
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
It Took Long Enough...
The narrator had a crush on their friend for a very long time, but eventually moved on, and now has a crush on someone else. This has come just as their friend has developed a crush on the narrator, and worse, this friend can't stand the person who the narrator is hot for. Write a scene wherein this entanglement comes to a head; the narrator can go either way, but the friend's dislike and desperation must be apparent.
There was a time in my life when I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
“You are the most incredible woman I have ever met.”
I never spoke those words. I was always a friend to her, and I knew even then that friends are not dating material. That… That was a rough time, but life carried it into memory, as it will move all things, and I finally moved on, finally gave up, finally accepted her for what I had already been doomed as: Dear Friend. What more could I have done? High school is the time for wallowing in gratuitous self-pity and angsty heartache, but college is the place where we learn to be adults, and I grew up and away from her, and found a new girl.
She was my first girlfriend in three years, a freshman named Elissa, and I a sophomore attending the
She loved to talk, and she didn’t seem to mind my quiet nature—she filled the silent moments with comfortable banter and the smallest of talk. She was a friendly, powerfully outgoing person, and I imagined it did me some good to be around her. She introduced me to more people than I could remember, though I failed to make any friends in the exposure. Most were girls of varying attractiveness who liked to chew gum and touch their hair, and guys who shook my hand too hard and seemed to grunt and stare more than talk.
Lord, she was beautiful…
“She is a complete fucking bimbo.”
“I think I love her,” I said into the book I’d been reading, my eyes refusing to rise.
“That’s because you’re a God damned idiot.”
I looked up, slightly hurt, and dizzyingly surprised. Her eyes shined, and I wondered if it was the lighting. Something about her words carried a note I'd not heard from her before, and I was confused trying to place it.
“She’s an idiot too, but not the same way. I’m surprised she doesn’t drool when she makes those word-sounds she calls conversations.”
I felt my face grow hot. I was lucky to have Elissa. Damned lucky, and now this spiteful woman who had never given me a chance was belittling my relationship. She had no right, and no reason beyond ingrained possessiveness. I told her so, and she flinched as though the words had slapped her.
“That fucking whore doesn’t deserve you,” she whispered, the anger in her voice failing to mask the depth of the emotion. The shine in her eyes quivered like her voice, and began to spill down her long eyelashes. She looked exquisite then, beautiful in a way she had never been before. She looked soft, vulnerable, touchable like she had never been when she was my unattainable obsession. She looked at me, her large brown eyes trying desperately to lock with mine.
“I know she’s not the smartest person on the planet,” and at that she made a snorting noise, “but she’s good to me.”
“She cheats on you. You must have guessed already. "
I'd only suspected, and done my best to dismiss it. Behind me, a book slammed closed and an exasperated sigh was lauched toward me. I didn't care.
"You’re not blind. I know you’re not an idiot."
Maybe I had been blind? Suddenly I could not fit enough air in my lungs.
"You say she treats you well, but I don’t think you know what that means. She treats you like shit. I…”
Sobs overpowered the words, wrestling them into submission for a moment as her shoulders seized and she hugged her waist. Another tear tumbled down her freckled cheek and splashed on her homework. Tara was beautiful too, more graceful and elegant than breathtaking, and her swelling eyes and running mascara did not, could not detract from that.
“I would treat you well. I would take care of you. She doesn’t deserve you. I do. I love you, damn it. I was just too stupid to know.”
My nose was stuffed, and I didn’t know why. My eyes were warm, and I was afraid to blink. I didn’t need splotches on my homework.
“That,” I said as the tears escaped my eyelids and slid down my cheeks, “is the cheesiest fucking thing I have every heard you say.”
Ireached across the table to grab her hand, and smiled.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Prince Yi
Its incredible to me still, how poorly this came out. I’m fully ashamed.
He had been absolutely unbearable from the first day. Every word that he mumbled grated my nerves and clenched my fists in agony. I dreaded returning home, and found myself walking quickly through the spacious living room, ignoring the gorgeous shoreline view through the window that dominated one wall of that comfy room. It was such a beautiful condo, the walls painted in warm earth tones, the carpet soft and loving on the feet. Track lighting had been set into the ceiling and arranged in such a way that the whole place glowed with a gentle softness that invited, begged for the overstuffed leather sofa or the extravagant Lazy Boy to be sprawled upon, lounged in.
The whole room was so perfect, it could only make me hate him more—he was always in there, you see, slouched in the lazy boy, the television blaring some obnoxious Asian soap opera, a steaming bowl of something funny smelling steaming on the glass topped table that rests in the center of the room. He ate with his mouth open, smacking , showing, sometimes spraying whatever it was he was eating. I could never be sure what he had cooking on the stove, but there were usually eyeballs or stomachs or other strange organ meat floating in his mysterious stews.
He smelled funny, emanating scents deep and strong. It might have been his diet, or some aspect of his hygiene. Its hard to say. All I really knew for sure was that he liked to stand close when he spoke. I’m talking about inches. I could count his pores when he trapped me in conversation.
I know I seem like an unfriendly person, but try to imagine standing that close to this guy. He doesn’t actually talk; his words were like shouts, or barks, sharp and nasal, piercing the quiet with dispassionate volume. He expects to be heard, expects to be listened to, and from what I have been able to gather in our broken exchanges, his father is a wealthy businessman in china, sending him to school here in the states. This condominium had been purchased in full, and the rent I paid went into his pocket. Yi was his name—Prince Yi, I called him, because he was the embodiment of what one of my friends has called “entitled”.
“Maybe its just cultural differences,” she said to me once, as I was complaining about him.
That might be so, but it doesn’t make his strut okay.
In the end, I could cope with his snottiness. It wasn’t a big deal, and my rent was so incredibly low, I would be a fool to leave. The problem, the real problem was the fact that he was a born again Christian, with bible always at hand and holy self-righteousness at his command. I try my very best to avoid these people, because to them, my life is worthless, unless I follow them to this Jesus guy. I don’t need to be told how to live my life, especially not by a book and its cow-eyed readers.
I tried every now and again to sit in that living room. The evenings were so lovely, the setting sun tinting the sky pink, the soft glow of the lighting relaxing me, and every once in a while, it would be empty, inviting me. Every time I gave in, Yi would walk out, his steps loud and uncaring, dragging and sliding across the carpet. He would sit himself next to me and set that well turned book on the glass top table, lace his fingers together, and look at me. He would take a breath, preparing himself for his own mind blowing profundity, and attempt to save my soul. What could I do, but bear it, and pretend at least to follow along? As much as I dislike him, I am not rude, and I am not bold.
Needless to say, such sessions were torture, punishment enough that I would hurry through the living room to my own more sparsely decorated room, close the door, and leave again only to eat, work, and head to school.
As much as I hated him, I was not the one that left. One might believe that I would have lost my mind, packed up, and moved out. It really wasn’t that bad, though. Almost nothing for rent! No, he kicked me out. I came home one night, drunk, stumbling, laughing loudly, with a girl around my neck. It was two in the morning. I hushed her at the door, and quietly tried and failed to slide my key into the door. I grew frustrated, and turned the handle. It had been unlocked. When I entered, the lights were on. It was a lovely room. Except Yi was sitting, facing the door, glasses perched on his nose, bible in his lap. He assumed a self-righteous disapproval, and pointed at the girl. I knew what was coming, but could hardly believe he would do it.
“You’ve got to be fucking joking,” I said. I could hear that I was slurring my words.
“You’re drunk! You brought that girl home to sin in my house! I hope you like hell. She’s not coming in.”
I think I told him to fuck himself, or to shove something up his ass. I’m not really sure. I tugged the girl along behind me and slammed my door shut behind me. We were loud that night, me and whats-her-name. Mostly out of spite, because I really was too drunk to enjoy it.
The next morning, there was a strange woman in my bed, not embarrassingly unattractive, but nothing to brag about either. There was also a notice of lease cancellation posted on my door.
The Other Side is probably where you're wanting to be.
He had been absolutely unbearable from the first day. Every word that he mumbled grated my nerves and clenched my fists in agony. I dreaded returning home, and found myself walking quickly through the spacious living room, ignoring the gorgeous shoreline view through the window that dominated one wall of that comfy room. It was such a beautiful condo, the walls painted in warm earth tones, the carpet soft and loving on the feet. Track lighting had been set into the ceiling and arranged in such a way that the whole place glowed with a gentle softness that invited, begged for the overstuffed leather sofa or the extravagant Lazy Boy to be sprawled upon, lounged in.
The whole room was so perfect, it could only make me hate him more—he was always in there, you see, slouched in the lazy boy, the television blaring some obnoxious Asian soap opera, a steaming bowl of something funny smelling steaming on the glass topped table that rests in the center of the room. He ate with his mouth open, smacking , showing, sometimes spraying whatever it was he was eating. I could never be sure what he had cooking on the stove, but there were usually eyeballs or stomachs or other strange organ meat floating in his mysterious stews.
He smelled funny, emanating scents deep and strong. It might have been his diet, or some aspect of his hygiene. Its hard to say. All I really knew for sure was that he liked to stand close when he spoke. I’m talking about inches. I could count his pores when he trapped me in conversation.
I know I seem like an unfriendly person, but try to imagine standing that close to this guy. He doesn’t actually talk; his words were like shouts, or barks, sharp and nasal, piercing the quiet with dispassionate volume. He expects to be heard, expects to be listened to, and from what I have been able to gather in our broken exchanges, his father is a wealthy businessman in china, sending him to school here in the states. This condominium had been purchased in full, and the rent I paid went into his pocket. Yi was his name—Prince Yi, I called him, because he was the embodiment of what one of my friends has called “entitled”.
“Maybe its just cultural differences,” she said to me once, as I was complaining about him.
That might be so, but it doesn’t make his strut okay.
In the end, I could cope with his snottiness. It wasn’t a big deal, and my rent was so incredibly low, I would be a fool to leave. The problem, the real problem was the fact that he was a born again Christian, with bible always at hand and holy self-righteousness at his command. I try my very best to avoid these people, because to them, my life is worthless, unless I follow them to this Jesus guy. I don’t need to be told how to live my life, especially not by a book and its cow-eyed readers.
I tried every now and again to sit in that living room. The evenings were so lovely, the setting sun tinting the sky pink, the soft glow of the lighting relaxing me, and every once in a while, it would be empty, inviting me. Every time I gave in, Yi would walk out, his steps loud and uncaring, dragging and sliding across the carpet. He would sit himself next to me and set that well turned book on the glass top table, lace his fingers together, and look at me. He would take a breath, preparing himself for his own mind blowing profundity, and attempt to save my soul. What could I do, but bear it, and pretend at least to follow along? As much as I dislike him, I am not rude, and I am not bold.
Needless to say, such sessions were torture, punishment enough that I would hurry through the living room to my own more sparsely decorated room, close the door, and leave again only to eat, work, and head to school.
As much as I hated him, I was not the one that left. One might believe that I would have lost my mind, packed up, and moved out. It really wasn’t that bad, though. Almost nothing for rent! No, he kicked me out. I came home one night, drunk, stumbling, laughing loudly, with a girl around my neck. It was two in the morning. I hushed her at the door, and quietly tried and failed to slide my key into the door. I grew frustrated, and turned the handle. It had been unlocked. When I entered, the lights were on. It was a lovely room. Except Yi was sitting, facing the door, glasses perched on his nose, bible in his lap. He assumed a self-righteous disapproval, and pointed at the girl. I knew what was coming, but could hardly believe he would do it.
“You’ve got to be fucking joking,” I said. I could hear that I was slurring my words.
“You’re drunk! You brought that girl home to sin in my house! I hope you like hell. She’s not coming in.”
I think I told him to fuck himself, or to shove something up his ass. I’m not really sure. I tugged the girl along behind me and slammed my door shut behind me. We were loud that night, me and whats-her-name. Mostly out of spite, because I really was too drunk to enjoy it.
The next morning, there was a strange woman in my bed, not embarrassingly unattractive, but nothing to brag about either. There was also a notice of lease cancellation posted on my door.
The Other Side is probably where you're wanting to be.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
That Glow
A couple is arguing about marriage. It's come out that one of them has wanted to get married, but they've been hiding that desire for a long time. How will the other react, if at all? Thirty minutes.
Garry was slouched in the rough wooden chair, arms hanging loosely at his side. His eyes were closed, and he drew a deep sigh, his whole body rising and falling with the doleful breath. He poured a small glass of Southern Comfort and passed it across the table to a woman who leaned forward from her equally weary posture to take up the drink. He filled his own tumbler to near the top, and raised it in small ceremony. No cheers were exchanged in that old little kitchen. No toasts were made under that single light bulb, set in a tacky orange shade that made the whole kitchen look as though it was built in the early 80s, and had seen no renovation in its time. What it had seen was mildew and termites, and many a night much like this one, with few words, and plenty of cheap liquor.
He pulled out his pack of cigarettes and deftly grabbed one with his lips. He offered a pack across the table, paused a moment, and frowned. Looking inside, he sighed again, crumpled the empty container and tossed it into the trashcan nestled in the corner. It landed with a satisfying metallic clunk.
“Sorry,” he mumbled past the cigarette. “I have another pack in my room.”
“You know I don’t smoke Luckies anyway,” she said, pulling a Slim from behind her ear.
He flicked his lighter and reached it across the table, the flame cast flickering orange across her face, and for a moment, he could see her as the woman he’d met six years prior. She was still beautiful, her delicate features slim and soft and distinguished. There was something gone, though. There were wrinkles where there should not have been, tiny creases at the corners of her mouth, and bags under her light green eyes, and there was something gone—that glow of youth, that buzzing energy that screams of life and health.
“Garry,” she said, her voice cracking, dry and smoky. She coughed and cleared her throat and tried again.
“Garry.”
That was the way she sounded back in college. That was the voice of the woman he loved. He drank deeply, hating the taste, waiting for the muscles in his neck to release. He hung his head backward and stared at the bubbles in the paint of the ceiling, dragging at his cigarette and billowing smoke to the top of the room.
“Yes love,” he answered, still staring up toward heaven.
She was quiet for another moment, the whole house quiet, with only the sound of the cheap plastic clock ticking away on the wall, and cars speeding in the distance.
“Lets get married.”
He didn’t look up. He didn’t move for five thundering ticks of the clock. He drew again heavily at his cigarette. A small shrug shot across his shoulders, as if to say “Why not?” She didn’t see this.
“Loren,” he said, almost a groan and he pulled his head up to look at her. He leaned forward and rested his arms on the table, which shifted and leaned with a loose creak as it accepted his weight. He took another breath, composing himself like a man deciding to leap from a precipice.
“Lets do it.”
Friday, November 10, 2006
Rescue
Write about getting saved by a superhero--a precreated hero, or one of your own imagination. Thirty minute time limit.
I woke up in the dark, the rough sound of an old engine and of tires on pavement buzzing through the course fabric of the floor. A trunk. I was in a trunk of all places, and with no idea how I had come to be there. It didn’t occur to me to panic at that point, or to feel even a little fear. I was busy contemplating myself as luggage, wondering how I’d come to share company with a spare tire and jumper cables and wondering why my toes were tingling. Rope, probably, or maybe tape. The car hit a dip in the road, though not a deep one; we must have been going quite fast, though, because that little dip sent me slamming into the roof of my very small home. A groan escaped my lips, and muffled voices filtered through the back seat of the mysterious car.
“Slow down asshole. If he dies on the way there, we don’t get paid... and if we get pulled over, we’re fucked proper.”
The driver’s response was too faint for me to decipher over the sudden revving of the car’s modestly sized (and obviously unmaintained) engine, though I imagine it was something along the lines of “Fuck you.”
The lack of stops meant we were already outside of the city. I had little hope of attracting attention, even if I were to make a fuss. I began shifting around, trying to free my arms from their bindings when a voice spoke into the trunk. One of the men must have turned around and put his mouth to up to the seat back.
“Hold still and keep quiet, or I’ll put a bullet in you.”
This one voice had a British accent—the well educated kind, not the My Fair Lady kind. Three men? They must have gone through a good deal of trouble to get me.
I began to wonder at that point how they got me. Needless to say, the curiousity had been nagging at me, but I hadn’t been capable of considering it until that point—the same feeling one might feel about complex thought after smoking a large quantity of marijuana. The haze was clearing. I had been at a fancy dinner of some kind—a fundraiser for my reelection. Damn. That means I’m wrinkling my good suit. I’d just finished addressing the gaggle of wealthy attendees, kissing asses and bending over backward until I thoroughly hated myself. I was on my way to the restroom to wash my face, to wash my hands. I felt dirty. I wasn’t, I’m not a natural politician, and I only play politics when elections roll around and I take on the role of incumbent.
There were people in the restroom. Three of them, actually. One in the handicap stall—you know, the big one that looks like its made for group sex—one at the sink, washing, and one standing at a mirror examining himself. I acknowledged this one as he looked at me, and made my way to the empty stall. I didn’t need to use it, but I needed to be alone, and thought the threat of a hefty shit might persuade the other men to leave me in peace. The water turned off. The door to the sex stall opened and closed, and the bathroom door hissed open, and closed again. I grinned. Nobody wants to stick around when Mayor West decides to take a shit.
When I stepped out, still grinning, I was greeted by three grim faces, two of which I recognized as the men from earlier. I frowned. The third man stepped forward, pulling a handkerchief, or maybe it was a napkin… it didn’t look like a rag… anyway, he roughly grabbed my head and forced it into the wetness. I’m glad the rag is clean, I remember thinking as I breathed in the burning vapors, because he didn’t wash his hands.
I began wondering how they made their escape, imagining all sorts of escapades (of course, right? Escapades, get it?) like getting stuffed in a large duffel bag of some kind, or pushed under one of those cloth covered food carts and calmly removed from the building. Or maybe they painted eyes on my eyelids and carried me out like a giant puppet. I hope they didn’t have me speak to the press. I hire my own puppeteers for that. They’re quite good.
It was then that I realized that I might die, that I was in very real, very serious trouble. Too bad I’m not the mayor of Gotham. I thought, and then immediately thought better of it. Gotham smells terrible—The whole city smells like stale piss and fish. No, that trunk was much nicer.
Suddenly, there was a huge crash, a crunching of metal and shattering of glass and shouts of confusion. I was slammed into the front of my little cave hard enough to break my ulna. Or is it my radius? One of them snapped, though, I’m sure. Glad my head wasn’t faced that way. Lucky thing. I might have crushed my axis. Or my atlas, or any number of thoracic or cervical vertebrae, and then I’d be dead, or confined to a wheelchair like Christopher Reeve.
There were gunshots, and many umphs and kapows, and even a biff or two outside, and much scuffling.
And suddenly the trunk door was torn off and thrown clear, and well muscled and well spandexed arms lifted my free of the wreckage.
“Are you okay, Mayor West?”
The Other Side
I woke up in the dark, the rough sound of an old engine and of tires on pavement buzzing through the course fabric of the floor. A trunk. I was in a trunk of all places, and with no idea how I had come to be there. It didn’t occur to me to panic at that point, or to feel even a little fear. I was busy contemplating myself as luggage, wondering how I’d come to share company with a spare tire and jumper cables and wondering why my toes were tingling. Rope, probably, or maybe tape. The car hit a dip in the road, though not a deep one; we must have been going quite fast, though, because that little dip sent me slamming into the roof of my very small home. A groan escaped my lips, and muffled voices filtered through the back seat of the mysterious car.
“Slow down asshole. If he dies on the way there, we don’t get paid... and if we get pulled over, we’re fucked proper.”
The driver’s response was too faint for me to decipher over the sudden revving of the car’s modestly sized (and obviously unmaintained) engine, though I imagine it was something along the lines of “Fuck you.”
The lack of stops meant we were already outside of the city. I had little hope of attracting attention, even if I were to make a fuss. I began shifting around, trying to free my arms from their bindings when a voice spoke into the trunk. One of the men must have turned around and put his mouth to up to the seat back.
“Hold still and keep quiet, or I’ll put a bullet in you.”
This one voice had a British accent—the well educated kind, not the My Fair Lady kind. Three men? They must have gone through a good deal of trouble to get me.
I began to wonder at that point how they got me. Needless to say, the curiousity had been nagging at me, but I hadn’t been capable of considering it until that point—the same feeling one might feel about complex thought after smoking a large quantity of marijuana. The haze was clearing. I had been at a fancy dinner of some kind—a fundraiser for my reelection. Damn. That means I’m wrinkling my good suit. I’d just finished addressing the gaggle of wealthy attendees, kissing asses and bending over backward until I thoroughly hated myself. I was on my way to the restroom to wash my face, to wash my hands. I felt dirty. I wasn’t, I’m not a natural politician, and I only play politics when elections roll around and I take on the role of incumbent.
There were people in the restroom. Three of them, actually. One in the handicap stall—you know, the big one that looks like its made for group sex—one at the sink, washing, and one standing at a mirror examining himself. I acknowledged this one as he looked at me, and made my way to the empty stall. I didn’t need to use it, but I needed to be alone, and thought the threat of a hefty shit might persuade the other men to leave me in peace. The water turned off. The door to the sex stall opened and closed, and the bathroom door hissed open, and closed again. I grinned. Nobody wants to stick around when Mayor West decides to take a shit.
When I stepped out, still grinning, I was greeted by three grim faces, two of which I recognized as the men from earlier. I frowned. The third man stepped forward, pulling a handkerchief, or maybe it was a napkin… it didn’t look like a rag… anyway, he roughly grabbed my head and forced it into the wetness. I’m glad the rag is clean, I remember thinking as I breathed in the burning vapors, because he didn’t wash his hands.
I began wondering how they made their escape, imagining all sorts of escapades (of course, right? Escapades, get it?) like getting stuffed in a large duffel bag of some kind, or pushed under one of those cloth covered food carts and calmly removed from the building. Or maybe they painted eyes on my eyelids and carried me out like a giant puppet. I hope they didn’t have me speak to the press. I hire my own puppeteers for that. They’re quite good.
It was then that I realized that I might die, that I was in very real, very serious trouble. Too bad I’m not the mayor of Gotham. I thought, and then immediately thought better of it. Gotham smells terrible—The whole city smells like stale piss and fish. No, that trunk was much nicer.
Suddenly, there was a huge crash, a crunching of metal and shattering of glass and shouts of confusion. I was slammed into the front of my little cave hard enough to break my ulna. Or is it my radius? One of them snapped, though, I’m sure. Glad my head wasn’t faced that way. Lucky thing. I might have crushed my axis. Or my atlas, or any number of thoracic or cervical vertebrae, and then I’d be dead, or confined to a wheelchair like Christopher Reeve.
There were gunshots, and many umphs and kapows, and even a biff or two outside, and much scuffling.
And suddenly the trunk door was torn off and thrown clear, and well muscled and well spandexed arms lifted my free of the wreckage.
“Are you okay, Mayor West?”
The Other Side
A Case of the Nerves
Write about a first date in which the narrator gets a little too drunk. Thirty minute time limit.
“This,” I remember saying over the ringing in my ears, “is some damn fine pasta.”
Her smile was ironic, though at that point my eyes had drifted too low below the face that should have set off all sorts of social red-alerts. Needless to say I was little troubled by it.
“Damn fine. This marinara is fucking perfect. Is it really loud in here?”
It was really loud in there. I put a finger in my ear and wiggled it back and forth. It felt like my ear holes had shrunk, and all I could hear was the restaurant and that damn ringing.
I remember noticing the frown, and for a flickering instant wondering if maybe I had committed some faux pas. I sipped again at my wine and forgot.
It was a merlot, rich and strong, smacking of chocolate and some earthy spice that I couldn’t name. I frowned myself, mirroring her expression fairly closely. I had discovered the problem. Merlot with pasta?
“We should have ordered a white wine,” I said, though it felt as though I yelled it. I wondered if she could hear me over the buzz of the room.
She mumbled something then. I hadn’t imagined she’d be the mumbling type when I saw her, when I decided she was certainly worth summoning the courage to ask her out. But she was mumbling, and I had to piss. I said so, and I noticed a blush to her cheeks. Well, she wasn’t asian, but she was glowing. Maybe the wine was getting to her a little bit. She was acting very strangely.
I stood and began making my way to where the restroom aught to have been, kicking the table leg with force enough to tip over the small crystal vase. The single lush-lipped rose fell between the two empty bottles of wine. My hip rubbed the side of the smallish table, drawing the tablecloth into a crooked mess of wrinkles. I think water spilled.
I was impressed with myself. This was a damn nice place to bring a girl. Damn nice. The ambiance was subtly luxurious and soft with warm colors and dark wood. I think I might have said something along those lines. Diners, I thought to myself, deserve to understand what a treat they’re having tonight.
“Everything here is fucking gorgeous.”
The words came out as I reached the corner of the room, where instead of bathrooms I found more diners. Damn. I proceeded to follow the wall around the restaurant until it led me to the bathroom.
I remember realizing that I was shitfaced as I stood in front of the mirror, my collar crooked, a burgundy stain dribbling down my front. I didn’t have to stumble out of that appreciably clean and pleasant smelling bathroom to know that she had already left.
The Other Side
“This,” I remember saying over the ringing in my ears, “is some damn fine pasta.”
Her smile was ironic, though at that point my eyes had drifted too low below the face that should have set off all sorts of social red-alerts. Needless to say I was little troubled by it.
“Damn fine. This marinara is fucking perfect. Is it really loud in here?”
It was really loud in there. I put a finger in my ear and wiggled it back and forth. It felt like my ear holes had shrunk, and all I could hear was the restaurant and that damn ringing.
I remember noticing the frown, and for a flickering instant wondering if maybe I had committed some faux pas. I sipped again at my wine and forgot.
It was a merlot, rich and strong, smacking of chocolate and some earthy spice that I couldn’t name. I frowned myself, mirroring her expression fairly closely. I had discovered the problem. Merlot with pasta?
“We should have ordered a white wine,” I said, though it felt as though I yelled it. I wondered if she could hear me over the buzz of the room.
She mumbled something then. I hadn’t imagined she’d be the mumbling type when I saw her, when I decided she was certainly worth summoning the courage to ask her out. But she was mumbling, and I had to piss. I said so, and I noticed a blush to her cheeks. Well, she wasn’t asian, but she was glowing. Maybe the wine was getting to her a little bit. She was acting very strangely.
I stood and began making my way to where the restroom aught to have been, kicking the table leg with force enough to tip over the small crystal vase. The single lush-lipped rose fell between the two empty bottles of wine. My hip rubbed the side of the smallish table, drawing the tablecloth into a crooked mess of wrinkles. I think water spilled.
I was impressed with myself. This was a damn nice place to bring a girl. Damn nice. The ambiance was subtly luxurious and soft with warm colors and dark wood. I think I might have said something along those lines. Diners, I thought to myself, deserve to understand what a treat they’re having tonight.
“Everything here is fucking gorgeous.”
The words came out as I reached the corner of the room, where instead of bathrooms I found more diners. Damn. I proceeded to follow the wall around the restaurant until it led me to the bathroom.
I remember realizing that I was shitfaced as I stood in front of the mirror, my collar crooked, a burgundy stain dribbling down my front. I didn’t have to stumble out of that appreciably clean and pleasant smelling bathroom to know that she had already left.
The Other Side
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