[Fiction] Friday Challenge for 5th March 2010:
 ?When Gregor Samsa woke up one morning from unsettling dreams, he found himself changed in his bed into a monstrous vermin.?
What has your character turned into?
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Jack Canasta was having a poor night's sleep. Tossing and turning all night long, the fitted sheet had come undone, losing its grip on the corner of the bed closest to the window. The exposed mattress cover grinned in the moonlight, its shabby yellowed form in contrast to the blood red sheet set Jack had bought just the day before which now lay in total disarray on the queen sized bed draped around his restless body. The bed seemed too large for him, despite his size. Then again, he had lost quite a bit of weight over the past year, in addition to his wife and kids. He slept diagonally across the bed, but still felt the lack of his wife, his bed companion for twenty years until a few months ago.
A soft moan escaped his lips as the anguished man flung out his arms, driving them deep into the mattress, a cruel caricature of the figurative crucifixion he'd undergone the day before. More sounds, a jumble of almost-words, emerged. Words he'd held back during the hearing. Words like silver-flecked eyes, or he went poof!, and he visits me at night. Words that might have gotten him sent to the nuthouse. Words that might have lost him all parental and visitation privileges.
In a corner opposite the bed, the elderly aristocrat of Jack's troubled dreams observed him sadly. An insignificant little man, who should have lived out his mediocre life unaccosted by anything worse than a rude cab driver, had instead brushed upon evidence of Others, and was now paying for it. And since the connection works both ways, the aristocrat was now plagued by Jack's puling gibbering thoughts skittering around in his head. Sure, he had thrown up a mental block around them as soon as he had sensed the thoughts, but he didn't appreciate having yet another intrusion in his mind. He had lived a century, and had brushed against many Unawares before learning how to not inadvertently make a connection with them. His mind had been almost completely his again, until he slipped up in his haste to chase down his prey, prey that he had yet to bring to justice. So close, he had been. But he had nothing to show for it, except the mental connection to a mind that was progressively slipping into madness.
It had to stop.
Jack Canasta moaned loudly as he slipped into yet another dream. Again he felt the weight of silver-flicked eyes on him, this time with the added twist of the old man from that fateful day appearing at the foot of his bed, smiling gently, extending his gnarly hands with too-long fingers to touch Jack's exposed feet. A sense of peace made its way up Jack's legs, torso, extending to his arms, to his face, his head. He fell into a field of ... white ... and for the first time in months, was not plagued by... by anything. His face broke out into a smile. The gentleman smiled back, removed his bloodied hands, and poof!ed himself away.
Two days later, the landlord, coerced by a concerned neighbor into checking up on Jack, discovered the brain-dead body.
[Fiction] Friday Challenge for February 26th, 2010:
The bag was empty except for a smudged slip of paper which said, ?Sorry.?
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Emily had always joked about her "homemade tomato juice" she kept in a brown paper bag in the pantry refrigerator, and why no one else was to even take a sip of it: "I spit in it," she would say, with such a deadpan face that her colleagues were never quite sure if she was joking or serious. Other times she'd allude to the presence of substances that would cause any illicit partaker of the liquid to fail company random blood and urine drug tests for at least a week. She kept her colleagues off-kilter enough that her stash had remained undisturbed by curious hands, eyes or mouths.
And yet.
Here she stood with the refrigerator door still open, foggy condensation curling around her feet as she held her brown paper bag, easily identifiable by the large HANDS OFF! PROPERTY OF EMILY PRENTISS printed neatly in bright red all over the bag. Emily had come in for her 10am feeding, only to find that the bag was empty except for a smudged slip of paper which said, ?Sorry.? She had had at least ten bottles still in there. All gone.
As Emily gathered herself together, she studied the slip of paper carefully. She didn't recognise the handwriting - her colleagues who wrote in chickenscratch would never be capable of such flowing, almost calligraphic, penmanship. Even the old yellowed paper was out of place in this modern world she had made her home. Lifting the paper to her nose, she inhaled deeply and caught an ever so faint scent of -
Her cover was blown.
She wasn't safe anymore.
All too aware that she was on the 10th floor of a skyscraper that probably contained a few thousand human beings, all of whom would offer no resistance if she were to transform -- no, not transform: revert! -- Emily knew that no one there was safe anymore.
Not unless she left.
Now.
Jack Canasta barely noticed the soft pop! as he bustled into the pantry. "Emily? There's someone here looking for you." The portly clerk paused at the sight of the still-open refrigerator door, its cold light illuminating a brown bag with red lettering that lay crumpled by its base. "Huh. Strange. I could have sworn I saw her go in here not five minutes ago, sir." Jack shook his head in puzzlement as he turned around to ask if Emily's visitor would mind just waiting in a conference room, but instead gave out a little shriek as he witnessed the scowling elderly aristocrat with arresting eyes shimmer then disappear with a soft pop!
Jack resigned that very same day, but within a year was admitted into a mental health facility because his wife and children no longer knew the emaciated man who raved on about having heard two pops! and would wake in terror screaming about silver-flecked dark eyes looming over him.
She who had gone by Emily Prentiss was never seen again... in that world, anyway.
3WW #CLXXIV
 Beacon
Grieve
Kindred
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Annabelle wasn't difficult to track down. To grieve was to emanate a raw emotion so powerful, it was like a beacon to those who could sense such things, and wasn't Ocher a master of such things? Beyond master and apprentice, Ocher and Annabelle had discovered themselves kindred spirits, much to one's delight and the other's consternation. He now had to find her before her emotional emanations attracted more than just curious gawkers. The feeders would be there soon. Ocher hadn't told her about them despite the many years of training, and mentally kicked himself once again for having decided to protect Annabelle instead of educating her properly. It was a mistake he would never repeat, but might continue to pay for over and over again.
[Fiction] Friday Challenge for January 22, 2010:
A woman revisits the neighborhood where she grew up to find that her childhood home has been condemned.
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The urge came to every single student, no matter how much they might believe they had cut all ties that bound them to anything except the Guild. Ocher had seen it in each and every child who had ever passed the Doorway. He hadn't sure how Annabelle would fare, though; after all, she had already been an adult when she had been brought into his world. And yet, there it was. It was in the lower-than-usual pitch of her voice, the more-resolute-than-usual set of her expressive face, the higher-than-usual tension in her now lithe body. She needed to go home.
Annabelle lay on her bunk, body completely relaxed even as her mind whirred this way and that. She didn't understand why she would feel compelled to return, why she would still consider Ma and Pa Smith family, after all that she had learned. And yet, there it was. The vivid dreams of the last two weeks; the almost primordial longing to just see Ma's face again, to inhale the aroma of Chez Smith as they liked to call the home, to walk those squeaky hardwood floors once more. She needed to go home.
The next day, Ocher provided the opening, and she didn't hesitate: fixing the image of her old neighborhood firmly in her mind, Annabelle slipped through the Doorway and found herself back on the 700 block of North Ash Avenue. After the silence and calm of the Guild, the sheer noise of her former world assaulted her senses, but she quickly adjusted them to accommodate the din. It was sundown, and the fading light drew long shadows of trees and houses across the road. Annabelle unobtrusively skipped into the shadow of a nearby tree, and took care to remain within the network of shades as she headed north; it wouldn't do to have a sharp-eyed person notice her lack of a shadow.
The pull of home drew her feet ever forward, even as she took in the sight of once-familiar houses with rising concern. Had that scent of decay always been there? That undercurrent of imbalance? Had her training opened her senses this much, or had much changed since she had been recruited into the Guild? Annabelle frowned, disliking her train of thought. The frown turned into a scowl as she arrived at her destination.
The modest two-story white building of her memory was no more. In its place was a sooty boarded-up structure that seemed on the verge of collapse, the porch leaning out towards the fractured driveway while the bucktoothed roof sat askew, like a beret atop a cheery French lad. There was nothing cheery about the sign staked into the dried-up lawn: CONDEMNED BUILDING DO NOT ENTER screamed bright red letters.
Annabelle studied the house in the failing light, expanding her sight sense, hoping against hope that she wouldn't see the telltale green glow of ImpFlame residue, even as her nose already detected its acrid scent.
So.
Five years ago Annabelle had set aside serious concerns and suspicions in order to put her full attention on the training Ocher was determined to put her through. She was done with the training. It was now time to bring them back to front and center.
Annabelle turned around, setting her once-home firmly behind her back. Nothing for her there. Not anymore. Ignoring the most basic of portal rules, she visualised her CallStone right there on the public walkway of Ash Avenue, and stepped back into her room in the Guild.
Only to find that her CallStone had been moved. As she blinked in surprise, the floor lurched, and Annabelle with it. The briny scent of the sea filled the air. She was on a ship. Had she been Contracted out while she was gone, or had Ocher already been two steps ahead?
She would find the answer. But first, she reached for her CallStone and slipped it into the secure hidden pocket of her trousers. It wouldn't do to have it get lost at the bottom of the ocean now would it?
She recoiled from the mirror, that splotchy face and teary eyes unfamiliar, alien even. Yes, she had put on a lot of weight over the years, and yes, she absolutely loathed the sight of herself now, but all that notwithstanding, what she saw in the mirror was almost a stranger.
Reaching for the tap, cold water gushed, and she cupped her hands to catch some, to bring up to her reddened eyes, to wash away the tears.
Great, no hand towels.
Bad enough there wasn't any toilet paper either, she could have done with a whiz while she was there.
Carefully drying her eyes on her sleeve (thank goodness for the navy blue long-sleeved hoodie!), she took a deep breath, only to have it hiccup in her chest.
The tears threatened again.
"No! I am NOT crying!" she screamed silently to herself. But she could feel sobs accumulating once again in her throat, her chest, the sides of her mouth drawing down to reflect the utter desolation she felt inside, her eyes once again burning with soon-to-be-shed tears.
She unlocked the bathroom door and strode out, making it a point to not look at the table where she'd been sitting at not two minutes ago, where the other 13+ members of the so-called collective sat eating lunch; instead putting on a show of looking for her phone and taking it out as if to text or call someone as she walked out of the restaurant.
Up and down she walked, from the restaurant to one end of the strip mall to the other end of the strip mall and back again, and again. A member of the group approached her, using the age-old Asian conversation starter "Have you eaten?"; she cringes as she hears her sobbing voice brush him off curtly "I'm not hungry, thank you, please leave me alone!"
She was most definitely no longer hungry. She had been, when she had entered, together with 4 other yogis, to see the rest of the group already merrily eating away. A table was pushed to join their already long one. A table that would then provide seats for five people, perfect for her smaller group that had just walked in.
It was a buffet, and she had decided to go for the bare minimum for this trip, so no bag, no nothing with her except a fanny pack that didn't leave her waist, and therefore she had nothing to place on the table/chair to save her a place. No real need, anyway, right?
Then she stood in line, got some food, went back to the table, only to find someone's handbag on the only unsat-in seat, belonging to the mother holding her 2 year old son, who said she was sitting there, because she wanted to sit next to her husband, and there would then also be space for a high chair for the kid.
"Ummm... where did you come from? I begrudge you neither your seat next to hubby nor the space for the kid and highchair, but I'm just curious, where on earth were you just five minutes before? That should be my seat..." ran through her head, but only polite inquiry about the availability of the seat emerged.
"Maybe you can sit there, there see in the middle there's an empty space," says the mother. She stood there, stunned, disbelief growing by the minute -- you mean the chair with that black leather jacket on its back, the chair that's obviously already a seat for someone who just happens to not be at the table at this moment?? The mother then perhaps sees her error, and says maybe she can go to the other end of the table.
She can't believe she's being shunted away, can't believe that there aren't enough seats for everyone, can't believe everyone else seems utterly oblivious to what's going on, so with exasperation boiling up inside herself, she mutters "Jesus f*cking Christ!" as she stalks off, grabbing a set of napkin and utensils off a neighboring table, walking to the other end, grabbing a nearby empty chair and plonking herself and her plate at the head of the table, saying with a mouth already threatening to twist into a grimace, "I guess I'm joining you gals over here!"
New drink orders are taken from that other end of the table. She tries to flag down the waiter, but he's distracted by the girl on my left who orders some other food. So, no drink for me? Resentment not only builds, it boils, it burns, it rages. She clamps down on it, and tries to eat the food on her plate.
She tastes nothing.
Even ashes would have taste, right?
She continues to chew.
To her horror, she feels a tear slide down on either cheek. She dabs at her cheeks and eyes with the cuff of her hoodie. She desperately tries to control her features, her face, her mouth, and shoves more food into her taste-less maw.
Someone comes by to (re-)fill glasses of water.
There's an upside down glass in front of her, probably belonging to that girl on the left. She grabs it, turns it right side up, and finally gets a drink for herself. As the glass if being filled up, she hears girl-on-the-left say "Oh. But I want also." She who had a non-water drink with her, she (and everyone else at that end) who already had a mango lassi, who knew A. didn't have a drink of her own because when she sat down, the girls on the right had offered a taste but she'd said she'd get her own, thanks.
Indescribable emotions churned within. Anger, definitely. Resentment too, as mentioned before. But also anguish, sadness, disappointment. More tears fell, and she dabbed more at her eyes.
The girl on the right sees, thinks she's suffering from the spiciness, and cracks a joke: "Aww, don't cry! Life isn't that bad!" she says sweetly, jokingly, and to both of their surprise, her tears spill out again.
She set the utensils down, pushed herself away from the table, and made a beeline for the bathroom, which is where you first got on board, dear reader.
To be continued:
I look back over the past ten years, and am amazed at where my life's journey has taken me.
Yet at the same time I feel there is so much I am allowing to just slip through my fingers.
Time to buck up, willow!
Here's to a fulfilling, successful and and groundbreaking 2010!
See you on the flip side.
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Blog Directory ID: 428
Blog URL: http://noweepingallowed.blogspot.com/
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Blog Description: Willow Tree is the name, and ranting about my past WAS the game. This site quickly evolved into an outlet that also explores my life journey *and* helps me flex my writing muscles. Please drop by, have a seat, in the shade of my weep-free willow tree.
Blog Category: Development & Growth Blogs
Blog Owner: Willow Tree
Blog Added: June 21, 2007 09:02:16 AM
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