Meredith's Writing challenge: "Apocalypse Now"

Apocalypse Now-

The end isn't near, it's here! You are alone (domestic animals and pets are ok) on the planet. Everyone is gone. Oddly all the technology that is currently working keeps doing so, but no humans. All modes of transport still work (somehow, don't ask, this isn't scientific). Where do you go? What do you do? Write me an idea, whisper me a story, leave me with your daydream- the world is your oyster, tell me what happens...

I don't know where everyone went, and frankly, I don't care.  I mean, they all went somewhere and I wasn't invited?  I don't need them.

Maybe it was the rapture, and I'm the only one God hates.  No sign of 600,000 Jews either.  It's just me.  And a LOT of starving animals.  Well, for a while I'll have fresh meat.  Yeah right.  Like I know how to butcher meat. 

https://redstarcafe.wordpress.com/2008/09/27/life-after-humans/

Well, at least the grocery stores are currently stocked.  I mean, the produce will go bad in a hurry and no fruit so hello scurvy, but I'll have enough canned food to last a while.  And plenty of can openers.  Vehicles?  Plenty.  Gas?  Plenty... until all the gas pumps run dry.

I can rescue myself a dog or three to keep me company.  After all, there's plenty of dog food too.  In fact, I could just go from shelter to shelter and open the cages. 

But...

Where did they all go?  There are no bodies.  No trace at all.  If they all just fell over dead, there would be bodies rotting everywhere.  Unless they were all disintegrated.  But then why wasn't I?

So.  I can go anywhere, until fuel runs out.  Do anything.  But I'm doing it alone.  I can go to an amusement park and ride all the rides with no lines... but I'm doing it alone.  Just me- no screaming teens on the roller coasters.  No children laughing and running around.  No young couples walking hand in hand.  No one to talk to about the movie I just saw (after figuring out how it's projected.)  No one to recommend a book to read. 

Table for one, please.  Oh wait- I can sit anywhere.  After all, I'm making the meal myself as well.

Where are they?  Are they hiding?

No doctors to help me when I get sick.  Look, there's a liquor store- all I could want to drink for free, but no one to drink it with.

Is my Wife and daughter with the rest of them?  Why did they leave me behind? 

I can run any red light I want- no police.  No other drivers.  Oh look- a gun store.  They'll have shotguns.  And shells. 

Ready or not- here I come.

Delia's Writing Challenger #3: Text

I was sent another writing challenge, this time by the incredible Delia.  I procrastinated.  Oops.

So here it is, Delia.  Top billing.  639 words.

Topic:  500 words: you accidentally text someone something revealing, who is it? What did you write? What were the repercussions?

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It was another day after work.  Retail sucks, but I needed to pay the bills while going for my Master’s degree.  I spilled my soda down my dress walking to my night class and cursed myself as I blotted it up.  All over my left breast and skirt.  Great.  I found the classroom, and was waiting for class to begin when I received a text from my friend Charlotte. 

When you first went on HRT, were you scared?  Did it affect your penis?

My coworkers didn’t know it, but I’m transgender.  I was born with a male body.  I transitioned to female five years ago, having facial surgery and “bottom” surgery as well.  It was my secret- I didn’t want to be judged as a transwoman- just as a woman.  I scrubbed my online life the best I could, and moved to a different state.  

No one knew me here.  I was safe.  

Makeup and photo by Amanda Richards

In any case, I quietly mentored other women beginning their transitions.  Charlotte was one of them- she was 20, slim, and scared.  HRT is Hormone Replacement Therapy- where one takes hormones to block testosterone and also feminize the body.

I turned off my phone as class began.

At a break, I turned my phone on again, but I didn’t realize that another text arrived.  This one was from a coworker, asking about swapping shifts.  I read it, turned off my phone again, and forgot about it.  I didn’t really like the guy: Greg.  He was a misogynistic jerk.

After class, I walked to my car.  My dress felt cold where I’d tried to clean the spill during breaks.  I turned on my phone, and typed my response to Charlotte.  I usually respond to her quickly.

HRT is a scary step.  Once the changes start, there is now going back.  Yes, estrogen will make your penis shrink, possibly significantly.  It will also render you sterile, so if you want children, get some sperm frozen.  My penis lost over half its size from HRT, which didn’t help GCS.  (GCS is Gender Confirmation Surgery- “the Operation.”)

I sent it, and forgot about it. 

An hour later, I received another text from Charlotte. 

Hello?  Was my question too personal?  No answer?

I thought “wait, I DID answer” and checked my phone. 

I’d sent the text to Greg. 

Oh shit!

By then, it was past 11 pm, and there was nothing I could do.  What was done was done.

I arrived at work the next morning for an “opening” shift on “Customer Service.”  Greg was scheduled for 11 AM, so I had two hours before he arrived.  I was very nervous.  Would he tell others?  Would he think the text was a joke? 

At 10 AM, another coworker, Bob, arrived and clocked in.  He worked in another department, and we were cordial.  He didn’t speak to me- didn’t even look at me as he passed.  Normally he’d say “hello” or something.

Did he know?

At 11, Greg arrived and punched in.  He looked at me very intensely.  I said hello, as I always did.  He replied “what was with that text you sent last night?” 

All morning I’d thought of different possible answers to that inevitable question.  I decided that I’d be honest- otherwise lies would compound on lies, and I hated lies.

“That was meant for someone I’m mentoring.  I’m transgender, and I’d appreciate if you’d keep that to yourself.”

His face twisted into disgust for a flash before he caught himself.  “Well, a bit late for that,” he said and walked away.

I felt my heart sink.  It was like I’d learned of a death in the family- but that death was me.  My secret was out- there was no way to change it. 

No one would ever see me the same way again. 

I never felt so helpless.

Story Challenge- 999 words or less. "The Gift."

My friend Mel gave me a writing challenge.  999 words max.  The story has "feature a jacket in the plot", as well as an "unattainable deadline.".

998 words (not counting the picture caption).  I call it The Gift.

Comments welcome.

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Got the coat in 1984.  It’s electric blue satin, button up, with a white stenciled Star of Life on the front left breast.  The people from my rescue squad bought it for me when I passed the Emergency Medical Technician exam in January. I was seventeen years old, and a high school senior.

I wore it to school for the rest of the winter.  It was flashy and stood out (remember this was the 80s) and, best of all, I’d earned it.  In my rural school, it REALLY stood out, but it meant (I thought) that I was a hero.  I was a volunteer on the ambulance and rescue squad, and I saved lives.

I found out later that the other kids thought it was extremely dorky, but that’s not the point.

I stopped wearing it when I went to college.  I volunteered at the ambulance company in the college town as well.  While I was there, earning my teaching degree, I also took the Paramedic course and passed that.  Soon after graduation, I took and passed the Paramedic II course. 

I moved to another rural community, and started teaching history at the local high school.  While there, I also volunteered with the ambulance and rescue squad.  When I started, the school was small and underfunded, as was the emergency services. 

Eventually though, new highways opened up the area to the city, and the population exploded. 

In the mid-90s, I was on a call for a bad car accident involving an elderly couple.  I ended up saving the old lady’s life, while her husband was out cold.  Both survived. 

Couple months later, that old guy showed up at the rescue squad building, carrying a large paper shopping bag.   Turns out he was an army medic in World War II.  Fought in Europe.  France, Belgium, Germany.  Made it out without a scratch.  In the bag, was his old medical gear- a couple bags, pouches, all on a harness to carry it all.  The equipment was mostly still in it- forceps, hemostats, some bandages and stuff.  He gave it to me, telling me how much he was grateful for me saving his wife.  “One medic to another.”  

We talked  maybe an hour or so, and I asked him how he managed to get through all that shit without getting hurt.  He reached into the bag to something wrapped in a black cloth.

 

It was a knife.  Sanssouchi Fighting Knife, he said.  While in France, he saved some guy from the French Resistance who was bleeding out after losing an arm at the elbow.  Tourniquet.  The guy’s buddy gave him this knife to thank him.  French resistance fighting knife.  Big.  Still sharp.  The medic said that it was good luck charm.  He carried it through the war, and it kept him from being hurt.  Through Korea too, he said.  And now, he was giving it to me.  His most prized possession. 

“One medic to another.”

“Take care of it, and it’ll take care of you.”

Sanssouchi Fighting Knife, WWII

Saw a couple months later that he died.  Heart attack in his sleep.  Widow maker.  He never felt a thing.  I went to his funeral.  Full military honors.

I kept the knife with me whenever I went on a call.  Late 90s, there was a house fire.  I was one of three guys who put on air packs and went in looking for a mother and little daughter who we could hear inside.  We found them just as the floor above them collapsed, burying them in flaming debris.  I could hear them screaming, even over all the noise and gear.  Tried.  Couldn’t get to them.  Other two guys, they pulled me out because our tanks all started ringing, meaning our air tanks were almost empty.  I didn’t want to go. 

Hours later, after the fire was out, we were digging through the debris with the fire inspectors, looking for the bodies.  Found them after a bit.  Floor was unstable, but we still managed to get them out after taking pictures and measurements.  They were both burned to charcoal, and fell apart when we tried to move them.

Mom was twenty two.  Girl was five.  The mom’s boyfriend set the fire hoping to collect on insurance.  He didn’t know they were in there, waiting to surprise him.  You see, she was pregnant again.  Just found out.  Their first kid together. Were gonna surprise him.

Dead.  Charcoal. 

Me?  Not a scratch. 

Year or so lately, wife left me.  I was drinking too much and not talking to her.  All I could hear were the screams of those two whenever it was quiet. 

Now I’m in my fifties.  The rescue squad and ambulance are all “paid professionals.”  I retired from teaching after twenty five years.  Wife remarried.  I now work on the ambulance, usually driving.

So today, I decided to wear my Blue satin EMT jacket.  Got it out of storage.  It’s a little small.  Little frayed.  Still shiny.  Brandon and Ashley, the crew I’m with today, they laughed and teased me.  I just smiled.  They’re just kids.  Early twenties.  Probably same age that little girl would be now. 

Right now, I’m sitting in the driver’s seat of the ambulance.  Those two are in the Applebees getting lunch.  I said I’d wait out here.  Not hungry. 

I pulled out the knife.  Still sharp after over eighty years.  It’s quiet, and I hear the screams.  Still.  Twenty years later to the day.  The screams of those I couldn’t save.

Took the knife and jammed it into my spleen.  Twisted it.  It really fucking hurt.  Screams died out.   I’ll bleed out within a minute if that.

That’s when over the radio, the tones dropped- cardiac arrest.  Maybe a few miles away.  Rule of thumb said the victim only had a few minutes before he would be beyond help.  The kids would be here in seconds. 

They’ll be too late. 

Poor victim.  I don’t think they’ll make it to him in time. 

 

A Thousand Words for a Picture.

On Wednesday November 8, I was pondering.  I was thinking about writing a blog entry about a favorite picture someone took of me.  I figured I could do maybe 500 words about it.  Then I thought, "a picture is worth a thousand words."  Hmmm.  Could I write one thousand words about that picture?  It would be a challenge.  A challenge...

So I challenged two of my coworkers (both writers) and posted the following on facialbook:

A CHALLENGE:

For my writer friends:

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. Prove it.

Using a picture OF you or one you've taken (new, old, whatever) tell the story of what is happening in that picture. The story may be fiction or non-fiction.

1000 words. Due next Wednesday, 5 pm.

Are you lame or are you game?

I'll post mine in my blog. Or you can post here. Whatever.


To date, six people have taken up the challenge.  I can't wait to read the results!

As for mine, it follows the picture below.  And no, this introduction did NOT count toward the thousand words.  That would be cheating.  As it stands, my piece is 1,422 words.

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Saturday, October 29, 2011 was a snowy day.  The snow had been predicted for days.  It was going to be a massive storm: a “Nor’Easter,” they said.  “Frankenstorm.”  One to eight inches of snow predicted, maybe more. 

Back then, I planned a lot of parties for my friends and coworkers.  My usual co-conspirators were M and Elizabeth.  This one I planned extensively.  This was going to be the biggest party yet!  Elizabeth and I went out shopping for decorations.  I stocked up my bar (I was working two jobs back then- thirteen hour days- so I could afford it.)  I made special Halloween mix CDs.  M was living in a rented house as her house underwent extensive renovations, and it was there that we held the party.

But, the best part as far as I was concerned was the costume contest.  Back at the party in 2009, I won by a landslide using my “Monique” costume.  “Monique” was just me showing off all I’d learned in the year since my re-awakening on Halloween 2008.  In that time, I’d bought a real corset, and learned how to put it on.  Yes, there is a learning curve.  I also bought hip pads from Classic Curves to give me a feminine derriere.  But the biggest acquisition I ordered in March 2011.  It arrived October 29.  Yes, it took that long to make the piece- prosthetic breasts so real that people could NOT tell they were fake.  But I digress.

"Monique"

In 2010, my costume for the Halloween party was “God’s gift to women.”  I didn’t want people to suspect anything after going enfemme for two straight Halloweens.

Which left this party.  In 2009, I hired Lorraine Anderson, a friend of a friend, to make me a costume.  The costume was Mary Marvel, the comic book superhero, as she appeared in the 1940s.  Lorraine made the costume, which I wore to the Henri David Ball that year.  Lorrain has since become a very dear friend, and has made several costumes for me.

My plan was to surprise everyone by wearing the Mary Marvel costume to this party, and, hopefully, win the costume contest again.  I was supplying the top prize- a $100 bottle of Crystal Skull Vodka.  Supposedly filtered through diamonds.  I wanted that bottle.

As I said, I planned this party extensively. I started planning in late September.  Many people RSVPed- over forty if memory serves.  I advertised it on my “guy” facialbook page.  I called friends and emailed them.  I invited a few of my trans friends, but I didn’t think they would come.  After all, there was a trans event that same night.

One of my two jobs was as an Instructional Designer at Penn State Great Valley.  In between assignments, I was teaching myself Photoshop.  As practice, I made posters for the party- six in all.

The Second Poster

Oh, I was so excited for this party!  My plan was to go visit my dear friend Amanda Richards at True Colors Makeup Artistry in Bethlehem, Pa.  On a normal day, that trip is usually an hour and a half one way.  I would then stop at a comic book shop for a minute, just for the fun of it, then head to the party.  Sometime during the night, I’d slip over to the trans event- Angela’s Laptop Lounge- for a few minutes.  With over forty people attending, I wouldn’t be missed.  I would then return to the party.  My price for “doing a party” was that I get a bed for the night so I could drink a lot and not worry.  This was before my DUI curbed my drinking. I dropped off my stereo, the bar, and the CDs the night before.  M and Elizabeth would set everything up.

But as I said: Frankenstorm.  People began saying “I’ll be there if…” I hoped that the storm would miss us, as so many had in the past.

But…

The snow started earlier than expected.  It was a wet, heavy snow.  The trees still had most of their leaves, which caught the snow.  All that weight snapped branches and brought down trees, and with them, power lines.

I arrived at Amanda’s half an hour late.  She was worried, and wondered if I shouldn’t cancel.  But I was determined!  On the way up the turnpike, I saw five trees down on the road.  The going was slow.  Bethlehem would get over a foot of snow before this was over.   Back then, I was driving my del Sol, the front wheel drive two seater.  While small, it was a wide car, and handled well in the snow.

Amanda did her usual amazing job with my makeup and wig.  As no cleavage was showing, I just wore standard breast forms instead of the prosthetic.

Ready for the Snow and the Party

The trip back south was slower than the trip to Bethlehem.  Cars had spun out on the roads.  Braches were down everywhere.  I drove maybe thirty miles an hour at most.  I decided to skip the comic book store and go right to the party.  By the time I arrived at the party, eight inches of snow was on the ground.  Good thing I was wearing boots!

I quietly entered the front door and waited for someone to spot me.  It didn’t take long.  Elizabeth saw me first and whooped with joy!  She, M, and Phil (another coworker) were the only people at the party so far, and they all thought my costume was funny as hell.  Now came the hard part.  I felt so natural as Sophie, but I couldn’t let that show- I had to be “Lance in drag” and act awkward.

I was in the party for maybe five minutes when The Picture was taken.  I was kneeling in front of the fireplace, which is where they put my stereo.  I was leaning on a hassock, turning on the music.  M and Elizabeth had been drinking heavily, and so couldn’t figure out the stereo.  (“Press the power button…”)

As I knelt, M’s dog, Gracie came over to me, tail wagging.  Gracie didn’t like me- at all.  Whenever she saw me, she barked like crazy and her fur stood on end.  Not so, this night.  She came over, tail wagging, happy to see me.  She was sniffing me.  I looked over at her, and smiled. After the picture was taken, I petted her.

Gracie never had a problem with me when I was female, but hated me as male.  I understood how she felt.

The party was a flop.  Only eight people showed up, including me.  We ended up getting almost ten inches of snow.  I did win the vodka- which I shared with the party.  It wasn’t very good.

So what is it about this picture that I love?

Of all the pre-transition, pre-HRT pictures taken of me, I think this is the most genuine and feminine.  I am happy, and at peace.  I’m happy that Gracie was accepting me.  My makeup is perfect.  Behind Gracie and my arm is my left breast, looking perfectly natural.  This is what I aspired to be- a woman at peace and happy.

I didn’t know that I eventually would transition.  I wanted to, but didn’t think I could.  Heck, my Wife still didn’t know about my feminine side.  It would be months before I confessed to her about that.  At that time, my female side was my monthly retreat into who I Truly was, and I needed it.

I’ve worn this costume many times since, including three times at the bookstore.  I’ve pretty much retired it now- it hangs on a rack in my storage space.  The stereo was destroyed in August 2013, when I was forced to move out of where I was living.  The wig wore out, and is long gone.  I sold the breast forms on ebay, and haven’t worn the hip pads in years.  The corset wore out and was replaced in 2013.  M moved out of that house in 2012 and into another, where she would graciously welcome me as a tenant after I was thrown out.  Gracie passed peacefully in M’s arms in 2014.

So many changes.

As of this writing, it’s been six years since that picture was taken.  “An image caught in time.”  I have been living my Truth for over three and a half years now.

And when I see this picture, I still smile.  And Remember a snowy night long ago.

Last time out: April 2016

Tara's Challenge: The Letter

One of my co-workers gave me a writing challenge:  Write a letter from your future self 500 word minimum.

Events of late have put me in a dark mood, so this is the result.  I know that the few conservatives that read this blog will take issue with this piece.  To them I say- it's FICTION (I hope.)

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Sophie,

I don’t know if you’ll read this- in fact I doubt it.  This guy says he has way of sending paper back through time.  He tried to explain it, but I was so tired.  Please excuse the paper and the black dust too.  The guy is one of the guards.  He is a “citizen” and has the Trump logo tattooed on his forehead like all “good patriots.”  However, I think he has a hard on for transwomen, because he’s always promising us extra rations for blowjobs.  I won’t tell you what price I’m paying to have this sent.

I hope you do read this, and that you read it before it’s too late.  I’m writing you from the February 2020.  I’m told the weather outside today is cloudy and 75 degrees, which is typical winter weather now.  Last summer, the average was the mid-90s.  So you can guess what happened.

However that doesn’t matter to people like us.  I work in a coal mine- I’m told in north-central Pa.  The mine has 4 shafts, each deeper than the one before it.  Shaft 1 is the one they show reporters, and those are the people that are free to come and go, and get paid.  They are almost all white, with an occasional black guy so the administration can say there’s racial “equality.”  Shaft 2 is mostly people who have a chance of actually leaving here alive- like republicans that didn’t vote for 45. 

I work in Shaft 3 with all of the other “perverts and freaks.”  LGBT, liberals- that sort.  They rounded us up at night, took us by trucks to holding pens somewhere out by Boyertown, then had us all form up in lines and we were separated into groups.  I was in an LGBT group.  We were marched outside for some time into a field and told to count off by threes.  I was a “three.”  Linda was a “two.”  We were led away from the others, and maybe five minutes later, we heard all kinds of gunfire- automatic weapons, pistols, then it got quiet, followed by an occasional pistol shot.  We eventually were loaded onto old school buses and taken to this mine.  I haven’t seen the sky since.

We work constantly.  Occasionally, if you work hard, they let you rest a bit, maybe even sleep.  They feed us energy drinks from time to time.  I’ve lost over 100 pounds.  Many others have died already.  If you do anything they perceive as wrong, or refuse an order, you’re sent to Shaft 4.  No one comes back from Shaft 4.

How could this happen?  Simple.  Trump won the election.  The beginning was rocky, but after “terrorists” bombed the New York Times and Washington Post, he declared Martial law, and the roundups began.  The Democratic Party was outlawed as was any news source aside from the brand new “trump Network.”  We were set to leave the following day- Linda and I were going to flee north to Canada, but we never got the chance.  They came for us that very night.

I’m hoping you get this before November 2016.  I know you’ll think this is fake.  There’s no real way to prove I’m really you.  Well, I’ll say something only you know: chicken add sickness.  I hope that convinces you.

Even if you get this in time (I have no idea how precise the method is for sending this back) I don’t know what you can do.  If you tell people about this, they’ll call you crazy and paranoid.  But all I have to say is this- you must do anything to keep that maniac from being elected- Anything.

By my own guess, I have only a few units of time left before I drop.  (Those who drop are also sent to Shaft 4, if not shot outright.  The guards get bonuses for shooting “trouble makers” but still have production quotas to meet, so…)  Time has no meaning here in the dark, but we all measure it by guard shifts.  We guess they work 8 hours at a time. 

Sophie, do something!  For all those you love, do SOMETHING!

Better Days

Conversation between Scars

"Hey!  Anyone awake?"

"Is that you, Chisel scar (1975)? Go to sleep!"  replied Right knee scar (2013).

"But I'm bored," Chisel replied.

Somewhere, there was a sound of a giggle, or was it a sob?

"What is that, anyway?" asked Chisel.

Chisel (1975)

"I don't know" said Trio of Left arm acid burns scars (1985), in three part harmony as always.  "But we've been hearing it for a few years now.

"Same here" said Trio of Right Arm acid burns scars (1985), also in three part harmony.

"No one care what you scars think.  You were self inflicted" said the Impressive Back Scar in his deep growl.

"Now you've done it- woke up the boss," said Right knee.

"You were inflicted in a medical experiment for money.  No one cares about what you think," Back Scar continued.

"Yeah, we're all more scar than you guys" said the Spokescar for the Left foot Scar Collective of 24 (1979.)  "We actually bled.  You guys are artificial."

Left Foot Scar Collective (1979)

"Oh here we go again with that 'more scar than thou' shit again.  Can't you give it a rest?  We're all on this body together" said Left Index Finger Knife Scar (1982.)

"They're burn scars.  They're fading away.  Hell, they are barely visible.  Just like defibrillator chest scars (1985).  They're completely gone," said Chisel.

"Yeah, but look what's there now in their place!  Homina homina!" said Right hand Rusty Nail scar (1976.)

"Won't you ever grow up?"  Finger Knife said.  "She's a woman- those are supposed to be there."

"I can't see them anyway," said Back Scar.

"I can't say I'm used to all the estrogen yet," said Spokescar.  "It feels strange."

Somewhere, the sound rose again- high pitched.  Giggle or sob?

"There it is again," said Trio Left.

"Thing is, if she'd been a female the whole time, a lot of us wouldn't even exist," said Finger Knife.  "Like many of the Coalition of Broken Bones."

"They're internal.  We're external.  We're so much better," said Back Scar.

"They actually cause the body pain these days as arthritis sets in," said Right Knee.  "That's more than most of us can say."

"I itch occasionally!" said Back scar, proudly.

"Finger Knife has a point, though," said the Chancellor of Knuckle Scars.  "We are all from fights- the manliest of scars.  We wouldn't be here if she'd been born female."

"Like that would be a loss," said Rusty Nail.

"Can you guys keep it down?  I'm trying to sleep up here?  Damn kids." said Forehead Scar (1967.)

"Oh, be quiet, you old fart!" said Rusty Nail.  "Guy was the first scar aside from the belly button and thinks he's God."

"No, that would be me," said Left Arm Vaccination Scar.  "Mind your elders."

"Yeah, shut up Rusty!" said Right Shoulder Weird Scar.  "We're all tired of you!"

"Actually, I pay him no mind.  He's so faded you can barely see him," said Chisel.  The Chancellor laughed.  They are his closest neighbors.

Again, the high pitched sound.  It seemed to echo through everything, but quietly.

"Ok, that's creepy," said Right Knee.  "Hey boss- any ideas what that could be?"

"No, not really.  We've all heard it.  maybe we should put together a committee to find the source,"  said Back Scar.

"You kids are so f*cking stupid; I'm ashamed to be on the same body," said Forehead Scar.  "If you ever actually listened, you'd know EXACTLY what that is.  Been with us since birth, and keeps getting deeper.  Much deeper than any of us.  But you idiots never talk to internals, so you wouldn't know.  Ask the Bones- they know.  Ask the Brain- she knows.  Guts know.  Hell, the answer is so f*cking obvious..."

"Well, why don't you clue us in, you stupid old scar?"said Rusty Nail.

"Yeah," said Chisel.

Ever thought of just asking her?" said Forehead Scar.

Silence.

"That's what I thought." said Forehead Scar.

"Umm.. excuse me?  Whoever you are?  Could we, um, well, who are you?" said Spokescar.

Silence.

Then, a whisper.  High pitched.  Feminine.

"I am the deepest scar of all.  I was born with the body, and get deeper as time passes.  With every failed relationship.  With every death.  Every time I couldn't be who I truly was, I grew.  I traverse the length and breadth of the body.  I am responsible for the body almost dying several times.  It was me who ached when Lisa died..."

The Chancellor shifted a bit, uncomfortably.

She continued.  "I am she who does not shine.  I am the one who none of you reflect.  I am the Soul.  I am the cause of the changes to the Body.  And I?  I will be the cause of its death.  You will all rot or burn away, and yet I will remain.  That is who I am."

Silence.

Silence.

"Respect your elders," said Vaccination Scar, quietly.

Laska Story Challenge: Champagne!

My dear friend, author Paul Laska, gave me another writing challenge.  It took me far to long to complete it, but here it is!  500 word minimum.


"You're a bottle of champagne at a liquor store.  Someone purchases you for a celebration.  Listening to him, what's the occasion and how is he celebrating?"

Hello my friend!  I am the bottle you have been seeking!  Veuve Clicquot! “The Widow”  One of the finest champagnes ever made!

            Of course, the human couldn’t understand me.  Stupid Americans!  They don’t understand anything that is not English.  But, he bought me along with a California Red and a bottle of Absolut Vodka.  Neither of them spoke French either, but fortunately I speak English.  They didn’t speak much.  The vodka was busy trying to be mysterious, and I think the wine was meditating.

            Eventually, the human put me in the refrigerator, after showing me to a woman.  She was beautiful, with raven colored hair and grey eyes.  She seemed impressed by me- and who wouldn’t be? After all, I am Veuve Clicquot!

            I don’t know how long I spent in the refrigerator.  If the various other occupants that came and went are to be believed, it was several years.  After a year, I stopped seeing leftovers, and started seeing a lot of Chinese food and pre-prepared things from the market.  I saw many more bottles of beer though.  Most of them pretended to be German, but they were American.  They couldn’t even speak German! 

Posers!

One day, the man removed me from the refrigerator.  He was dressed very well in a jacket and tie.  Worthy of an occasion that is worthy of Veuve Clicquot!  He wrapped me in a towel and put me in a cooler with ice and two champagne glasses.  I remember thinking “where are we going in the middle of the day?”  The two glasses said nothing. 

Ah!  A picnic!  It had to be!

Soon the chest opened, and he removed me.  He placed me on top of a stone.  My God- it’s a tombstone!  He placed the glasses net to me and opened me efficiently, yet with little flair.  He must’ve had some practice.  He then poured me into the two glasses, and lifted one.

“Happy five year anniversary, Angel!  I opened the champagne, just like we planned.”

He clinked his glass gently with the other, which sat next to me on the stone.  He then drank a sip. 

Tears started flowing from his eyes.  Water, condensed from the warming glasses and my bottle made us weep as well.

He knelt in front of the stone, where he cried and spoke quietly.  Occasionally he would sip from his glass.  When he finished his glass, he stood.  He took the full glass and poured it out on the ground where he had been kneeling in front of the stone.  He picked me up, looked at me for a long minute, and placed me on the ground in front of the stone.  Near me were some faded, warped pictures pinned my stones to the ground.  He then left a while picking up an old dead and withered one. 

He then packed up the glasses, and put them back in the cooler.  He also pocketed my cork.  He kissed the top of the stone and said “See you soon, Angel.”  And walked away, leaving me mostly full and weeping on the ground next to flowers and a tombstone.

And here I sit, now warm and flat.  Waiting.  Waiting. 

Satisfaction: a revision

The amazing Paul Laska, author of Four Years has issued another writing challenge.  500+ words.  One week.

I posted this one already, but I didn't like the ending.  So, here is a new version.

A person is sitting outside at a cafe.  Two men in matching khaki shorts and polo shirts approach him/her; one is holding a package and the other has his hands behind his back.  What happens next?  Noir style.

My response- I call it:  Satisfaction.

WARNING- this piece gets DARK and is for mature readers.

Pic:  http://miyanlevenson.com/news.html

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

A dump like this shouldn't have an outdoor cafe, especially in this part of town.  Not that it’s much- a few rusty black painted tables with matching chairs, all chained to the wall.  This table has a big umbrella, but my skirt is still getting rained on.  Yet, here I am.  What does it say about me?  I’m a woman of a “certain age”- two divorces and a dead husband behind me.  

Dark foggy night, misting rain.  Miserable night.

And do you wanna know the kicker? 

I’m dying too. 

Goddamn second husband liked sleeping around all the time, caught some kind of infection and didn’t know it.  Gave it to me.  Sure, I divorced his ass years ago and married again.  My late husband, Lenny- he was a saint.  God rest his soul. 

But he’s gone now.

Left me lots of money.  So, I know I’m dying, and I just can’t help but think about all those men who I loved and trusted, but who betrayed me.

My first husband I met in college.  Paul was a real stud.  Football team, best fraternity on campus, rich parents.  A Man’s man.  It took a while to land him, but let’s just say I can be VERY persuasive.  At least I thought I was.  When he found out I couldn’t have kids, he told me he’d never stopped sleeping around.  “Man’s gotta keep his options open.  Too many gals; too little time!”  He divorced ME because he wanted kids.  His parents got him a fancy high priced lawyer.  I got nothing.

Second husband.  Oh, that one!  I should’ve known from the start when he said he was “Brad Big and Bad!”  And he WAS big!  Knew how to use it too.  Had the funniest birthmark there as well- like a clover.  But he slept around too.  It wasn’t like I wasn’t doing my part- God knows- but the guy was a godddamn machine!  When I found him in bed with my best friend, that’s when I divorced him.  Found out later he did some porn movies too. 

Then I met Lenny.  He was such a good man!  God rest his soul.

But he’s gone now.  Left me LOTS of money.

That’s when a friend of mine told me about his cousin.  No name- calls himself “Timber.”  Says that he “fixes things.”  No questions asked- cash up front.  Satisfaction guaranteed.  Set me up with a meeting.

So I tell Timber what I want.  He gives me a number- six figures.  I say half up front, all cash.  He agrees.  We set up a second meeting. And so, here I sit, on a miserable Tuesday night, nursing a warm beer, waiting in front of a gay "fetish" bar in the rain.

At exactly 11:30, I hear footsteps splashing through puddles; coming toward me.  I turn to my left, and see two men emerge from the misty night.  Both wear khaki shorts and black polo shirts. The one is my first husband, Paul.  He’s gained some weight and lost some hair.  His eyes are swollen and caked dried blood hangs from his broken nose.  His arms are zip tied behind him.  Around his neck is a leather collar attached to a leash.

The leash is held by a little man, maybe four feet tall with black hair, a Fu-Manchu moustache, and a big black Stetson cowboy hat.  Stuck under his belt is a pistol.  Glock, I think.  He smiles. Timber.  In Timber’s leather gloved right hand is the leash, and in the left is a cardboard box.  Something is dripping from the bottom.

“See?  Look at us!  We’s twins!  Right, studmuffin?”

Paul looks down at him and whines “Sir yes sir.”

“Good boy.  He’s really quite tame after you ride him around the corral a bit.”  Timber places the box on the table.  “Would madam care to examine what she’s purchased?”

I smile at him and open the box. 

Inside is a large severed penis with the clover birthmark.  I’d know it anywhere.  Next to it was what looks like… yes, that would be Brad’s tongue.  Just like I’d asked. 

I smile at Timber and reach into my purse.  I pull out a thick envelope full of bills- all hundreds.  I hand it to Timber, who smiles wider.

“Thank you again, madam!  So what do you want me to do with Studmuffin here?”

“Oh, I have plans for him.”  I turn towards the door of the bar.  “Hey Rocco!”

Out comes my friend, Rocco.  Rocco used to play pro-football, where he had to hide who he really was.  Now, he provides… entertainment… to closeted high rollers with particular desires.  Rocco is dressed in a leather vest and leather chaps and boots.  He smiles and looks down at Timber.

“Timber,” he says. 

“Cousin Rocco!” Timber says, and then laughs.  “Oh, you’re cruel, madam.  Delicious!  I like you!”

Rocco hands me an envelope.  Inside is a check to my favorite charity- AIDS research.  Five figures.  Just like we agreed.  I gesture to Timber to give the leash to Rocco.  Rocco pulls Paul close.

“Yes, yes, he’ll do nicely,” Rocco says. 

Paul realizes what’s happening and opens his mouth, just to grunt when Rocco punches him in the left kidney. 

“Ok Studmuffin, for you there IS no safety word.  You have lots of work to do!” Rocco growls.  He then jerks the leash, and pulls Paul inside the bar.  The door closes.

All I can hear is the soft rain.

Timber chuckles to himself as I stand up, my skirt soaked by the rain. I pick up the bloody box and look at it.  

A gunshot!  Two!

I fall to the wet pavement.  I can't breathe.  My blood pumps into the grime of the street.

Standing above me, Timber smiles, pistol in hand.

As the world goes dark, I hear his voice: "Sorry Madam, but Studmuffin pays pretty well too..."

Laska Challenge III: Satisfaction

The amazing Paul Laska, author of Four Years has issued another writing challenge.  500+ words.  One week.

This piece has 1003 words.

A person is sitting outside at a cafe.  Two men in matching khaki shorts and polo shirts approach him/her; one is holding a package and the other has his hands behind his back.  What happens next?  Noir style.

My response- I call it:  Satisfaction.

WARNING- this piece gets DARK and is for mature readers.

Pic:  http://miyanlevenson.com/news.html

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

A dump like this shouldn't have an outdoor cafe, especially in this part of town.  Not that it’s much- a few rusty black painted tables with matching chairs, all chained to the wall.  This table has a big umbrella, but my skirt is still getting rained on.  Yet, here I am.  What does it say about me?  I’m a woman of a “certain age”- two divorces and a dead husband behind me.  

Dark foggy night, misting rain.  Miserable night.

And do you wanna know the kicker? 

I’m dying too. 

Goddamn second husband liked sleeping around all the time, caught some kind of infection and didn’t know it.  Gave it to me.  Sure, I divorced his ass years ago and married again.  My late husband, Lenny- he was a saint.  God rest his soul. 

But he’s gone now.

 

Left me lots of money.  So, I know I’m dying, and I just can’t help but think about all those men who I loved and trusted, but who betrayed me.

My first husband I met in college.  Paul was a real stud.  Football team, best fraternity on campus, rich parents.  A Man’s man.  It took a while to land him, but let’s just say I can be VERY persuasive.  At least I thought I was.  When he found out I couldn’t have kids, he told me he’d never stopped sleeping around.  “Man’s gotta keep his options open.  Too many gals; too little time!”  He divorced ME because he wanted kids.  His parents got him a fancy high priced lawyer.  I got nothing.

Second husband.  Oh, that one!  I should’ve known from the start when he said he was “Brad Big and Bad!”  And he WAS big!  Knew how to use it too.  Had the funniest birthmark there as well- like a clover.  But he slept around too.  It wasn’t like I wasn’t doing my part- God knows- but the guy was a godddamn machine!  When I found him in bed with my best friend, that’s when I divorced him.  Found out later he did some porn movies too. 

Then I met Lenny.  He was such a good man!  God rest his soul.

But he’s gone now.  Left me LOTS of money.

That’s when a friend of mine told me about his cousin.  No name- calls himself “Timber.”  Says that he “fixes things.”  No questions asked- cash up front.  Satisfaction guaranteed.  Set me up with a meeting.

So I tell Timber what I want.  He gives me a number- six figures.  I say half up front, all cash.  He agrees.  We set up a second meeting. And so, here I sit, on a miserable Tuesday night, nursing a warm beer, waiting in front of a gay "fetish" bar in the rain.

At exactly 11:30, I hear footsteps splashing through puddles; coming toward me.  I turn to my left, and see two men emerge from the misty night.  Both wear khaki shorts and black polo shirts. The one is my first husband, Paul.  He’s gained some weight and lost some hair.  His eyes are swollen and caked dried blood hangs from his broken nose.  His arms are zip tied behind him.  Around his neck is a leather collar attached to a leash.

The leash is held by a little man, maybe four feet tall with black hair, a Fu-Manchu moustache, and a big black Stetson cowboy hat.  Stuck under his belt is a pistol.  Glock, I think.  He smiles. Timber.  In Timber’s leather gloved right hand is the leash, and in the left is a cardboard box.  Something is dripping from the bottom.

“See?  Look at us!  We’s twins!  Right, studmuffin?”

Paul looks down at him and whines “Sir yes sir.”

“Good boy.  He’s really quite tame after you ride him around the corral a bit.”  Timber places the box on the table.  “Would madam care to examine what she’s purchased?”

I smile at him and open the box. 

Inside is a large severed penis with the clover birthmark.  I’d know it anywhere.  Next to it was what looks like… yes, that would be Brad’s tongue.  Just like I’d asked. 

I smile at Timber and reach into my purse.  I pull out a thick envelope full of bills- all hundreds.  I hand it to Timber, who smiles wider.

“Thank you again, madam!  So what do you want me to do with Studmuffin here?”

“Oh, I have plans for him.”  I turn towards the door of the bar.  “Hey Rocco!”

Out comes my friend, Rocco.  Rocco used to play pro-football, where he had to hide who he really was.  Now, he provides… entertainment… to closeted high rollers with particular desires.  Rocco is dressed in a leather vest and leather chaps and boots.  He smiles and looks down at Timber.

“Timber,” he says. 

“Cousin Rocco!” Timber says, and then laughs.  “Oh, you’re cruel, madam.  Delicious!  I like you!”

Rocco hands me an envelope.  Inside is a check to my favorite charity- AIDS research.  Five figures.  Just like we agreed.  I gesture to Timber to give the leash to Rocco.  Rocco pulls Paul close.

“Yes, yes, he’ll do nicely,” Rocco says. 

Paul realizes what’s happening and opens his mouth, just to grunt when Rocco punches him in the left kidney. 

“Ok Studmuffin, for you there IS no safety word.  You have lots of work to do!” Rocco growls.  He then jerks the leash, and pulls Paul inside the bar.  The door closes.

All I can hear is the soft rain.

Timber chuckles to himself as I stand up, my skirt soaked by the rain. I pick up the bloody box and look at it.  

“So, Madam, buy you a drink?  I know a great joint down the street. Place has a dumpster too.  Nobody will find that.”

I smile down at him and offer my arm. “Nothing would make me happier, kind sir!”

He takes my arm, and we walk down the street into the misty night, my heels clicking on the pavement. 

I’m smiling.  I’m sure Lenny would approve.