I hope everyone is having a spectacular weekend!
And I hope to try to write a short story before it is over…
Me trying to look very serious right now…
Tag: short story
Another Character Study –A Story of Friendship
The images and sounds of the bus depot would stick with her. No matter how much she tried to stay positive, she always ended up feeling defeated before the battle even began.
All the faces of despair and poverty; the ugliness stared back at her without seeing her. They appeared to be looking through her into the vacant space of nothingness. She was Rhiannon, and she was waiting for her life to be over one day at a time. She lived for the moment, tomorrow was another day. Another day of empty stares, another day of meaningless hellos, and even more meaningless farewells.
Rhiannon pictured a treadmill at the local women’s fitness club. That was her life, one foot stepping in front of the other, alternating, using up time. Rhiannon knew that not everyone felt this way. Her mother’s voice over the phone dripped with urgency, and emotion. She was a powder keg of anxiety waiting to blow up in some poor guy’s face.
Rhiannon felt detached. She didn’t feel sorry for the fate of the victim, nor for her mother the ticking time bomb. That was the problem with Rhiannon. She felt absolutely nothing at all.
“Hey, Rhee, whatcha thinking about?” Her cool blue eyes shifted from the vacant people who lived and died on mass transit, toward the plain yet persistent Annie. Rhiannon had yet to find a way to get rid of Annie, who was oblivious to the blankness and detachment evident in Rhiannon’s eyes. “Well?” Annie hated gaps in a conversation. Conversations were like little books to her; they consisted of a definite beginning, middle, and conclusion. Emptiness was something that Annie didn’t like.
“Look at the people on the bus there. My life is much the same. We’re all slaves to an endless routine which is slowly poisoning us.”
“Rhee, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was thinking, maybe we could rent some movies. Have a girls night in, you know.”
“Annie, isn’t that what we always do? I know I haven’t felt well lately. I know I’ve been a hermit. But that doesn’t mean you have to be one too. It is okay for you to have a life. You’re allowed, I hereby give you my permission.” Rhiannon knew her words stung Annie because she was quiet, something of a rarity when it comes to Annie. Rhiannon watched her nod, and wave. Annie sighed, got in her little white car, an old Datsun, and backed out while another equally small car honked disharmoniously at her.
Was it such a crime to want to be alone? Rhiannon had no car. She used to have one. It wasn’t expensive, although her parents bought it for her. Her brother wrecked it after a wild night of bar hopping. She wasn’t there when it happened. She had stayed home, painting. Painting had once been her true love. Now? She wasn’t so sure. She walked to her apartment despite it being eight miles away. She liked walking. She liked people watching. What was going on in the mind of the old lady walking her mini daschund? Or the fat man taking out his trash?
Annie would be home stewing, her door shut, waiting for an apology. Rhiannon knew that Annie simply wanted someone to take care of, to care for. Rhiannon also knew that Annie was extremely shy. Not in the same way as Rhiannon, not through a lack of caring, but due to a pervading fear of rejection. Loners tend to seek out other loners, and they met and had been friends since high school. Annie had the misfortune of being the new girl, fresh in from someplace in Massachusetts. Rhiannon on the other hand grew up rarely stirring from the same small town. To by shy and to start over from scratch, not once but many times sounded like torture.
Annie’s father was some kind of business man, although what he did exactly was unknown to Rhiannon. It started in school, art class. “There are four of you to a table for a reason. Your final will be a group project. If you don’t participate, you fail the class. That’s it, pure and simple, folks. Many take this class thinking “Easy A”, but I am here to dismiss that myth.” That’s right, Rhiannon’s most enduring friendship was from a teacher’s random seating chart.
Rhiannon tiredly unlocked the door, and pushed herself into the small two bedroom apartment. There was no one set of decor, it was a hodge podge of styles. Her mother would be horrified if she ever visited. Half the place was covered in Rhiannon’s drawings or paintings, the other half had those prints one buys at Michael’s combined with a couple well chosen family pictures. That was Annie’s contribution.
Rhiannon’s photos remained in several scrapbooks kept hidden under lock and key. She only revisited them if she thought she was completely alone, and even then only rarely. To Rhiannon her mother was the shrill concerned voice on the other end of the telephone. That was all. Sometimes she had dreams of the phone ringing, and ringing, but the line would always be dead before she picked it up. She often wondered what the dream meant. Somewhere deep down in the core of her being, perhaps she missed her mom? Or perhaps it meant nothing.
She shut the door lazily, neither slamming it, nor taking care to be gentle.
“Your mom called. She left a message. I think you should call her back.” Annie’s voice was clipped and precise. It was an attempt to project coldness and impersonal lack of feeling. It was a failure. Rhiannon knew Annie was hurt. She even understood why. She simply couldn’t bring herself to care.
“Okay.” Rhiannon briefly glanced at the TV. Annie was pretending to be absorbed by an old episode of Sex in the City. Rhiannon shrugged. She approached the old black answering machine with trepidation. She knew she should return her Mom’s call. What she didn’t understand is why she didn’t want to. Rhiannon’s mother wasn’t perfect, but she was far from an evil uncaring child abuser. She’d always been there when Rhiannon needed her, and she was not unkind. But she did expect success. Success with a capital “S.” The kind that entailed wealth, kids, and a college degree. Perhaps she was simply praying for one of the above.
Rhiannon sighs, and plays back the messages. Three are from her mom, each one getting more frantic then the last. Two are from Michael. He must be back from college. One is a random person calling for a Melinda Richards who once must have possessed this number. They get her calls a lot, mostly solicitations for money. Rhiannon’s opinion of Melinda was mixed. The charity work was not bad, but the old debtors got annoying. Rhiannon wondered how someone obviously in financial difficulties would continuously give money away. Rhiannon’s imagination would conjure possibilities as varied as a simple divorce, to a death in the family. Maybe it was something more extreme; someone addicted to losing money over the phone.
She listened to her Mom’s message again. “Darling, please return my call. I’ve also spoken with your room mate. She seems like a nice girl, so there is no way you can avoid this message. I love you dear. Are you coming to Nathalie’s baby shower? Let me know, okay?”
“Who is Michael?” asks Annie, pretending disinterest and failing.
“Michael is an old friend. You don’t remember?”
“That Michael? From way back then? You were more than friends, if I remember correctly.”
“Yes, well, that was then. I need to call my Mom. Apparently my brother is having a kid.”
“If you’d check your messages you would have known that months ago.” Rhiannon dialed the number, ignoring Annie.
Time to Write — The Big Bad Bird
The crunch of brittle bones underneath her feet reminded her of where she was. The cave entrance was clammy and dark. The beam from her flashlight only traveled so far, illuminating one part of the massive wall. She could hear little skittering noises of some unknown critter running away from her obvious human footsteps. Her assistant cowered behind her slightly. She could hear his breathing and hear his steps.
“Just a little further, Wally. I know we are getting close.”
“Why does it have to stink so bad?” She shook her head and chuckled. She knew he would rather be in cozy office building or even a lab building. Anyplace with heat and light and less scurrying noises.
“Don’t worry. The blonde girl in front of you will protect you from the big bad bird.”
“Oh, whatever.” She heard him say under his breath, annoyed. He was such a child.
“Are you getting any of this? We should try to record as much as possible. Who knows when we will be allowed back.”
“The lighting is less than ideal, but I am trying.”
They ventured further in and the space got tighter. Hopefully there would be some eggshells or feather samples. A loud squawk could be heard outside suddenly. She stopped and waited. “Did you hear that, Wally?”
“Yeah. I don’t like it.”
She went against the wall slowly, motioning him to follow. She placed her fingers to her mouth in a quiet gesture. Wally followed her against the wall. She turned the flashlight off. He gasped, and she could feel his eyes on her. They held still and heard loud scratching and squawking as the bird creature entered the cave.
It seemed large, from the talon scratching although they had no light to see it. She gripped Wally’s hand, giving him a reassuring squeeze. Luckily, most birds don’t have a keen sense of smell. Although, vultures can smell decay. This creature was unknown. It was hard to say what its skills were. She made a silent prayer to God, even though it had been a while. It was an instinct to reach out to something somewhere.
She heard it scrape by its talons and heard it scrape the ground with its beak like a large chicken. Wally’s foot slipped slightly and skidded a rock which made a not so subtle noise. She heard the bird stop, and come back around slowly.
She tried to regulate her breathing to be quiet, but it was getting more difficult by the minute. It approached their wall slowly, she could hear the click clack of its talons. Her legs began to go numb from being in the same position and suddenly she dropped the flashlight.
She heard Wally scream and heard him go down. In a panic she found herself running to the cave entrance, and then felt a searing pain in her ankle, and she crashed into the bones. Then it was upon her, and she could feel the pain from the gouges until her mind completely shut down and spared her the additional pain.
The Crash
She listened to the waves crash along the beach, powerful water grabbing and releasing material into and out of the ocean in equal measure. The skies were dark, cloudy and the wind was brutal. She got up slowly, turning around to see the cliffs begin to crumble, boulders bounding down onto the beach from the imposing cliffside. The uneven rocks kept her feet on edge while the ground shook and broke apart underneath her. She hunkered down by a picnic table, looking for protection from the angry nature goddess throwing all the elements at her.
Her car had broken down on arrival, and she wasn’t mechanically inclined, and had no idea what was wrong with it. Her phone was nearly dead, and she had no bars in this remote place.
She knew she should have taken the car in; she should have brought a friend or maybe her brother, just anyone, so she wouldn’t have to be here all alone, which was the most frightening thing about all this. Being alone and unable to reach anyone or anything, trapped in loneliness, trapped in helplessness.
Trapped by her own pride in not being able to ask for help. Why couldn’t she just reach out, once, at least. Look up the weather, look up how a car or even how a phone works. The rain started to come down freezing cold at an angle, chilling her to the bone. She could see a house on top of the cliff. A remote mansion, in that new modern style, suggesting solar panels, and smart features, the kind of house you might see in a movie.
Anything would be better than staying out here in this mess, she thought, trying to find how to get up there. Is there a pathway, or a road? She saw a path, a foot path, that may lead in that direction.
She walked steadily embracing her coat fiercely to keep warm toward the path.
Time To Write — Where Is Here?
What is love? What is a feeling? Does it matter? Do we matter?
I wanted to say resoundingly, “Yes! Of course.” But then tomorrow there would be bills to pay, work to do, and the minutiae of everyday life. The things that can get in the way of the more exciting and wild life that I crave. It is like a slow death walking through the grocery store picking up this and that, deciding yes, I want to try that cocoa cereal, or I need the circular ice cube tray because it is there, and why not?
And then I am home with my circular ice cubes thinking, why did I buy this? Who cares about the shape of ice cubes? Then my mind wanders thinking about people who may not have easy access to water. They would probably love to have ice cubes, no matter the shape. Everything is just so commercial here. Commoditized for consumption. You don’t like that sweater, throw it away and get another. Don’t feel like cooking tonight? Order in.
I feel chained to a job I do not love to pay bills for things I may not need so I can live a life I find dull. I want adventure. To be swept off my feet and taken to an exotic location. Someone that holds me and listens to me complain about nothing. I feel like a train passenger in my own life, only the conductor never stops and I can’t get off.
Please let me off here, I want to enjoy this moment a little longer please. No response. He keeps going and ten years pass, and then another five, and I am wondering, what happened? Where did the time go? Why am I here? Where is here? And, then when I figure it out, it will be too late.
Time to Write — Feline Curiosity
The cat was black and white with bright green eyes shining like jewels. It slunk down an alley avoiding garbage and random bottles on a mission to some unknown place. At the other end of the alley a slender dark haired woman with green eyes appeared walking in red heels, confidently striding into the street. Annabelle turned around uneasily. Was she being followed? She tried to lose her tail earlier by becoming the cat but sometimes hunters know that trick.
She walked into the nearest bar with its noise spilling out onto the cobblestone streets. She slid into an unassuming corner, looking around the room cautiously. There was a pair of drunks arguing over there. A sad older woman drinking alone at the counter. A group of young friends carousing into the early hours. Then she saw him. A man in dark clothes with a hat pulled low covering most of his face, nursing a cup of coffee sitting alone at a table.
She didn’t want to make any sudden movements or attract his attention. She carefully slid out of the red shoes, and tried to calmly walk to the door. She sensed something behind her but didn’t want to turn around. She kept going forward, and then she felt it. Something hit her in the back of the neck. She felt her body go numb and she began falling. I guess this was her ninth life after all.
Time to Write — Belief
She slowly shut the car door, defeated from a long dull day at work. Her feet took heavy steps toward the small brick house with the tidy yard. Her eyes looked up and saw the door wide open. She ran up the steps and peered inside. It sounded quiet but also looked emptier than she remembered. The tv was gone, the couches, the computer, even the fan and the kitchen table.
She was left with an empty house. She fell down and cried in despair. Why me? Why now? This wasn’t fair. She didn’t have a lot that she cared about. She went about each room in the house mentally cataloging what was missing. There were clothes left strewn about the floor along with papers from the desk drawer. The antique box given to her by her deceased grandma, gone. She reached into her coat pocket to call the police to report the theft, speaking calmly, drained of emotion or energy.
“I need to report a robbery. I’ll make a list. No, I don’t think anyone else is here. ” The police were on the way. She sat down on the bedroom floor dumbfounded. How was she going to explain this to Eric when he got home from high school? How would she replace all this stuff? She remembers thinking renter’s insurance was a waste of money. She rocked herself anxiously on the floor, wrapping herself in her coat like a cocoon. It was going to be all right. It’s just stuff. It will be fine. They will find the stuff, catch the person. At least no one was hurt.
The police took her statement, and she made a list of missing items, thinking about her son who would be home soon. They left and she waited. She knew she should eat something, or do something, call somebody. But she was paralyzed. She sat there. The sky darkened and her son still wasn’t home. She reluctantly got up. Picked up her phone again to give him a call. The phone went straight to voice mail. It was off then. Where was he? She called her mom hoping she had heard from him, no such luck. “Can I come over? This place is empty and depressing, and I don’t know what to do.”
“Of course, honey.” Her mom said with concern. She walked out of the house locking the door behind her out of habit. Her phone rings suddenly startling her. She answers reluctantly. It is the police. She can’t have any more bad news today.
“We have your son and two of his friends here. They admitted to the burglary and breaking into the house. “
“I don’t believe you.”
But she knew it was true. It explained everything. She just didn’t want to believe it.
Daily Writing Starts Now
I am going to attempt to write at least a little bit of new material everyday, just to get back into the habit. I think trying to fix this mammoth novel has actually made my writing stagnant. I have been so intimidated about it. The immensity of the task, the insurmountable mountain of the pages. The myriad problems, none of which are small mind you. I think I have been using it as a crutch to avoid writing in general. It was written in a long fever dream after Layne Staley of Alice In Chains died. I was a big fan, and it made me realize that life is fragile, and often temporary.
When I was in the midst of it, in the emotions and the living and breathing of it, I thought it was the most important and glorious novel ever written. It was only after the dust settled, it was written quickly in three months, that I realized just how messy and unreadable it actually was.
It has been the boulder on my back crushing me ever since. However, I woke up feeling invigorated and positive and with a distinct feeling like I could conquer the world. I haven’t felt this way in years, before covid, and all that. It has been a hot minute. So, I am going to try and get into the habit of new writing and writing daily. And, I am going to start going to the gym on a regular basis too. Healthy body, healthy mind.
That was the idea behind the YMCA. They thought a pure body was closer to a pure mind. Young Men’s Christian Association. It is very 19th century, reminds me of the way they built sanitariums to be shaped in a way to keep the mind pure, and the working to keep the mind busy.
I also plan on doing some hiking and adventuring because I live in a beautiful area that has so much outside nature. I feel like growing up here has made me take it for granted. I tend to forget all the beauty and fresh air.
It has been awhile…
Trying to get back on the horse again. Life has a way of distracting you from things that matter. I tend to get caught up in the daily grind and get a little lost. My happiness has been a bit low, and one of the reasons is I haven’t been writing or drawing. I need to refuel the tank and get back to where I feel productive.
I’m sorry to all the people I disappeared on around 2019. I tend to sabotage myself and financially I’ve had other priorities.
Anyway, I appreciate any visitors and I promise to start writing some stories. JenRae.
Indecision –A Short Story
She pulled the knife out slowly, wiping the blade on the nearest kitchen towel with gentle, precise strokes. The dead man stared at the ceiling with a look of frozen mock wonder and amazement.
She sighed, carefully carrying the knife and the towel to the back sink, making a futile attempt to rinse the blood out. What would her mother-in-law say when Christmas came without a call from her dear boy? Would she just chalk it up to the growing distance that had been progressing between them? Or would she take it as a sign for an overdue visit?
Either way Carol would have to do something with this corpse on the floor, staring above imploring God to intervene on his behalf. Too late, Darlin,’ she said quietly, still holding the crumpled red rag in one hand, the knife remaining balanced on the sink ledge, forgotten for a moment.
What do do now? She was not a pro at this sort of thing, but she knew from the TV shows that keeping blood soaked items was a no-no. They test for DNA traces in the carpet fibers, hair, and even use bugs. So many things can be traced, and there was always that one guy who never gives up on the case. And the spouse is always the number one suspect. Always.
She started to worry, sweat began to pour slowly from her anxious brow. She knew she couldn’t leave him laying here. She did know that much. Her stomach started to turn uneasy. She glanced back toward the sink in the backroom. No, she couldn’t bring herself to cut him up. But she had to do something.
She urgently looked around the kitchen. Maybe she could just disappear. Get a plane ticket to nowhere. Who would think to look for her in some small town in Arizona? Or better yet, she could flee to Canada, or Sri Lanka, or anywhere.
She drew the curtains closed in the small kitchen window, eyeing the outdoors with renewed suspicion. What if a neighbor had heard him yell? What if someone had called the police all ready? What if they were on their way right now? What if, indeed.
She tried to breathe normally, but found it difficult. She had to make a decision now. But he had always made all the decisions for her. She found herself paralyzed and unable to act. There were too many details, too many choices. She knelt down next to him, and began to cry.
“Tell me what to do, oh please, do get up, and tell me what I am supposed to do now?” This wasn’t how she pictured it in her head. This whole situation was all wrong and mixed up. She reached for his hand, and held it tenderly despite the fact it was now cold and offered her no comfort or solution. She knew then that she was truly alone.
The Infamous Jennisfora Strikes Again...or something like that 