Category: Fiction

Sunday, Monday, Tuesday – RDP

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CHALLENGE RESPONSE – PROSE

Here is my response for RDP Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday.

Let me be blunt from the beginning. The snow was coming down heavy, but the wind blew it sideways. The temperature was dropping rapidly. I didn’t want to be out here, but the gig paid the bills. Prices were so high that you bought a loaf of bread or a gallon of gas. I got a letter in the mail today. An old friend I hadn’t heard from since we both reeked of innocence. I was more than a little envious because he had found the love of his life. He had found happiness. Sighs … good on you, brother! Good on you.

The Lucidity of Silence – Scene 3, part 1

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FICTION – SERIES

He looked at the pack of cigarettes on his desk, half of it gone, and no relief for his sorrow. Still, he lights another, hoping that somewhere between an exhale and a drag, He can find a moment of serenity. On that same desk is a bottle of supposed sanity. They were supposed to be taken with water and swallowed. However, they have become chewable. As he stared at his name neatly printed on the bottle, he felt like each pill plunged him into the place where he was trying to escape. Each pill added the guilt that seems to have no bounds. His saving grace was now supposed to exist within manufactured powder pressed into a nice, neat, and convenient package.

Sitting there in the darkness of his soul, fully aware that nothing in a bottle could help him deal with the aftermath of his actions. It had been 24 days since his world became tangled in the web, his words weaved. He did not truly realize how a single phrase can rapidly change things. Once something is said, there is no taking it back. There are no rewinds or do-overs. He was just another person caught in the middle of dealing with the reaction to what they said. Sometimes, he wondered why he ever allowed the words to spill from his lips.

He had bumped into her at the library during finals week; she immediately thought he was a jerk who needed to pay attention to where he was going. She dated some jock-type and had the looks to go with it. He spent the next three weeks trying to get her to forgive him. Some days, he wondered, after fifteen years of marriage, if she ever did. Bearing two children with him should remove the doubt. It was at some frat party the universe aligned in his favor. Her boyfriend was drunker than Cooter Brown and the merry band of jugheads. She stood in the corner, looking so beautiful, just simply amazing.

He had already done the friend check to see if he looked okay. Of course, like any group of friends, they needed to know who he had his eye on.
He pointed her out; if the music weren’t deafening, their groans of disapproval would have filled the room. He didn’t let them sway his newfound courage. He made the classic roundabout approach, settled in about 20 feet from her, and said absolutely nothing. He just stood there, hoping that she would notice him. He was praying for a bit of eye contact and a smile. He waited for the slightest opening for some dialogue.

He lost hope after about an hour; he had gotten some eye contact, but it certainly wasn’t inviting. Then, the final planet moved into its proper alignment. His boyfriend oddly started acting like a jerk more than usual. He was the typical asshole who thought the world and everything in it belonged to him. She stormed out of the house in a huff to the backyard. He gave her a few minutes and then followed. One could say he was a borderline stalker, but he just had to talk to her. Damn, all the cool points, rules, and guidelines he was going in. She was sitting on a tire swing, just barely back and forth.

He stepped off the porch, walked toward it, and planted his face into the freshly cut lawn. She roared laughter and asked if he was alright. He shook his head while spitting out a few blades of grass that had gotten in his mouth. She just sat on the swing, smiling. He walked behind her and gave her a push. Each time she returned to his reach, he pushed her a little more. Her laughter filled the night sky. As she swung on the swing and laughed, his fear slowly melted away. The moment arrived he had been waiting for. He started talking to her, and she replied. He couldn’t believe that just moments earlier, she seemed to be out of reach.

She seems to be that girl who would never look twice at a guy like him.
Now, they are just people enjoying the stillness of the night on a swing. They talked for the rest of the night until she excused herself to check on her drunken suitor. He never thought she would even speak to him again. He had prepared himself to cherish that moment forever; It was magic and simplistic. He went to sleep that night smiling from the depths of his soul. The following day, he cleaned up his rat-trap of a room. Then, he ran downstairs to meet the world with newfound confidence.

At the bottom of the stairs, fate plays cruel tricks on people sometimes. He ran right into her again, spilling coffee on her sweatshirt. As she wiped away the remnants of the coffee from the sweatshirt, she explained she had asked around to bring coffee and donuts to thank him for a lovely evening. He stood shocked about his dumb luck. Then his senses returned to him, and he grabbed the bag of donuts and helped clean the mess.

This time, she didn’t seem upset but glad to see him. They went off and had the thank you breakfast. They spent as much time as they could together. The following year, after they graduated college, they got married. He was an engineer, and she was an aspiring artist. Sometimes, it seems like a clash of the titans. Practical reasoning vs. artistic expression: things always seem like a powder keg. There was one thing that neither one of them lacked; that was passion. Things smoothed out over time, making them happier than most and not as comfortable as some.

The Lucidity of Silence – Scene 2

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PROSE – FICTION

The leaves on the trees rustled as the squirrels playfully chased each other limb to limb. In the forest, there was a clearing. A woman reading from a book sat in this clearing next to some fallen branches. The woman dressed in a habit, and the book was small in size but limitless in wisdom and Grace. These two things served as a beacon rescuing her from herself. She was on a path to Perdition’s Cathedral because she had lost hope. It was the fallen oak branch to her right that she first saw him. He was lost in the confines of the world painted inside bounded papyrus. He sat there so serenely as he brushed his from his face. She instantly knew that she loved him.

It seemed like one of those fairy tale moments you read about or see at a picture show. A moment when it’s clear you could love someone for an eternity and be the better for it. Grace smiled as she remembered plopping down on the branch beside him. She was so nervous but summoned the courage to ask his name. From the look in his eyes, they were the deepest brown; Grace could tell that he felt the same way. She remembered being overwhelmed and delighted like nothing before. They talked until the settling of the sun. Together, they walked hand in hand in silence, taking in sunset wonders from the edge of the ridge.

Exhaling in contentment, they parted ways to return home. Over the next several months, they continued their talks. They took turns reading from the book and discussing what each passage meant. After several months, they expressed their silent feelings for one another. It was the heavens danced in praise. The birds sang the sweetest ballad, and the sun brightened. It became clear to them that destiny had spoken. It became that they were to be together forever.

One day, the gloomiest it had been since they met. Her soul mate sat on a log, clearly troubled. He broke the news to her that he was to leave her. Her heart sank into a fathomless abyss. He explained he had to fight for truth, justice, and freedom. These were necessary for love to be the strongest in the world. None of this eased the pain of her wounded heart. None of this comforted her tormented soul. They kissed and hugged each other tight. They never wanted to let go of each other. Watching him walk away that day was like watching her soul walk away.

Grace had no idea she would never see him again after that day. At least, she had no idea she’d ever admit openly. It is something about when you are about to lose someone you truly love. You just know it. Nothing can truly explain this except the one who walked this path. They are the people who have stood there waiting for a glance to quiet their screaming fears. They stand praying for just one more chance to see them. Unfortunately, it is a chance that sometimes never comes.

Now, the woman has devoted her life to the service of the Father. Now, she has faith in something more substantial than her pain. Each day is different than the last. Each moment, she learns to ease her pain through his Grace. Somehow, through the misery, the deceit, and the pain, she looks for the good in the world. She must pray for guidance to help the less fortunate. Each day, in each moment of prayer, she hopes through corridors of pain that she can help another on the path to Perdition’s Cathedral.

~thanks for reading~

The Lucidity of Silence – 1

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PROSE – FLASH FICTION

The wooden rocking chair creaks against the porch in perfect time with the living clock on the wall: Tick, tick, tick. Carol Oxford sat on her porch, looking at the sky, lost in her thoughts about what she had seen in her lifetime. The memories of everything she had lived through. It had been such a wonderful life long from being over if she had anything to say about it.

In seven years, just seven years, she would have witnessed a century come and go. Seven years go so quickly, but so many things could happen. In the past seven years, she had buried over thirty of her friends and loved ones. And now, Roger? She had built her entire world with Roger. He called home to the Father. A smile came across her face as she wondered why the Father didn’t let him get those orchids planted this year. He would have loved to get the orchids before he left. His shovel and pail still sat where he left them as if she was waiting to return and finish the planting.

Sassy still runs out every morning to see if he returned. Then, she comes to the porch and sits on the step as if waiting for him to leave the barn. The woman understands her dog’s action because she still makes the coffee at dawn and pours two cups. As she drinks her coffee, she often wonders why the Father left her here. Why didn’t he take her at the same time or shortly after? Then she would smile as she remembered what her husband would say about that,

“Honey, there are things certain in life, Death and change. You may not like the change, but you can’t control it. No more than you are in control of the life’s ticking clock. So Honey, the best thing to do is be the best person you can, as long as you can.”

6th Avenue Heartbreak

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SHORT FICTION

Image by Michael Kauer from Pixabay 

Manu Jenkins and Maury Lawrance faced off back in the 1950s. This face-off changed how things were at The Paradise drive-in. Manu Jenkins, “Jinxy” people called him, and Maury weren’t gang members, just guys who couldn’t back down. Only to find themselves in a situation that lasted a lifetime. This face-off leads to the development of the neutral zone. The neutral zone is no gang activity at the drive-in. Anyone caught fighting at the Paradise was banned for life. That was the law of the land for as long as anyone could remember.

According to Jinxy, “The Paradise” was the only place in town where you could walk around without anyone beating you senseless. Old Lonnie Lawrence, Maury’s father, had everything: swings, slides, cotton candy, and make-out spots. Jinxy nudged me with his elbow, smiling. “That’s where I met my sweet Pearl.” He said, staring off as if trapped inside a memory. Then, finally, he leaned back and smiled. I wondered if he was watching the movie from that night. Praline Madsen “Pearl” was his wife of forty years before going home to glory. Jinxy didn’t make it to the following fall. Jinxy and Pearl, PaPa and Nanna, seemed to me to be a love story, exactly like one that played at “The Paradise.”

Forty years later, My little brother, Trey, wanted to see a double feature playing there this weekend. Bruce Lee’s Chinese Connection and The Game of Death. I was 17, and hanging out with your 12-year-old little brother when you were supposed to be chasing tail wasn’t ideal, but I loved Bruce Lee just as much as he did. To get to the “Paradise,” we had to cross enemy territory. The Paradise may have been the neutral zone, but the surrounding neighborhood wasn’t. I knew the 6th Ave boys owed me a few beatings for jumping a couple of them when they got caught in my neighborhood. Trey didn’t know anything about my part in the beating, but he had witnessed a few as they happened.

“Moe?”

“Yeah, Trey.”

“Why are they beating that man? What did he do?”

“Nothing, Trey … Just in the wrong place; wrong time…you know?”

“No, I don’t….make them stop, Moe!”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“It’s the world we know.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

~thanks for reading~

Shaking of the Rust

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FICTION – RANDOM STORY

Daylight slipped into the darkness. The streets have begun to empty. People have started to enter the safety of their homes. A mother is sipping a cup of tea after a hard day’s work. A father making dinner for his children and a sister reading a story to her brother before bedtime.

Hoyt Curtis sits in the dark, staring at nothing in particular. A disassembled .45 ACP on a table in front of him. He and his .45 never met a problem they couldn’t solve. At least, that’s what he would tell himself every time it pointed at its target. However, the truth is it caused far more problems than it ever solved. A picture of his family lay on the window sill. A family that walked away from him 10 years ago. That’s when his wife had reached her limit. The man she loved and became someone else.

Hoyt couldn’t blame her. It was true. The safest thing was for her children to leave. His demons were taking over. They had taken up residence in the front room of his mind. The bastards had the nerve to put their feet on his hand-carved Italian coffee table. He believed his family was better off without him. It was his job to keep them safe, even if it was from him.

The Lucidity of Silence – Intro

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PROSE – SHORT FICTION

The interwoven steel and brick appear the same after all this time. I am standing here where I first laid eyes on her. The spot where things go in slow motion allows me to memorize your every movement. The spot, though the crowded streets, our eyes met for the first time. It was like she looked right through me, a gaze that severed my armor-plated exterior. She saw me for who I really was. It was terrifying and exhilarating at all once. No mask, no pretense; she was looking at me, a simple ordinary man.

On that day, in that moment, I took the first breath of the rest of my life. On that day, in that moment, my life became redefined. I stood there stagnating, watching my world change for the better. Watching my wildest dreams become reality. I found the confidence to become whatever I could imagine. I knew I had the strength each time I looked into her eyes. Every flutter of your eyelash gave me the courage to strive for unattainable. Little did I know that my vanity would be my curse. Things got so mixed up.

Now, alone on a park bench, the wind blows steadily, bringing the night chill. I listen to its lonesome howl, and I know its pain. I listen to the night, the silence, and feel the chill creeping slowly into the emptiness of my soul. Exhaling, clearing this moment’s anguish, the whispers begin to perforate the silence. I begin to hear the tales that go unspoken. I close my eyes and open my soul as I hear the lucidity of silence.

~thank you for reading~

Late Night Rambling

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PROSE – SHORT FICTION

It was a Friday night, and the writing contest deadline was in a few hours. I barely had a solid opening, let alone anything that made the cut. Finally, my muse hit. My fingers had begun flying across the keys. Sentence after sentence filled the page. My sultry but forever absent muse had returned for a special one-night showing. I was eternally grateful. I was so lost in the story created in a presumed moment of brilliance that I barely noticed the rumble of thunder outside.

Though it had been hours, 5,000 words flowed out of me in what seemed an instance. I leaned back and lit a cigarette. I began to review what I had just written. It could be my best work or literary psychobabble like anything I had written. The first three paragraphs had promise, but the next two needed an infusion of common sense. On second thought, the delete button needed to be my best friend. It could save me from swirling in a vat of my ignorance.

Suddenly, the unthinkable happened. I heard the lightning as it struck. I remember jumping a little because the rumbling thunder shook us to the core. The lights began to flicker. I looked around, hoping that it was a fluke. I went to the living room and let the dogs inside. Although they were killers, they were afraid of thunderstorms. The house went dark. Quickly, I retrieved the candles from the junk drawer and lit them. Sitting in my easy chair, I caressed my dogs to settle their nerves. Then, it occurred to me my story.

I knew my word processor had auto-save, so most of my work would be saved. Hours went by, and still no lights. I could hear the sirens of emergency vehicles echoing through the neighboring streets. This storm was worse than most. Finally, six hours later, God smiled at us and restored the power. My dogs continued resting by the chair. I noticed their eyebrows raise as I began to move. I got to my office to see how much of my work survived. I hit the power button, but nothing happened. I knew my machine was old and desperately needed to be upgraded. So I hit the power button again, and still nothing,

I began crawling around on the floor, attempting to find my way through the jungle of power cords, USB cables, and everything else was hooked to my machine. I hit the power button again, filled with hope and promise, alas nothing. Angry, frustration, and devastation hit me all at once as I looked at the scene in disbelief. Of all the days my machine could go down, why today? Why when I had something that could have been great lurking on those digital shelves that seem to crumble under the strain?

Sifting through the pile of paper on my desk, I looked for the number of the computer guy that my friend had spoken so highly of. I find the card underneath the final pile, at the farthest corner of my desk. It was crumpled and coffee-stained, yet it was still legible. I called the shop and got the machine. How could they not answer the phone right now? This was an emergency. Then I looked at the clock and realized it was 3 am.

10:00 am couldn’t come fast enough. I feared the worst. I feared that all my recent work would be lost forever. Hopefully, this computer guy could save me. On pins and needles, I waited for the store to open. I had checked my bank account and had enough to buy another laptop, but I didn’t want to. This laptop and I had a history together. Through the late nights, countless articles, shorts, and just some incoherent early morning babble created. Through it all, she had stayed with me. A clear testament of devotion and stamina, no one truly understands a writer’s relationship with their machine Except for another writer.

I was tired of waiting, so I jumped into the car and drove to the store. Thirty minutes later, a beat Honda pulls into the parking lot. A lanky young man exits the car, looking like a cross between Maynard and Gilligan. I give him a few minutes to get inside and get things settled. I smoked a cigarette while I waited. I sat staring at my laptop, saddened, hoping things would be okay.

The store was a shambles. Stacks and stacks of computers that looked similar to mine. It was like lost souls looking for their way home—a digital wasteland within the mortar and brick. I wonder how many had walked in like me, hoping for a miracle. I wonder how many walked in and lost all hope once they saw this. I must admit, my confidence seems to be fading. I turned towards the counter, and there silently stood the man who held my sanity in his hands.

I explained my plight to him. He didn’t seem to care by his expression. By this time, he had heard nearly every story there when it came to this. He reached for my machine and excused himself to the back of his show. I swallowed hard; sweat began to bead on my forehead as I waited for his return. I stepped outside and smoked a cigarette, attempting to calm my nerves. It wasn’t helping at all. My mouth began to water as I contemplated going to the C-store and buying a beer.

This is a piece of fiction considering reworking. What do you guys think? Scribble or Delete?