The Homeless Ficleteer

Hope Those Weren't Oakleys

2009-04-09T20:03:00.000-07:00

"You want it?"

"Nah. You take it."

"You sure? 'Cause he's definitely in your area of expertise. Desert conditions an' all."

"No, no, I insist. Good practice for you, anyway."

"If I didn't know you, I'd kill you for that comment. Just keep your trap shut and spot for me, okay?"

"Alright…he's about a thousand, thousand 'n' twenty meters away. Wind is north-westerly, about 25 kph. S'that all you need, Your Highness?"

"Thought I told you to can the snarky comments." There was a short, quick clap and kick of the rifle. "There we go. Clean enough."

"The sunglasses looked pretty expensive, though. Shame you had to break 'em."

"What, you want to go back there and pick them up? Why don't you try now? I'm sure the guards will hand them over."

"Har har. Can we go now? I wanted to stop for some ice cream on the way back."

"One of these days, I swear I'm going to kill you."

"I look forward to seeing you try."

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Commentary: Meh.

Reciprocity

2009-04-03T20:21:00.000-07:00

Kill the man--save the country. It takes sweating hands and a palsied conscience, but I can do it. Quick breaths, short breaths, tight grip on a Smith & Wesson that feels cold and clammy against my palm.

Bureaucracy and corruption had ruined this nation, fettering away at useless topics that accomplished nothing and killed the common man. I am the people's savior, and I will deliver them from the jaws of this government. They are sheep, but only a few of them know it and fight it. I am their champion.

His limousine--black glossy snake, mouth wide--curves around the corner now. I have sudden qualms flickering at the back of my brain, but no--this man has destroyed the country and I will save it. Quick steps now, up through the crowd, gun under sleeve. They push and cheer, blind and deaf. It saddens me, but spurs me. I am forcing myself down to a quick walk--fast enough to reach the car in time, with him emerging from the sunroof, smiling, waving, false. Two steps more.

His eyes widen as the two barrels empty themselves into his body. Immediately I feel the shriek of bullets tearing into my skin, but I smile, for my work is done. I am a martyr now. I am their hero...

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Commentary: I was just perusin' the interwebs and "I Just Shot John Lennon" by The Cranberries came on iTunes. This isn't that specific event, of course, but it's obviously on the subject and what goes through the assassin's brain.

Vibrations

2009-04-02T20:57:00.000-07:00

It was like a static hum, crisp air snapping beside the spots where he knew his ears were. He couldn't describe it--it was so new, intangible--a feeling. The four senses, he could understand, but this one--this was a door that was kicked down, a shuttered window broken open until the blinding rays of sound shot in.

He couldn't tell if it was nice sounding or not--it just was. Was it music? The words he had read in the books? The little dots, dashes, and lines in the hymnals?

In front of him, the doctor smiled at the boy's golf-ball eyes and slack mouth as a photographer snapped a picture. "Can you hear me, Harold?" the doctor half-shouted. The words were foreign vibrations to Harold, abrading his eardrum and scattering his brain like ripples in a pond. The doctor seemed to remember that speaking would be useless for the time being, so he went back to sign language. Can you hear? Can you hear sounds?

Harold nodded and grunted, then nearly fell on the floor, shocked by the sound of his own voice.

"My God," said the doctor, taking off his glasses and scrubbing the tears away. "You're a miracle, Harold Whittles."

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Commentary: I needed something to write about (as usual) and found this picture of a boy's face when he heard for the first time. I tried to describe hearing in a different way, as it is a totally new sense to this boy.

What Peter Did

2009-03-22T09:46:00.000-07:00

The television spits out cheap, garbling falsehoods that bark like the stupid mutt at the corner of the rug. The incessant noise, but it’s good, because it covers up less favorable sounds and drowns out Peter’s thoughts.

He fingers the curling edge of the microwave instant meal laying on the end table, illuminated by a dingy table lamp as its pull-cord dangles like an incriminating noose. The curtains are drawn. It’s still loud and that’s good, or else the neighbors would hear what’s going on.

Peter yells at the dog and it whimpers quiet. Peter’s eyes accidentally stray to the other edge of the carpet…

He curses and looks away, dropping the ugly object in his left hand. Cold and dark is how it looks and cold and dark is how it sounds as it clatters on the linoleum.

Peter shakily steps over the form of his late wife and stumbles into the bathroom.

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Commentary: This is one of my later ficlets. I decided to post it if only for N555Champ's comment:

obvliously, his wife is sleeping on the floor, and she is LATE to work.
The “less favorable sounds” are the sounds of Peter’s son’s emo metal garage band attempting to make some sort of devil worship song material.
The “ugly object” is a wire sculpture his daughter made in art class.

Case solved. I win.

Thank You For Choosing Bales Industries

2009-03-06T19:41:00.000-08:00

"Sound easy enough?" Dr. Norris said, ubiquitous smile creasing his magazine-cover face behind thick steel-rimmed glasses.

Jane and Robert nodded, folded hands on Jane's protruding belly.

"All righty, then. I'll leave you two to decide." Dr. Norris stood up, still grinning, and left the room.

The couple exchanged glances a little nervously. Robert sighed and raised his hand, tapping the "Male" button, eyes flicking across the screen as another clean, neutral interface slid up. The top said "Hair."

Robert exhaled. "Well…our given genotypes allow for brown or blond. What do you think?"

Jane paused. "Your brown hair. I want him to look like you."

Robert smiled, blushed a little, and tapped "Brown." Next screen.

"Eyes?"

"Oh…something striking. Maybe hazel with flecks of gold," Jane said, more excited now. "And as for the height, make him a good five-seven by adolescence."

An hour and eighteen screens later (the last cheerfully said, "Thank you for choosing Bales Industries BabyBuilder™"), Dr. Norris bounced back in. His eyes gleamed.

"Looks like you two have a beautiful baby boy made up. I'll download your input and implant it in Jane within the month. You can make an appointment at the front desk." He ushered them out, and then fell into his chair, rubbing his eyes. "Nice couple."

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Commentary: I recently heard about a new technology that let you have "designer babies." As Charles Gibson said, "Would anyone do that?" This explores that concept. Also, we're covering genes and heredity in Science right now.

Frayed

2009-02-27T19:39:00.000-08:00

Depression and disease never mix. Maybe one caused the other, or vice versa--maybe they were in constant symbiosis, conspiring with each other to wreak as much havoc on her body as possible--it didn't matter. What mattered was the repeating cycle of valleys and bumps--never hills to reach the top of, that would be too good to be true. Just deep and dark, low and lightless.

As she sat on the edge of the bed, eight-year-old springs creaking and sagging under her overweight body, she thumbed the Rx bottle in between her fingers, rolling it around and examining its label as if it would help her decide. The third time in that many hours she had had these thoughts, of oxymorphone and dyhydrocodeine, to swallow down to swallow her life.

Her job, that was gone; her boyfriend too. Religion didn't do much anymore. Her mother hated her--but that was a lifelong thing--and her apartment was barely big enough to fit her and the roaches. Oh, and no money for the rent either.

As her hand went for the pen and the back of the envelope that held the taxes she couldn't pay, it brushed against the phone. And it rang.

She stopped. Swallowed. Thought.

And picked it up.

There was a catch of breath on the other end, as if surprised to find an answer. "Lisa . . . don't," it finally said.

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Commentary: Thanks to Mask by the Moon for the opening line to get me started. I need to try IM writing prompts more often.

Not Exactly Disney World

2009-02-26T16:28:00.000-08:00

The two walked dazedly around the husk of the limousine, taking small, unsure steps as if not knowing what to do next. The cans that hung tangled in the branches clinked together softly as a slight breeze whispered by.

"The driver just texted," Chris said, shifting his weight from polished shoe to polished shoe. "He'll be back in about an hour with help."

Kathy sighed. "Well, this wasn't exactly the honeymoon we had planned."

"No." He squinted as the gold blob to the west melded with the horizon. "But you can't really account for panhandle weather."

They stood for a while, she clutching her flowers and he with his hands in his jacket pockets. His foot accidentally brushed up against the fallen tree, rattling the twigs. It wasn't supposed to be like this, he thought. Her family paid the dowry, half of which went to the wedding and half of which went to the trip immediately after. Now only half went to use.

Suddenly he looked up and walked over to Kathy, wrapping his arms around her shoulders from behind and rocking back and forth. His right hand went up to wipe her tears away. He felt her mouth move, but he couldn't tell if it was a smile or a grimace.

"Kathy," he murmured in her ear, "Florida sure is beautiful, isn't it?"

It was a smile.

"Yes," she said. Her nose was stuffy.

They sat down slowly, still rocking, tailored fabrics scratching on the concrete. In all of a minute, the humid air finally broke and rain dived down, scattering on the pavement like so many pennies. They smiled together, and then laughed at the absurdity of the situation, and continued rocking.

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Commentary: I haven't written in a long time, and I knew I needed to get back into it. I Stumbled just once and found this picture, which I thought looked pretty writable.

Segment 2 of "Bastion" (Temporary Name)

2008-02-28T17:38:00.000-08:00

Segment 2:

Anthony

Adam Bishops is not like me.

Anthony knew it upon first sight of him. The way he walked and talked, they were only subtly different, but different enough for Anthony to tell. The way he seemed to fit in with whatever mundane situation or setting was at hand. Adam was simply…human.

And Anthony knew that he himself was not. The way wind excited his senses, the way he could imagine the trees talking to him – and they would. Sometimes he could see the whole of the universe laid out in front of him sometimes, like a three-dimensional map. And numbers. Numbers and statistics everywhere.

Anthony saw everything in numbers: the height of every tree in this park, the distance from the picnic table to the lake (forty-three feet). He had counted every blade of grass in a three-foot circle seven times over in the last ten minutes. Adam had 119,347 brown hairs on his head, while Anthony himself had just over 140,000 blond ones.

There were countless more differences – but not just between Anthony and Adam. In fact, Anthony was astounded by the sheer variety in all the humans of the world. Even people that looked alike had small physical characteristics that set them apart, and everyone thought differently. Anthony’s family was what humans called Russian – besides the green eyes – while Adam was American. However, ethnicity didn’t matter where they lived, simply because every ethnicity was there. All survivors of the Flood had gathered in the great stronghold city of Bastion, regardless of race or age or other differences Anthony could notice.

And a bastion it was. A hulking behemoth of a city, about two hundred miles east of where Moscow used to be, sprawling out both above and below the ground. Great columns of steel and glass dominated the small vistas the proximity of the Wall offered, with endless walkways and tunnels and subways and bridges spanning every building’s structure. An energetic thrum vibrated about the place, simply reeking of activity. Anthony was sometimes awed by how different people looked, in fact, because Adam had only told him about Russian and American. Anthony didn’t know if there was a word for the people with slanted eyes, or the people with the glossy dark skin. Though once, he had heard a store owner call one of those people “a free can”, whatever that meant. He would ask Adam about it later.

Presently, however, as the breeze rustled his hair and brushed against his bare toes, Anthony watched Adam. He had blinked eighteen times in the past thirty seconds, so Anthony could tell something was on his mind. His mouth was pursed in a way that meant he was chewing on his cheeks, a habit he only pursued when he was thinking, and his eyebrows made four creases in between each other. Deep thought meant only three.

“Adam?”

“Yes?”

“You’re thinking. About what?”

Adam broke out of his stupor and sighed. “Nothing. . .nothing.”

Anthony flexed his toes and touched them to the ground, standing up. “I’m going for a walk,” he said, stretching out his legs and starting to walk around the lake.

Adam looked up vaguely, sighed again, and wondered some more about his abnormal friend.

New Book? Let's Keep it at "Story", Perhaps.

2008-02-26T17:22:00.001-08:00

I've started a new "book" (you know those things that naive writers call "novels" or "books" and they try to finish them?) and I'm...6 pages, or 2,364 words into it. Oh joy. Anyways, I'm posting it in segments on ficlets, but I thought I might as well do it here too, where I don't have as much of a character limit.

So, Page 1 of...well, I have yet to name it, but for now I'll call it Bastion.

...........

Adam

Anthony Petrov was not human.

I knew it upon first sight of him, when he looked up with iridescent green eyes. Even in the way he sat, with his knees folded up against his chest at all times. However, he could hold more human conversation than any human I had met. He could walk like a human, and talk like a human. In fact, I was the only one who knew he wasn’t.

And now, as he sat across the picnic table, bare feet poking out through jeans, he looked less human than ever. It was his eyes, like before. An emerald flame seemed to be alive in the irises.

“Adam, do I creep you out?” he asked, suddenly and frankly.

“…No,” I replied truthfully.

“Mm.” He tucked in his legs a little more. “Do I creep other people out?”

“Well, probably. Everyone creeps someone else out. No one is happy with everyone.”

“True.”

Silence pervaded the grassy area for a little while, until he broke it again. “But do I attract attention? Do other people notice what I do? I know I don’t do everything exactly like other people.”

I sighed. He still didn’t know of my deduction, and I had a feeling this was a way for him to ask about it without arousing my suspicion. “I’m not sure,” I said. “I’m not other people.”

As Anthony shifted in his position, the water in the lake behind plinked up for no apparent reason. His eyes burned green simultaneously.

“It’s funny,” he started, “how the ways of the world work. I don’t understand it. In fact, what makes it funnier is that barely anyone else seems to understand it either. How there can be so much pain and death, and yet a balance of hope and life. Does this mean there’s a God who controls it all?”

“Some people believe so. I do. It’s an explanation for the impossible-to-understand.”

“Explanations,” he snorted. “They’re only elaborations on pre-formed judgments. I do better without them.” And he did. He was part of the unexplainable.

No, Anthony Petrov was not human. What he was, I had yet to find out. Maybe I never would.

2008-01-31T18:10:00.000-08:00

Just like every other journal I've ever, ever encountered, I seem to make a habit of writing in it, and then never cracking open the pages again.

But maybe that's good, because some people think guys who journal are gay. Last time I checked, I'm not gay.

Just for the record.

Anyway. I've been on ficlets (371 published -- if you have no idea what I'm talking about, go to ficlets.com now. Do it. Just...do), and started plenty of new series: one where a guy has a girlfriend who is actually part of a criminal organization called La Pretni. And her mother's, like, the leader of it. And the guy's father is a high-profile official in Interpol. See the conflict? Starts here.

Also in a series with Never Explain on the same site -- an alternate dimension-y sorta thing where Bart writes from Max's (the main character who can control time and physics) point of view, and I from Tyler's (Max's friend who may or may not have the same powers). It seems to me sorta like a mix between The Matrix and The Giver. Starts here.

And since I haven't posted since...oh, whenever, I have a condensed flurry of news for anyone who cares (AKA readers, AKA, nobody): got an iMac 20" desktop for Christmas, with Photoshop, InDesign, Flash, and more -- all CS3. Yes, I'm spoiled.

My class has started a literary magazine for the school -- yeah, not too exciting, but seems at least a little interesting. I'm co-editor (one of the two editor-in-chiefs).

Went on my church's Winter Retreat -- absolutely one of the best things I've ever done for my spiritual life. Say what you want about it, you have a right to it. I mean, don't leave nasty, cursing comments. But whatever. Be cool.

Got some YouTube videos up. No, I'm not going to give you the link.

Yes, I know you want them. (I'm just humoring myself here, let me for a few more minutes).

...All right, that's enough.

And definitely enough news for now. Blegh. Carpal tunnel.

Heylo

2007-10-05T13:31:00.000-07:00

Well, looks like I'm the new kid. Or one of them, at least. I never was much into journaling, or diary-ing, or whatever you wanna call it, but why not try this out? I keep it up pretty well over at ficlets.com, so maybe I'll try to here, too.

Anyways...let's see, I draw (my scanner's down as of yet, so don't hold your breath to see it--not that it's worth anything anyhow), I write (aforementioned ficlets), I play piano, and as of five minutes ago, I blog. Oh, frabjous day.

So, to use an idiotic attempt at the sterotypical school letter to the teacher, "now, you know more about me."