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Like a clap of her father's rawhide belt, Kara's feet slap frozen mud. She can feel the cold penetrate her. The warmth rushes out and becomes mist as she gasps for air. The treetops, thick and dead, block the moonlight.
Shadows lunge and grab, holding her in place. They cover her, envelope her, jump down her throat and fill her insides. Kara feels neither the stinging cold, nor the hollow heat. She no longer has the breath to call out as the distant lantern light flickers and dies.
A sloppy brown paste constricts her midnight chilled toes, dries, and cracks.
His mother released his hand. "Go on," she said, "have fun." Without a second thought, he ran off toward the playground. She watched him, as she always did. He climbed and ran and jumped. His joy echoed in her ears, hurting her heart.
He tripped, and she sat up from her spot on a bench. She could see him look down at his hands- check himself. He stood up, patted his jeans, and kept on playing. He was fine without her.
She sat back, and looked toward the winding trail they came down, hating herself for wishing he had cried.
Aaron left the living room, stepping over Blue and heading to the kitchen to make popcorn.
While waiting, he went back to watch t.v. He accidentally nudged Blue, who didn't seem to mind. She was getting old.
The microwave beeped and Aaron put the popcorn in a bowl. He walked back into the living room. As he sat, Aaron dropped the bowl. It spilled all over Blue. She didn't flinch.
Aaron jumped up to stop Blue from eating the human food. He brushed the debris off her body. She layed there, stiff.
He proceeded to clean up the mess.
You watch the clock tick. You hear the bell ring. You head to your locker. You get your books. You see her in the hallway. She stops at the water fountain.
You walk up to her. You talk. She talks. She laughs. You smile. You ask her out. She says yes. You smile more. You set a date. She goes to class. You go to yours.
You shower. You get dressed. You look nice. You change clothes. You look worse. You change back. You have your mom drive you there. You wait. You text her. You wait.
She doesn't show.
I feel as if some sort of introduction is appropriate. Hello, I'm Kel. Over this past week I've written four short stories here on 100words. Sunday's tend to be a busy day for me, so I think I'll reserve this day for more "bloggy" type information.
However, I don't want to release too much info about myself. I guess I want to be mysterious. I dunno. I think it adds more to the works themselves if you don't know much about me.
Anyways, I hope (if you're reading this) you've enjoyed the stories thus far. Tune in for more!
They stood around the kitchen table. "Who did this to you," his mother asked. The boy did not respond.
She walked up to him, clutched his face, and lifted it into the light. His eye was black as hate. He broke free, and lowered his face once again.
"It's because he's a fag," his father said, "it could be anyone."
His mother turned. She opened a cabinet, removed a bottle, opened it, and proceeded to drink.
That night, like most nights, she didn't hear her son sob as his father beat him, sounds just as audible from one room away.
Father held my hand in his as we looked through the chain link fence. He commented on the different specimens. I'll never forget how much like us they looked.
Us, standing on our cement platform fifty feet above their enclosure. Them, lifetimes below us, measured only in distance, chain link fences, and a past.
And of course people threw things at them. Food, mostly, but also trash which I always found ironic. Sometimes the occasional stone was tossed.
We watched, these animals, as they fought over scraps and territory, making us glad we put them there in the first place.
I don't remember it much, as I was 12.
I recall my mother holding me, asking if I was okay. At the time, I wondered where my father was. I figured he was at work. I found out later that I was wrong.
When they first found me, apparently I was crying. I don't remember that. I only remember being cold.
According to my parents, and a few police reports, Mr. Edmundson had done this before. It was another boy, in another state, somewhere far away.
Even now I sometimes think about his hot breath on my neck, and shiver.
With a crack, the ball goes flying. Alex is stunned. But the cheering and urges of the crowd bring him back. He runs to first base.
The ball is farther than he thought- not bad for his first hit.
Alex is quite proud of himself. No one had really
him how to play. His father doesn't have the time. His mother is dead. He doesn't really have any friends.
Alex glances toward the bleachers and sees his dad on his phone, headphones in, just as stunned by the screen as Alex was by his first hit ever.
He watched as she threw some bread to the ducks, something they both knew they weren't supposed to do. But it was worth it. Something in the simple act made them happy.
He turned his attention to the ducks. He stared as the ducks quacked and squabbled for each crumb of bread. Every one of them wanted a piece for themselves.
With each toss the ducks became more and more hostile. They began fighting and biting. They kicked and scratched, until only one remained.
She give out the last of their bread, until the bag was completely empty.
He closed the door.
Inside, the air was still and old. The sunlight bloomed through the half closed curtains. His eyes were met with nostalgic tones.
Under the bed was a matte red box. He lifted the top up, and to the side. Dust, patient and longing, fell off the edges.
Inside he found tiny plastic men, both green and dead. They held guns and ancient bombs. He removed them, making them stand at attention. The striking sunlight separated the men into two sides.
He propped them up, moved them, and made noises. He couldn't bring them back to life.
Man I've had a weekend. Busy yet relaxing at the same time. Busy because I've done a lot, but relaxing because of the people I've done them with.
I saw The Judge and it was pretty good. Not great, but pretty good. Honestly I'd recommend waiting to rent it though.
Overall: pretty good week. My only downside is that a book I rented from a local library is late, and I keep putting that off. Honestly I keep making myself more and more anxious about the whole thing. Silly Kel.
Well, that's it for this week! Happy writing everyone!
Madeleine looked out past the bay window. She always hated the way it looked at night. It was as if she couldn't see the world, but the world could see her.
Her mother snapped her fingers. "Madeleine," she said, "please pay attention. This is serious."
"I know, Momma. I know," Madeleine replied.
"If I'm going to allow you go to Anna's party tonight, I need your
nothing will happen between you and Thomas."
"It won't, Momma. I promise."
Madeleine's voice trailed off as she stared into the darkness, her mind on the night Thomas was on top of her.
You go to the store. You get groceries. You leave. You forget the bread. You go back. You get bread. You leave, again. You get home. You take some groceries inside. You go back outside.
Two guys come up to you. They threaten you. They take your wallet. They take your phone. They take your bread. They leave.
You stand in the parking lot. You look around. You check yourself- you aren't hurt. You lock your car. You go inside. You sit down.
You think about calling someone, but you can't. You want to eat, but your mouth tastes bitter.
I had a story all written out for today, but unfortunately it became lost in the ether better known as an error page. I'm not mad though.
To be honest, it needed some work, so I'm glad to save it until tomorrow. The only downside is now that's one less story I'll be putting up here in 100words. Maybe I'll post one on Sunday at some point.
Well, I have to go to bed now. I hope everyone has a wonderful week and weekend! I'm going on a trip this weekend, so I'll be sure to post about it!
The doctor spoke to him. Apparently his condition was improving. She thought he may be able to leave in as early as six months. He didn't really listen much, though.
He didn't know if was his meds, his lack of sleep because of the patient with insomnia in the room next to his, or his everyday insanity, but he couldn't take his eyes off her blouse. The top button wasn't buttoned. He felt this was unprofessional.
He looked forward to his release, so he could follow her home and make sure the button stayed in place, once and for all.
Albert didn't have affairs with women. Women had affairs with him. Whether it was because of money, his power, or his accent (which he picked up in a five year stint in France), he didn't know. But he didn't complain.
His favorite was a girl from a local college he met at a wine tasting. He enjoyed her "perkiness." She married a year later, but that didn't matter much.
There were others, of course, but Albert was careful. They never met each other. Their scents were gone when the next one came. He slept with a grisly smile at night.
Tracy and Marlene count out the registers. Marlene lets Tracy leave. Marlene does the timekeeping for the night, as well as the bookkeeping. She turns the lights off and closes shop.
As she exits the diner, Marlene hears a cry from the adjacent alley. She glances into the darkness, and sees a large figure pressed against a smaller figure, hands pinned above it's head. Marlene calls the police.
Tracy never stopped thanking Marlene from saving her that night. Marlene always just smiled, and accepted.
She only called the police to report adolescents having sex in an alley near her diner.
I haven't decided if my writings here fall into the category of short stories or not...maybe flash fiction.
If you haven't liked my past two flash fictions (trying it out here), then you'll be happy to hear that I have an excuse! I was away on holiday, with very limited internet. In fact, I had to climb a hill in the woods in pitch darkness just to get any reception. Dedication: my name is Kel.
And don't worry, I haven't forgotten I owe you guys another story to make up for my "journal" post earlier this week.
I'm gonna be honest, I couldn't think of anything to write tonight. So now I guess I owe you all two flash fictions (trying it out again).
So now I'll just ramble about my day. For anyone who doesn't know, I go to school. I'm a major in English, hence the short stories (trying that out now).
words words words words words words words words words words words words words word words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words words POST
Creativity is a form of insanity. It is the molding of real and tangible things into thoughts and ideas, which one regurgitates into form.
However, we have a innate desire for creative expression. As humans, we value this crazed ability. Somewhere along the line, problem solving evolved into critical thinking which evolved into creative thought.
As a societal body, we have stayed in tune with this evolutionary trend, transforming it into a sense of purpose. Would mixing blue and red have saved our ancestors? Probably not. Yet we value the capability to conceive this act as a form of intelligence.
And because we value this insanity, we as a society are in turn insane. Ironically, the very plight for survival, evolution, made us this way.
At night, we dream. Our mind involuntarily undertakes the creative process. And often, as we wake, we forget said dreams as if we're desperately trying to rid ourselves of this forced derangement. We try and survive, fighting against the very thing into which we have evolved.
As a "writer," I find it's my job to think in these ways. The world is such a vast, crazy place. But so is the mind. More so, perhaps.
As one may have guessed, I've given up on my short story attempts. Ideally, I'd have a bunch written out, ready to go. But the world doesn't work like that. Or rather, I don't work like that.
It's been fun to create again, even if only a little. Some was good, and some was average. Hell, some of it was probably bad. But simply the ability to "put words to paper" is reward enough.
So, the rest of my time here will probably be thoughts and the like. Meaningful expression, maybe. Although, I'm inclined to believe all expression is meaningful.
I think the idea of time is constantly on someone's mind. Maybe not overtly, but on some layer, it must always be there. As people aware of our mortality, time is a ghostly reminder.
But if someone didn't know about death, would time be a concern for them? Surely, with survival instincts and all, it must be. But in a perfect environment, where no danger existed, no lack of food or water was a threat, disease was absent, and no other living beings were around, would a person be aware of their mortality? The aging body would still remind us.
But even then, as social animals, we would need interaction. We would need the presence of others. I think this "perfect" environment is a fallacy. It's impossible. With the involvement of other living beings comes the eventuality of death. And thus, the person would see their own impending doom. Or at least ponder it.
Then at what point does the person in this "perfect" scenario devolve into what we live today? In order to maximize the efficiency of their days, they would inevitably keep track of time. They would notice patterns and trends, previously unimportant to them. We can't escape.
My recent rant about time has me thinking a lot about my own time. Specifically, the past 2 years. Never have I looked back at a span of time and been astounded with how different my life is in comparison.
I remember, during the events in question, noticing a strange phenomenon: each day passed slowly, yet after each passed, it felt quick.
A lot is different, and a lot is the same. But I've always been the one to say change isn't necessarily bad. Life, as cliche as it may sound, can be what you make it. Make it good.
If knowing yourself is half the battle, then I've been halfway for a long time. Halfway to victory or failure, I don't know. But it's definitely something.
Avoidance tends to be my coping mechanism of choice. I don't get uncontrollably emotional or irrational. I don't become confrontational. Nor do I jump into action. If something bad happens, unless I need or should act quickly, I take time. This time is used for different things, depending on the situation. But usually, the time is allocated to the blissful act of nothingness. I think too much, too often. I like not thinking.
Only a few days left in the month. I've thought about whether I'll keep going into the next batch. I like to think I will. But like I said last post, I know myself too well.
I feel like I don't have the time I'd want to dedicate here. Even if I just did journals or blog posts, eventually I'd let it all fall away, rationalize, and move on. And I don't want that.
So I think for now, this will be my last batch for a while. I'll come back someday, I'm sure. In the mean time, keep writing!
Writing is pretty much my only creative talent. I use talent loosely, because the quality of my writing is entirely subjective, but you get my point.
Regardless, I've always wished I could draw. A friend of mine says, "Everyone can draw, they just have to practice." But I don't know if that's true. Or maybe it is. I dunno.
I think, more so, I want the passion to draw. I want to love to draw. I guess I could say the same thing for writing, too. Or anything really. Drawing may just be another victim of the grass being greener.
I find it funny that I know how I want to end this batch. Yet, as I sit here, I don't know how I want
post to go. I don't know how I want to
to the end of the batch.
Although the ending of a journey is very, very important, the path traveled is just as, if not more important. And here I am, just rambling about the meta qualities of story writing, and how they apply here.
I just used the word "meta." Let's not try and sound too pompous, okay?
Ah yes, the illustrious ending. The big finisher. The finale.
Although I'm sure a work of fiction would probably be much more interesting, I decided to end this month with a "thank you" to a friend of mine. However, whether or not this person ever sees this is beyond me, and unimportant. What's important is simply that they are being thanked.
Person: You are, I believe, the best friend I have ever had. I'll stand by your side, and do my best to be the friend you deserve, as well. Thank you, for everything.
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