Mar. 2nd, 2004 @ 08:51 pm
A little something about this little story here...
Two years ago I wrote this for a contest someone was having and you had to use specific words that were in bold... and they probably look funny since I coppied and pasted this... lol.
This is what I was thinking about using for my second story but now I'm not cause I just re-read it... lol.
This is Maggie by the way.
I yawn tiredly as I walk quickly down the street with the light of the full moon guiding my way. I am on a mission and it entails chocolate, and lots of it. Hey, when you get a craving, you get a craving and the only way to satisfy it is to give it what it wants. I look around at my surroundings and notice that the streets were eerily empty with the exception of one bus picking up a few people. For a moment I think about heading back but I shake the feeling off and walk on.
Finally I reach the little corner store. Entering the store, I make a sharp right. I know right where the chocolate is. Like I know where every piece of chocolate is within a 100-mile radius. Lucky for me I run a lot so I can afford to eat all the chocolate I want. Turning down the aisle I spot my little piece of heaven. Joy at last.
The bell above the door chimes and a gruff voice yells, “get your hands in the air this is a stick up!”
I groan in annoyance. Why is it that my joy is always short lived? I slowly make my way down the aisle, trying to get a better look at what is going on. From where I am standing I can’t see anything. Spotting the little buffet with the refreshments, I slowly creep behind it. I need to determine what kind of situation I have gotten myself into before I take any action. I carefully peek around the corner to see two gunmen and two hostages. There was a young woman with long black hair behind the counter and her mouth was going a mile a minute. She was going to get herself shot if she didn’t shut up. The other hostage, a male in his early thirty’s, looks like he was having a problem articulating one word, let alone a sentence. There is no way I could take both of them out with the hostages right there.
I sink back behind the counter, and I pray that the robbers don’t have enough sense to check the rest of the store. For now I am safe behind the little buffet counter, as long as they didn’t get any urges for a fresh cup of coffee. I sit there and think to myself, “This chocolate addiction is becoming a hazard to my health.” I look down at my purse and see the antenna of my cell phone sticking out. I pull it out and type a quick message to David. ‘Oh he is just going to love this,’ I say quietly. Like me, he is bound to be up and if not the insistent beeping of his phone will lure him out of dreamland.
With help on the way, I take a deep breath to clear my mind. I had to come up with a plan. Two hostages, two gunmen and one little detective with a small gun, the situation did not look good. I take another quick peek around the corner. The cashier is frantically throwing money in the bag and the man pointing a gun to her head is looking quite nervous. If I don’t take action soon someone is going to get hurt. If anything I can draw their attention away from her and towards me. I get my gun out of my purse, and I slowly stand up. I take my stance, my gun never wavering and I say in a commanding voice, “Freeze! LAPD! Drop your weapons!” They look at me in confusion for a minute, not knowing where to shoot. I take the opportunity and fire. I hit the first guy in the arm, knocking the gun out of his hand. I then train my weapon on the other one. He pulls the hostage closer to him and I know that I can’t take the chance I will miss. “Give it up, the whole precinct is on its way. You don’t have a chance.” I tell the other guy, as I stealthily move closer. I keep one eye trained on the other, making sure he isn’t making any moves towards his fallen gun. He is on the floor crying in pain and I am confident that he isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. What a baby. I have the sudden urge to throw one of those baby bottle lollypops at him.
Through the window I see flashing lights. I knew my partner would come through for me. “See, they are already here. Put the gun down and let the hostage go. This can be all worked out.” I say calmly. Years of hostage situations and talking down jumpers have trained me well. However, that doesn’t ease my mind. Each situation is different and I still have one hostage. The woman behind the counter had enough sense to duck down at least.
The criminal’s eyes dart around nervously. He is going to panic. I can feel it. I brace myself, ready to take action. This guy is a lose cannon and there is no telling what he might do. My partner comes over the loud speakers, announcing the arrival of the Calvary. I can see David over the man’s shoulder; he is slowly approaching the door. I know he wants to be here to back me up but I am a big girl, I can take care of myself. I give him a warning look with my eyes but he doesn’t back down. I turn my attention back to the perp, “So, what’s your name?” I ask, conversationally.
“Patrick.” He stutters.
“Well Patrick, why don’t we end this? Huh?” I ask him, my tone light. “Let him go so we can talk. Just you and me.” I say, stepping a little closer.
Patrick panics and aims his gun at me instead, “Don’t come any closer!”
I stare down the barrel of the gun and I think about how this doesn’t even faze me anymore. I could die right here, right this minute, yet that realization doesn’t bother me.
During my little inner psychoanalysis, some hotshot rookie decides to take a shot at the suspect. The plate glass window shatters in a million pieces and the bullet misses its target. Not knowing what to do, Patrick starts firing his gun at random. Before I can react, one bullet hits my shoulder, the impact knocking me to the ground. Hot fiery pain shoots down my arm and I grimace. Damn that hurts. I look up to see that the gunman has his back to me now. The other one is lying a few feet away, passed out from the pain no doubt. I carefully get up from the floor and put my gun to the back of his head. No more misses nice cop. “Let him go unless you have a death wish.” Patrick immediately releases his hostage.
David runs up and relieves the man of his weapon. Before I can even blink the rest of the department descends on the scene like locusts. Holding my shoulder, I stumble behind the counter to check on the other hostage. She is sitting on a small chair crying her eyes out.
Two strong hands grasp my shoulders and move me away. “Hey tiger, come on lets get you looked at. Let someone else check her out.” David’s tone is soft and caring.
I turn my head around and fix him with a death stare. I hate it when he calls me tiger. I don’t know why it just irks me and he knows it. He proceeds to guide me over to the waiting ambulance and for some reason this seems to make me even angrier. “David, you’re hovering.” I grit out.
He smiles down at me. “I have an excuse. How is it that you always manage to find trouble wherever you go? And further more what the hell were you doing out this late at night alone?” He scolds. Sometimes he acts like an overprotective brother.
“I am a trained officer of the LAPD,” I inform him. “I think I am capable of taking care of myself.” An EMT pushes a gurney over to me and I sigh in frustration, “A weekend in the ER. My favorite,” I say sarcastically.
David nods knowingly and helps me onto the gurney; “If you’re a good girl I’ll take you to the fair tomorrow so you can ride the carousel.” He teases, his eyes shining down into mine.
Love surges up forbidden somewhere deep inside me and I fight to keep it hidden. I smile up at him and there is no doubt in my mind that he won’t make good on his promise.
He reaches down and cups my cheek with his hand, “I’m glad your alright Day.”
I smile at his nickname for me. This man was truly endearing. They load me into the ambulance and I wave at him. He nods his head and jogs off to his car. I know he will be at the hospital way before the ambulance gets there.
Suddenly I remember that I still don’t have any chocolate. From somewhere out of the blue a Hershey’s almond bar appears in my hand. I look in surprise at the open doors of the ambulance. David must have gone back in for one because he is standing there wearing a goofy grin. I knew I could count on him. I look down at the candy bar and I shake my head, “All of this for some chocolate?” I unwrap it and I take a bite. “Yep, but it was worth it.” I say, grinning from ear to ear.
© Copyright 2002 TheSorceressMaeve (UN: maggybeth at Writing.Com). All rights reserved. TheSorceressMaeve has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
Current Music: The wonderful chimes of Instant Messages
Feb. 27th, 2004 @ 12:01 am
This is a sonnet that I wrote a few months ago. It's simple, but I like it.
I suppose she needs you in her own little way
But when she doesn’t love you anymore
You can come knocking on my kitchen door
I’ll let you in; knowing that you won’t stay
And when the sun sinks down, you’ll slip away
Nothing worth having ever lasts, and you should know this too
I only learned this because of you
The roses you bring, will whither by the end of the day
I don’t know why you always wander back to her
Night after night, when you know you need something more
Than the empty vows you heard her say
You’ve given her more than you care to remember
And the roses you left her are sitting outside her kitchen door
To be picked up with the trash the next day
This isn't a very structured poem, but I think it has a nice play on words, and I really enjoyed playing around with the different sounds.
Frankie needs a fix
And Freddie needs a fuck
Frannie wants a fix
But for now she’s outta luck
Frankie, who’s fucking Frannie,
Is feeling desperate for a fix
And offers Freddie a chance
To fuck Frannie in exchange for a fix
Freddie, who’s fascinated with fucking,
Agrees to fuck Frannie
In exchange for a fix
Frankie takes his fix
And gets fucked up
But forgets to tell Frannie
That she has to fuck Freddie
In exchange for his fix
When Freddie finds Frannie
He informs her
That he wants his fuck
In exchange for Freddie’s fix
Frannie becomes furious but
Not because of the fuck or the fix
Frannie loves to fuck
And she sure could use a fix
But she’ll be fucked if she’s
Going to fuck Freddie for Frankie’s fix
Frannie feels that if she
Furnishes a fuck for a fix
Then the fix
Should belong to her
Frannie refuses to fuck Freddie
In exchange for Frankie’s fix
And now Freddie’s in a fix
Because he sold the fix
Before he got his fuck
So the next time Freddie finds Frankie
Freddie pulls out a gun
Fires a shot
And fixes Frankie for good
Now Frankie’s fixed
And Freddie still wants a fuck
Frannie’s still without a fix
And everything’s just fucked.
This is a poem from my "strange and apocalyptic" file.
Bad Habits in the Ancient Lands
We take in smoke,
Sit back and gaze away;
Playing out the day,
Draped in acquiescence.
We eat the flesh
Of beasts and relish it
As cannibals smack lips
Over the meat of men.
This land of killers and their prey
Still stinks of bitter death;
We inherit unmarked graves,
Elegies of wasted breath.
Our limbs have atrophied
An age. A useless stage
Of brutal evolution is upon
The world, the flag unfurled—
On the sable banners of
Savage tribes, our loyalties,
Writ bold, we do inscribe
In blood. We leave alive.
Now desolate within,
We quit this place—Be damned!
the desecration of our hapless,
Helpless, hopeless race of men.
I picked up a book from the Barnes & Noble sale table for about $5 called Anybody Can Write: A Playful Approach, by Roberta Jean Bryant (hereafter known as RJB). I like craft books, and as they go this is kind of a lighter one; its focus is beginning or blocked writers who are looking for ideas or ways to get into the habit of letting loose on the page. There are, however, a number of "laws" that RJB posits in the book that I thought the group might find interesting and / or useful, so here we go:
The First Law of Writing: "To write" is an active verb. Thinking is not writing. Writing is putting words on paper.
The Second Law of Writing: Write passionately. Everybody has loves and hates; even quiet people lead passionate lives. Creativity follows passion.
The Third Law of Writing: Write honestly. Risk nakedness. Originality equals vulnerability.
The Fourth Law of Writing: Write for fun, for personal value. If you don't enjoy the process, why should anyone enjoy the product? Pleasure precedes profit.
The Fifth Law of Writing: Write anyway. Ignore discouraging words, internal and external. Persistence always pays off.
The Sixth Law of Writing: Write a lot. Use everything. Learning comes from your own struggles with words on paper.
The Seventh Law of Writing: Write out of commitment to your ideas, commitment to yourself as a writer. Trust yourself.
Although they're not a panacea, I'm almost certain that every one of us has an area of weakness that one of those laws addresses; my concern about my own writing is that I simply don't write as much as I would like to, so the sixth and seventh laws address my problems (I'm getting better about that, though).
Anyway, just some good, positive things to keep in mind.
|» "Today's the Day"|
Okay, so I got so excited about your small-story exercise that I had to take a crack at it myself. I did find it to be challenging and fun, and you know what? It's a great editing exercise, too, because you can start with more words and whittle down from there. Say your story checks in at 500 words, and you're happy with it, but then you say, "Can I get it down to 450 words, or 400 words, or ... ?" The great thing is, if you're writing on your word processor, you can save the multiple versions by numbering them as you see fit (I use Roman numerals, and yes, I'm aware that Arabic numbers would work just fine, too). Anyway, here's mine; it's 292 words.|
Today's the Day
Billy thrust his hands into the pockets of his battered fatigue jacket and bent forward into the wind. His chinos did nothing to blunt the assault; like icy needles, the air pierced the pores of the fabric and pricked his legs. He hadn't been able to find his winter hat in time, so he'd left without it.
No matter; he'd be there in a few minutes, anyway. He shivered, but it wasn't from the cold—it was pure excitement, the anticipation, the nerves, the adrenaline. Today's the day. He picked up his pace.
Would Sloan be there, that smug bastard, still wearing the same shit-eating grin as last year, when he threw down "quarantine" at the last moment and took it all away, just yanked the rug right out from under Billy's feet? He hoped so. He had something for Sloan; it was cold, and it was hard, and it was called vengeance.
He crossed Stanton Avenue, stepping over a wide puddle of gray-white slush fanning out from the gutter, and flipped up the collar of his jacket as a gust carried windblown trash past him. He'd spent all night pouring over the unabridged dictionary, the deluxe thesaurus. He was ready.
He turned the corner onto Boutwell Boulevard, and there it was, his Mecca: The Hobby Horse ("Toys, Games, and Pastimes for All Ages"). Hanging in the window, taking up three-fourths of the pane, was a sign that read: Today Only! Don't Miss the SCRABBLE Northwest Regional Open Tournament!
Billy steeled himself, then flung open the glass door—the little bell tinkled—and stepped into the warmth of the shop. Several faces looked up at his entrance.
"Sloan," he said, "What's up? Good to see you, buddy . . . "
|» The Coat|
Wow! So many posts in one night. Impressive. I guess I should post something now, too.
One of my favorite writing exercises is writing an entire story in a limited amount of words. Depending on your mood and the amount of time you have, you can choose 100, 200, 250, 500, etc. It's a great exercise if you're trying to make your work more focused. If you think it's easy, it's not. Fun, yes. Easy, no. This story comes in at 95 words, not including the title.
“Darling, why don’t you pour our guest a drink?” he asked her. It was more command than question.
“No, no, Charles. I’m more than capable of fixing my own drink.” Her husband’s brother replied. As he walked towards the bar, though, he handed her his coat.
“Don’t be silly,” Charles replied clumsily, “you’re our guest.”
He sent Charles a smug look.
“I think we’re all a little closer than that.” His eyes turned deliberately towards hers.
She stood without saying a word, the light material of the coat suddenly feeling too heavy in her hands.
|» "A Monument"|
This poem was a draw-off; I wrote it on the first day of my British Lit class when my professor asked for a writing sample from the class (I'd had her before and she knows my writing, so I figured I'd do something creative with the time rather than do the standard blah blah blah). It's loosely based on a recurring dream I've been having ... actually, it's sort of halfway between a dream and an apocalyptic night terror. There's nothing overtly frightening in the dream, other than the bones strewn about and the Golgoth-like quality of the setting, but something about the obelisk stretching up and away into an infinity of sky scares the hell out of me. I wake up from this dream, when I have it, in a cold sweat.|
The obelisk is facing to the west;
For three nights it has called to me
In dreams. Smooth obsidian,
Black and cold, beckons—
And promises a test.
The earth that sheltered it
Now tossed aside, the broken loam
A testimony. The rich soil sifts
Through these searching fingers.
Look to the sky;
For there is no summit, only a
Sable beam, bridging the gap
Between the surface of this world
And the cerulean. All the rest
To come this far lay scattered.
The carvings on the windward face
Are humming incantations—I do not
Comprehend their arcane song.
So, for me, there is only refuge
In the shadows of the leeward side.
|» First post|
Hello, seminal members of the LiveJournal for PBCC writers,|
I'm going to poke around a bit and read some of the pieces posted by you scholarly folk before I get all excited and start slapping my stuff up there; but let me say in advance, thanks for the invite to check out what you have going on here and I look forward to being a part of it.
|» In the Beginning....|
We must start somewhere. Here is where I will pitch our flag and shout out to the winds:|
All hail the pen! The quill! The parchment! The pencil! All hail the almighty keyboard, where we shall yet make our stand in this swamp of words. PBCC will reign!
Let it begin.