The creature lurch forward in the chair. Penny backed farther out of the room. Every part of her wanted to flee. Every part of her wanted this to be a nightmare. But she was not waking up and she was not leaving. She was not sure why the latter was true, but it had something to do with not wanting to leave Joan. It would be wrong, unless of course the creature attacked. Then it was every soul for itself.
Standing now, what had been Joan, began to take a step toward Penny. As it did, a shudder passed through its body and it began to shake. Then like a rag doll, it collapsed on the floor as though all life had been pulled out of it in a sudden but total way. It lay on the floor, motionless; a pile of clothes tossed aside.
Penny held her breath, but did not move any closer to it. She had seen horror movies like this and she was not going to be the stupid protagonist. She would not bend down to see if her friend had returned to her body only to have the monster get its powerful hands around her fragile neck.
The pile still did not move, no life present.
Should she call out to Joan? But what if the creature answered? What if this were a trap. Penny felt the tear ripping through her. What if Joan needed help? What if the body was not breathing? Not only would the creature die, but any semblance of Joan would as well.
Some small, sick part of Penny presented the mind with, "would that be so bad?" But Penny stomped on the thought as though it were a menacing spider before it could completely manifest itself. No, she did not wish Joan any real ill. And then she realized an even more startling insight; somewhere along the way acceptance had happened. Somewhere, somehow she had accepted that Joan was a permanent part of her life and she had resigned herself to this idea.
Crap, she thought and moved forward just a bit. With one shoe, she gingerly nudged the limp heap on the floor. It did not move. She nudged it again, a little harder. Still no motion. A small cold panic began to spread through out Penny. Was Joan really was dead?
One more nudge from her foot caused the head to roll a bit. The head rolled towards Penny and open, dead eyes started into the vacuous space.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Maxie's Story - Vote For Me Please
The following is the story of Maxie (whom we just met). Your humble author has submitted this to a brickfish.com contest. Please vote for the story.
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Maxie
As silence descended into the the stalled car, the she-creature stopped moaning. She uncurled her head from the fetal position and looked around obviously for the gun that was now in Rog's possession.
"Crap," he muttered as the final engine sound died away. This time the car had stalled out in the middle of the road. He popped the hood, and began to open the door.
"Wait, what's going on?" the she-creature asked, trying to bring a sound of authority into her voice.
He turned back to her, hoping he heard her right because there was still a lot of ringing in his ears left over from the very recent gun fire.
"The car died. I am going to check the engine," he told her, firm grip on the gun.
She looked around in an almost desperate gesture. And as he continued to get out of the car, she reached forward and grabbed his arm. Her hand felt like a frozen skeleton gripping his. Yet it was a strong grip.
"Do something," she whimpered at him. Women, he thought. How had the somewhat sexy she-creature turned into this shrinking mass of dirt in his backseat?
"Do something," he repeated, "I should do something. I should throw you out of my car. Hell, if you had just asked I would have given you a lift, but no, you made demands in another way."
"You wouldn't have stopped to give me a lift," she said in a more quiet tone as if speaking to the backseat itself.
He stared at her, "Stop? I was stopped when you climbed into my car."
"Look at me," she continued, "Why would anyone in their right mind help me looking like this?"
He was getting exasperated. The day was suddenly just a little too much. He closed the door and turned even more to the rear of the car.
And as they continued debating whether he would or would not have helped her, both forgot that they were sitting in the middle of a road. both were sudden;y arguing meaningless points as if they had been married for years.
The car light approaching in the twilight made Rog squint since he was looking in that direction, but he was too involved in this freak show that had suddenly become his life.
He had just asked her, "God, you don't know me and what I would do or wouldn't do. Hell, I don't even know your name."
"Maxie," she had screamed back to match his tone, "I'm Maxie."
Rog was just about to ask her what kind of a name Maxie was, when the lights of the vehicle shining in his eyes became so close they lite the entire backseat.
"What the..." he began right before the truck, for it was a truck, made the first impact. They felt it more than heard it. It was the sound of creaking metal and breaking glass. Maxie was thrown forward into Rog. From far away or so it seemed, they could hear the horn being blown, but at the same time, their car began to move.
"Crap," he muttered as the final engine sound died away. This time the car had stalled out in the middle of the road. He popped the hood, and began to open the door.
"Wait, what's going on?" the she-creature asked, trying to bring a sound of authority into her voice.
He turned back to her, hoping he heard her right because there was still a lot of ringing in his ears left over from the very recent gun fire.
"The car died. I am going to check the engine," he told her, firm grip on the gun.
She looked around in an almost desperate gesture. And as he continued to get out of the car, she reached forward and grabbed his arm. Her hand felt like a frozen skeleton gripping his. Yet it was a strong grip.
"Do something," she whimpered at him. Women, he thought. How had the somewhat sexy she-creature turned into this shrinking mass of dirt in his backseat?
"Do something," he repeated, "I should do something. I should throw you out of my car. Hell, if you had just asked I would have given you a lift, but no, you made demands in another way."
"You wouldn't have stopped to give me a lift," she said in a more quiet tone as if speaking to the backseat itself.
He stared at her, "Stop? I was stopped when you climbed into my car."
"Look at me," she continued, "Why would anyone in their right mind help me looking like this?"
He was getting exasperated. The day was suddenly just a little too much. He closed the door and turned even more to the rear of the car.
And as they continued debating whether he would or would not have helped her, both forgot that they were sitting in the middle of a road. both were sudden;y arguing meaningless points as if they had been married for years.
The car light approaching in the twilight made Rog squint since he was looking in that direction, but he was too involved in this freak show that had suddenly become his life.
He had just asked her, "God, you don't know me and what I would do or wouldn't do. Hell, I don't even know your name."
"Maxie," she had screamed back to match his tone, "I'm Maxie."
Rog was just about to ask her what kind of a name Maxie was, when the lights of the vehicle shining in his eyes became so close they lite the entire backseat.
"What the..." he began right before the truck, for it was a truck, made the first impact. They felt it more than heard it. It was the sound of creaking metal and breaking glass. Maxie was thrown forward into Rog. From far away or so it seemed, they could hear the horn being blown, but at the same time, their car began to move.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
A Finger On A Trigger Of A Gun
The coldness spread through out Rog until it felt like a fissure in the ice when he pressed his foot down on the break. For one of those familiar spilt seconds that takes eons to live through, his rational mind tried to decide what to do. He had never had a gun stuck in his head before. In fact, he had never had a gun pointed at him - ever. A fine solider he was going to make. Be cool, he told himself.
"Don't brake, keep driving," the voice of his assailant said behind his ears. He looked again into the rear-view mirror. The gun was pushed harder into his head to an almost painful point, "Eyes on the road."
But the voice had done something unexpected to Rog. It had calmed and soothed him much more than he assumed it was meant too. The fact registered into his mind. His assailant was a "she." From what he had seen, she was not a large "she," and a rather young one at that.
"Fine. Where do you want to go?" he asked in a calm voice that reflected the relief in his mood. Why just the idea of an erratic female in this backseat, finger on a trigger of a gun should be enough to make him fear for his life. He was after all the only male in the family of very strong women. He knew the true force of their roar and it had little to do with volume. There ]fore at this moment, he knew better than to antagonize the she-creature with the long black hair and dark eyes. In fact, as he inhaled with his nose, he suspected she was not much in favor of clean hygiene.
"I don't know, just drive." So, he did and headed the long way to his mother's house.
"Suit yourself," he said wondering what he really should do in this case. He did not know her after all, and though he got a sense that she was merely desperate and not dangerous, he could not be too sure.
"What do you want?" he asked bluntly.
He heard the sigh, "What we all want. Something warm and secure, not the ice picks that pin you to the table."
Oh dear, Rog thought. Why me? Why did all the dark poetesses out there always manage to find him. What was it about him? And this time this circumstance seemed completely random. Who else but Rog would get a dirty, desperate, gun-totting poetry queen hijacking his Monday plans. But part of him was intrigued.
As he began to lose himself on auto pilot and contemplate the mystery behind him, he was unaware that his speed was ebbing. A sudden bang, pulled his attention completely. His head rang and he was sure he had been shot in the back of his head. Holly sh-t, he said to himself. Why do I always underestimate the crazy ones?
The suddenness of the loud sound and feel of the discharge had cause his foot to stomp on the brakes. Once again the car began to spin across the street. In the slow motion of this, he began to think new tires for the car might be a novel idea or perhaps it was not the tires at all but the little bit of rain they had gotten earlier. It had cause the road conditions to be slicker than normal since it had not rained in weeks.
He heard the screams coming from the back seat. He should be dead by now. How long could one live, thinking one's thoughts, before the brain realized it had a new friend named bullet in its domain?
Rog looked in the back seat. There was no blood, only as creaming she-creature who was curled up tightly in an almost fetal position. He had not been shot. Perhaps she had shot herself? But he saw noblood on her either and she was definitely breathing.
Slowly the car stopped its circles. Once again, Rog had managed to do a 360 without injury to the car or himself. He actually laughed and realized she had fired a warning shot out the window, a shot that was supposed to force him to drive faster. Now the gun lay on the back seat, just within his reach. The she-creature had paused in her wails, but had not moved. Carefully, Rog reached past her and picked up the gun.
At the same moment, the car, fine but angry over the interruption of zen driving, sputtered for a moment and died.
"Don't brake, keep driving," the voice of his assailant said behind his ears. He looked again into the rear-view mirror. The gun was pushed harder into his head to an almost painful point, "Eyes on the road."
But the voice had done something unexpected to Rog. It had calmed and soothed him much more than he assumed it was meant too. The fact registered into his mind. His assailant was a "she." From what he had seen, she was not a large "she," and a rather young one at that.
"Fine. Where do you want to go?" he asked in a calm voice that reflected the relief in his mood. Why just the idea of an erratic female in this backseat, finger on a trigger of a gun should be enough to make him fear for his life. He was after all the only male in the family of very strong women. He knew the true force of their roar and it had little to do with volume. There ]fore at this moment, he knew better than to antagonize the she-creature with the long black hair and dark eyes. In fact, as he inhaled with his nose, he suspected she was not much in favor of clean hygiene.
"I don't know, just drive." So, he did and headed the long way to his mother's house.
"Suit yourself," he said wondering what he really should do in this case. He did not know her after all, and though he got a sense that she was merely desperate and not dangerous, he could not be too sure.
"What do you want?" he asked bluntly.
He heard the sigh, "What we all want. Something warm and secure, not the ice picks that pin you to the table."
Oh dear, Rog thought. Why me? Why did all the dark poetesses out there always manage to find him. What was it about him? And this time this circumstance seemed completely random. Who else but Rog would get a dirty, desperate, gun-totting poetry queen hijacking his Monday plans. But part of him was intrigued.
As he began to lose himself on auto pilot and contemplate the mystery behind him, he was unaware that his speed was ebbing. A sudden bang, pulled his attention completely. His head rang and he was sure he had been shot in the back of his head. Holly sh-t, he said to himself. Why do I always underestimate the crazy ones?
The suddenness of the loud sound and feel of the discharge had cause his foot to stomp on the brakes. Once again the car began to spin across the street. In the slow motion of this, he began to think new tires for the car might be a novel idea or perhaps it was not the tires at all but the little bit of rain they had gotten earlier. It had cause the road conditions to be slicker than normal since it had not rained in weeks.
He heard the screams coming from the back seat. He should be dead by now. How long could one live, thinking one's thoughts, before the brain realized it had a new friend named bullet in its domain?
Rog looked in the back seat. There was no blood, only as creaming she-creature who was curled up tightly in an almost fetal position. He had not been shot. Perhaps she had shot herself? But he saw noblood on her either and she was definitely breathing.
Slowly the car stopped its circles. Once again, Rog had managed to do a 360 without injury to the car or himself. He actually laughed and realized she had fired a warning shot out the window, a shot that was supposed to force him to drive faster. Now the gun lay on the back seat, just within his reach. The she-creature had paused in her wails, but had not moved. Carefully, Rog reached past her and picked up the gun.
At the same moment, the car, fine but angry over the interruption of zen driving, sputtered for a moment and died.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
The Things Friends Know About Us
"That's good that Rog is properly insured," Rebecca said continuing to cook the meal Madeline had laid out.
Madeline was still feeling a little worried about Rog. Her motherly instincts had begun to nag a little harder. Still she tried to stifle the desire to grab her own car keys, drag Rebecca with her, and go in search of her son.
Rebecca sense the worry in her friend and decided to change tactics. Perhaps bringing a new subject into the conversation was just what was needed.
"Anyway, how is that graphic designer daughter of yours?"
Madeline gave a smile to this. Poor Penny, ever to be associated with her Nemesis called graphic design. The child had been trying to leave that and every other part of herself behind since her divorce. She had planned to start anew. But Madeline could see no indication of that in Penny's directives. Yes, she had moved to an apartment in the city, had managed to isolate herself from her old friends, but had been unable to shake the graphic design habit. Though her daughter professed to not being a designer anymore, every morning was filled with calls from clients asking her to do "one more" project and sure enough the afternoons would be spent fulfilling these requests. There seemed to be no evidence of a new job search or even the mention of a future occupation. Madeline thought perhaps that Penny just liked to complain about it and would miss it more than her old life if she were to truly give it up.
"She's fine," she said, "though she is supposed to be coming for dinner as well." How long had it been since she had last talked to Penny? Surely she was due any moment now. Then Madeline remembered her plan to sign Penny up for a dating service. "By the way, I meant to ask you, which dating service did Rachel use to met Gary?" Rachel was Rebecca's daughter, who like Penny was divorced but as opposite of Penny as one could get. She was outgoing and seemed to be a barbie doll of a person.
"eHarmony.com. Why?"
"Well, I was thinking about signing Penny up for a match making service. It is time she started getting out more." As Madeline heard the words coming out of her mouth, she suddenly knew she would try Match.com instead. It was not so much about being contrary, but more about playing the opposite of what had worked for Rachel. Penny had always loathed Rachel, so if she knew Madeline had signed her up with the same service, she would be mortified. Ha. She would be mortified anyway, but in a different, unhateful way. Plus Madeline's last words reeked of a pesky, nosey mother who might be living vicariously through her daughter. It was not that Madeline wanted Penny married off again, but she wanted to see some life put back into Penny. And it had always seemed to her that when Penny started dating a new guy, there was a little more sparkle to her daughter's earthiness.
Rebecca nodded knowingly, "Rachael has only good things to say about the service. Though there is a difference here. It was Rachel's idea to try eHarmony.com. Some how I feel this is not Penny's choice."
"True enough," Madeline sighed.
Rebecca looked suspiciously at her old friend, "Are you even going to tell her?"
Madeline was still feeling a little worried about Rog. Her motherly instincts had begun to nag a little harder. Still she tried to stifle the desire to grab her own car keys, drag Rebecca with her, and go in search of her son.
Rebecca sense the worry in her friend and decided to change tactics. Perhaps bringing a new subject into the conversation was just what was needed.
"Anyway, how is that graphic designer daughter of yours?"
Madeline gave a smile to this. Poor Penny, ever to be associated with her Nemesis called graphic design. The child had been trying to leave that and every other part of herself behind since her divorce. She had planned to start anew. But Madeline could see no indication of that in Penny's directives. Yes, she had moved to an apartment in the city, had managed to isolate herself from her old friends, but had been unable to shake the graphic design habit. Though her daughter professed to not being a designer anymore, every morning was filled with calls from clients asking her to do "one more" project and sure enough the afternoons would be spent fulfilling these requests. There seemed to be no evidence of a new job search or even the mention of a future occupation. Madeline thought perhaps that Penny just liked to complain about it and would miss it more than her old life if she were to truly give it up.
"She's fine," she said, "though she is supposed to be coming for dinner as well." How long had it been since she had last talked to Penny? Surely she was due any moment now. Then Madeline remembered her plan to sign Penny up for a dating service. "By the way, I meant to ask you, which dating service did Rachel use to met Gary?" Rachel was Rebecca's daughter, who like Penny was divorced but as opposite of Penny as one could get. She was outgoing and seemed to be a barbie doll of a person.
"eHarmony.com. Why?"
"Well, I was thinking about signing Penny up for a match making service. It is time she started getting out more." As Madeline heard the words coming out of her mouth, she suddenly knew she would try Match.com instead. It was not so much about being contrary, but more about playing the opposite of what had worked for Rachel. Penny had always loathed Rachel, so if she knew Madeline had signed her up with the same service, she would be mortified. Ha. She would be mortified anyway, but in a different, unhateful way. Plus Madeline's last words reeked of a pesky, nosey mother who might be living vicariously through her daughter. It was not that Madeline wanted Penny married off again, but she wanted to see some life put back into Penny. And it had always seemed to her that when Penny started dating a new guy, there was a little more sparkle to her daughter's earthiness.
Rebecca nodded knowingly, "Rachael has only good things to say about the service. Though there is a difference here. It was Rachel's idea to try eHarmony.com. Some how I feel this is not Penny's choice."
"True enough," Madeline sighed.
Rebecca looked suspiciously at her old friend, "Are you even going to tell her?"
Monday, September 24, 2007
Mortality Insurance
In that moment, she was totally thankful for the fact that she had life insurance. If something happened to her, her family would not be faced with her debts or funerary expenses. Because she was still young (when does one truly grow old?), what had seemed like an innocuous but good idea, made a lot of sense when one could be surprised by the fragility of mortality.
Getting life insurance had been easy, especially now that Internet made it easier to find. For someone who did not relish seeing doctors, there was life insurance without a medical exam available. No blood pressure check (and facing the white coat syndrome), no poking or prodding, and no needles. This meant one could have term life insurance without having a blood test. No fainting necessary.
On the profam.com web site, it was a painless procedure thanks to Advantage One. On this site one could learn about the benefits of having a term life insurance policy verses whole life, expense being a big component (saving 75%). One could get 10, 20 or 30 year policies just by answering a few questions. It was definitely an inexpensive way to provide for loved ones and one could get quotes on these just with the click of the mouse.
Yes, there was relief in knowing she was covered, and had done so in a painless way by getting term life without medical hassles.
Getting life insurance had been easy, especially now that Internet made it easier to find. For someone who did not relish seeing doctors, there was life insurance without a medical exam available. No blood pressure check (and facing the white coat syndrome), no poking or prodding, and no needles. This meant one could have term life insurance without having a blood test. No fainting necessary.
On the profam.com web site, it was a painless procedure thanks to Advantage One. On this site one could learn about the benefits of having a term life insurance policy verses whole life, expense being a big component (saving 75%). One could get 10, 20 or 30 year policies just by answering a few questions. It was definitely an inexpensive way to provide for loved ones and one could get quotes on these just with the click of the mouse.
Yes, there was relief in knowing she was covered, and had done so in a painless way by getting term life without medical hassles.
Mortality
Penny lurched back even farther. Her reality was slowly falling away and exposing something moldy, damp, and squishy in nature. But slowly her mind began to detach from the situation and a movie began to play forward. It was as if she was watching this horror show where she was a lead character, but if she wanted, at any moment she could move, go get popcorn or visit the restroom.
Penny, who described herself as slow on the draw, but seemingly always had a comment, looked at that which had once been Joan.
As if the words were coming from someone else, Penny found herself asking, "If you are not Joan, then who are you?"
The creature did not move, not even the lips, but spoke, "I am everything. The name does not matter." The words hit Penny in a way that made her flinch as though someone had just made a motion to strike her. This made no sense.
"Then what do you want?"
Still no movement, "It is not what I want, but what you must do. This is a warning, Penny. You must change or change will destroy you."
A small throbbing began to grow inside Penny's head. It was as though the creature were speaking a foreign language she could not understand. Yet, she knew the words. Each in its own right made sense, but not put together.
"Hear me, Penny. You must tread carefully or you will be doomed."
In that moment, Penny felt the shiver of true panic run down her spine. Doomed for what? Doomed how? And she also began to feel her mortality.
Penny, who described herself as slow on the draw, but seemingly always had a comment, looked at that which had once been Joan.
As if the words were coming from someone else, Penny found herself asking, "If you are not Joan, then who are you?"
The creature did not move, not even the lips, but spoke, "I am everything. The name does not matter." The words hit Penny in a way that made her flinch as though someone had just made a motion to strike her. This made no sense.
"Then what do you want?"
Still no movement, "It is not what I want, but what you must do. This is a warning, Penny. You must change or change will destroy you."
A small throbbing began to grow inside Penny's head. It was as though the creature were speaking a foreign language she could not understand. Yet, she knew the words. Each in its own right made sense, but not put together.
"Hear me, Penny. You must tread carefully or you will be doomed."
In that moment, Penny felt the shiver of true panic run down her spine. Doomed for what? Doomed how? And she also began to feel her mortality.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Just Keep the Good Going Along
"Go ahead, give her ago," said the heroic motorist who had stopped his own life for a moment to help Rog. Rog sat in the driver's seat and put the keys into the ignition once again. He was unaware that he was crossing his fingers as he did this. He turn the ignition. And...
Sure enough, the engine chugged hungrily into life and sound. Rog would have preferred a car with an engine that would"purr" into life, but he was grateful he even had his own wheels. Since the jumper cable idea had worked, he now found himself extremely generous. There was much to be thankful for on this twilighted evening. The warmth of something gone well melted away any cold certainty that he was doomed.
Keeping the car running (just in case), he climbed out of the driver seat and went around the raised hood. The man was already undoing the cables.
"Thanks, man. You are a total life saver," Rog's words were filled with sincerity.
"Glad I could help," he answered while putting the cables back into the trunk of his own car.
Rog watched and followed the man much like a happy puppy.
"Hey, I have a few dollars, let me pay you for your time," he said wondering if this was the correct etiquette for such situations. He had never been stranded and rescued before. Usually he was the one doing the rescuing or so it seemed to his young mind.
The man laughed, "No, son. Just keep the good going along." With that, he got into his car, carefully pulled back onto the street and drove out of Rog's life.
Just keep the good going along. That was different sort of statement, but Rog rather liked it. It seemed like "Pay it forward" or some such philosophy, but even more positive. Pay it forward could go in two different directions and one seemed like a very bumpy road. Joan would tell him this was all semantics, and he would again wonder how she could have some new age-like leanings and miss what seemed to be the crucial ones.
Again he sat in the driver's seat, closed the door and fastened his seat belt securely. As he thought thoughts about telling his mother why he was late, his little mishap with the car, and oh yeah, that he was about to enlist in the military, his body went through the motions of putting his vehicle in motion. The foot gently depressed the gas after his right hand put the car in drive. Why would he need to tell his mother about the car, he wondered. There was no harm done. Perhaps he would let this go unaccounted. His left hand flipped the turn signal and he checked the road. No on-coming cars. He was good to go. No, no need to tell his mother. The car glided forward onto the road.
And all was fine.
For a moment, he seemed to be back on track again. There was a faint rustling sound. Was that in his car? Checking the rear view mirror, he saw nothing out of the normal. There was the back window and all that lay beyond it. It was probably just an old fast food bag settling on the back floor.
He was not sure then if he heard something or caught the quick movement in the mirror first. Before he looked for sure though, he took a deep breath in in an attempt to keep himself and the car more steady. No need to do stupid things because one's mind had begun playing tricks. He looked again into the rear view mirror expecting to see window and past road. Instead, his eyes met two other eyes, and in that quick moment, his mind registered that there was a stranger sitting in his back seat. He was not alone. Frantically his mind tried to comprehend this. Did he know this person? He must, why else would someone else be in the back of his car.
Then he felt something shoved against the back of his head and he knew it was a gun. The warmth of generosity he had felt seconds earlier flooded coldly away.
Sure enough, the engine chugged hungrily into life and sound. Rog would have preferred a car with an engine that would"purr" into life, but he was grateful he even had his own wheels. Since the jumper cable idea had worked, he now found himself extremely generous. There was much to be thankful for on this twilighted evening. The warmth of something gone well melted away any cold certainty that he was doomed.
Keeping the car running (just in case), he climbed out of the driver seat and went around the raised hood. The man was already undoing the cables.
"Thanks, man. You are a total life saver," Rog's words were filled with sincerity.
"Glad I could help," he answered while putting the cables back into the trunk of his own car.
Rog watched and followed the man much like a happy puppy.
"Hey, I have a few dollars, let me pay you for your time," he said wondering if this was the correct etiquette for such situations. He had never been stranded and rescued before. Usually he was the one doing the rescuing or so it seemed to his young mind.
The man laughed, "No, son. Just keep the good going along." With that, he got into his car, carefully pulled back onto the street and drove out of Rog's life.
Just keep the good going along. That was different sort of statement, but Rog rather liked it. It seemed like "Pay it forward" or some such philosophy, but even more positive. Pay it forward could go in two different directions and one seemed like a very bumpy road. Joan would tell him this was all semantics, and he would again wonder how she could have some new age-like leanings and miss what seemed to be the crucial ones.
Again he sat in the driver's seat, closed the door and fastened his seat belt securely. As he thought thoughts about telling his mother why he was late, his little mishap with the car, and oh yeah, that he was about to enlist in the military, his body went through the motions of putting his vehicle in motion. The foot gently depressed the gas after his right hand put the car in drive. Why would he need to tell his mother about the car, he wondered. There was no harm done. Perhaps he would let this go unaccounted. His left hand flipped the turn signal and he checked the road. No on-coming cars. He was good to go. No, no need to tell his mother. The car glided forward onto the road.
And all was fine.
For a moment, he seemed to be back on track again. There was a faint rustling sound. Was that in his car? Checking the rear view mirror, he saw nothing out of the normal. There was the back window and all that lay beyond it. It was probably just an old fast food bag settling on the back floor.
He was not sure then if he heard something or caught the quick movement in the mirror first. Before he looked for sure though, he took a deep breath in in an attempt to keep himself and the car more steady. No need to do stupid things because one's mind had begun playing tricks. He looked again into the rear view mirror expecting to see window and past road. Instead, his eyes met two other eyes, and in that quick moment, his mind registered that there was a stranger sitting in his back seat. He was not alone. Frantically his mind tried to comprehend this. Did he know this person? He must, why else would someone else be in the back of his car.
Then he felt something shoved against the back of his head and he knew it was a gun. The warmth of generosity he had felt seconds earlier flooded coldly away.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Madeline's Marital Status
We interrupt this story to ask for your input. In expanding our characterization of Madeline, our family matriarch, we want to know your opinion on her relationship with Penny and Rog's father. As he is not really mentioned as a current character, does that mean Madeline is a widow, a divorcee, or never married? Please help us decide by answering this week's poll or commenting here.
Friday, September 21, 2007
The Insurance Question
“Does he have good insurance?”
“Of course he has good insurance,” the boy’s mother replied. Perhaps 'boy' was not the correct term, but neither was ‘man.’ Being 18 left him in a nebulous circumstance between the two terms. He was old enough to join the military to defend the country and he could vote, but he could not indulge in alcohol. Knowing what she paid for his car insurance actually made her glad of this last fact. Teenage drivers were considered risky enough without the added liability of alcohol.
She felt fortunate that she had discovered Advantage Auto Quotes while perusing the Internet in hopes of finding information out about decreasing the cost for his auto insurance, as well as her own since she was entering her own tenuous years of seniorhood, when her own insurance rates would no doubt increase. This company offered several good ideas for keeping insurance rates down and mentioned that they occasionally worked with AARP for better senior deals. She had followed their advice and bought her son a pre-used vehicle rather than the new sporty car he would have preferred. She had checked the coverage for sports cars and even without having age infractions; it was more than she desired to pay, though she knew this company offered reasonable rates for such luxuries. Her generosity did have its limits, even with her own child.
Using the company’s tips for maintaining a decent driving record, and instilling these ideas within her son when she agreed to help him with his car insurance (call it a graduation gift), she had been lucky so far. She was able to get better car insurance rates. It had never occurred to her that she would have needed a company that included all sorts of auto insurance policies, but her she was, an older woman with a teenage son. Call if fortuitous or just good thinking, but she had found a resource to make this part of life a little easier.
And so she described this Internet find to her friend.
“Of course he has good insurance,” the boy’s mother replied. Perhaps 'boy' was not the correct term, but neither was ‘man.’ Being 18 left him in a nebulous circumstance between the two terms. He was old enough to join the military to defend the country and he could vote, but he could not indulge in alcohol. Knowing what she paid for his car insurance actually made her glad of this last fact. Teenage drivers were considered risky enough without the added liability of alcohol.
She felt fortunate that she had discovered Advantage Auto Quotes while perusing the Internet in hopes of finding information out about decreasing the cost for his auto insurance, as well as her own since she was entering her own tenuous years of seniorhood, when her own insurance rates would no doubt increase. This company offered several good ideas for keeping insurance rates down and mentioned that they occasionally worked with AARP for better senior deals. She had followed their advice and bought her son a pre-used vehicle rather than the new sporty car he would have preferred. She had checked the coverage for sports cars and even without having age infractions; it was more than she desired to pay, though she knew this company offered reasonable rates for such luxuries. Her generosity did have its limits, even with her own child.
Using the company’s tips for maintaining a decent driving record, and instilling these ideas within her son when she agreed to help him with his car insurance (call it a graduation gift), she had been lucky so far. She was able to get better car insurance rates. It had never occurred to her that she would have needed a company that included all sorts of auto insurance policies, but her she was, an older woman with a teenage son. Call if fortuitous or just good thinking, but she had found a resource to make this part of life a little easier.
And so she described this Internet find to her friend.
Rebecca's Thoughts on Rog's Where-abouts
Madeline leaned against the counter as she watched Rebbecca pilfer through all her dinner preparations.
"I am sure Rog will be here at any moment. He probably had other plans for this afternoon and just forgot to tell me," she said hoping her voice sounded more confident that she actually felt.
The pot of hot water for the pasta had begun to boil.
Rebbecca turned the burner down, but began the boil on the conversation, "That's very unlike Rog, isn't it? He is very conscientious about you. Perhaps his car has broken down?"
"I am sure Rog will be here at any moment. He probably had other plans for this afternoon and just forgot to tell me," she said hoping her voice sounded more confident that she actually felt.
The pot of hot water for the pasta had begun to boil.
Rebbecca turned the burner down, but began the boil on the conversation, "That's very unlike Rog, isn't it? He is very conscientious about you. Perhaps his car has broken down?"
The Absense of Joan
The scream had been her own, only now Penny’s throat felt dry and scratchy, as if her vocal cords had grown taunt with decades of uselessness. Even her lungs felt has though they were being constricted, and Penny recognized the panic attack beginning to manifest itself. But was it a panic attack when there was something truly worth panicking about, sitting before one in all its horror?
Her heartbeat its rhythm in her eardrums and reality began to appear in slow motion. Each second was an eternity. Penny had heard this happened when one was in true crisis. How odd, her analytic mind thought rationally while her body acted on pure survival instinct. That same part of her mind also wondered if reality had slowed down to allow more time for a survival plan.
What was once Joan, a slightly spoiled and irritating fiancé of her younger brother, was now something out of Penny’s worst nightmares, a sightless fiend whose skin no longer fit upon the bone structure of the body. The smile it wore was garish. The rational part of Penny’s mind was also not above speculating that perhaps this creature before her was indeed the real Joan. Had she not been fighting true terror, she might have at least smiled at this idea.
Penny found herself, step-by-step, slow foot motion to next slow foot motion, backing away, retreating upon the footsteps she had taken to get to this moment. The form before her did not move, just stared, sightlessly at her.
When Penny reached the doorway, the strength of the structure helped support her. She found herself speaking with rusty vocal cords, “Joan. Joan what happened? Joan are you alright?”
Seemingly with no movements of the lips, what had been Joan replied with a voice filled with bile and other dark things, “Joan’s not here right now.”
Her heartbeat its rhythm in her eardrums and reality began to appear in slow motion. Each second was an eternity. Penny had heard this happened when one was in true crisis. How odd, her analytic mind thought rationally while her body acted on pure survival instinct. That same part of her mind also wondered if reality had slowed down to allow more time for a survival plan.
What was once Joan, a slightly spoiled and irritating fiancé of her younger brother, was now something out of Penny’s worst nightmares, a sightless fiend whose skin no longer fit upon the bone structure of the body. The smile it wore was garish. The rational part of Penny’s mind was also not above speculating that perhaps this creature before her was indeed the real Joan. Had she not been fighting true terror, she might have at least smiled at this idea.
Penny found herself, step-by-step, slow foot motion to next slow foot motion, backing away, retreating upon the footsteps she had taken to get to this moment. The form before her did not move, just stared, sightlessly at her.
When Penny reached the doorway, the strength of the structure helped support her. She found herself speaking with rusty vocal cords, “Joan. Joan what happened? Joan are you alright?”
Seemingly with no movements of the lips, what had been Joan replied with a voice filled with bile and other dark things, “Joan’s not here right now.”
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Help Arrives
The latch clicked and the hood bounced slightly upwards, indicating it was ready to be raised. As Rog got out of the car and headed to release the catch on the hood to finish raising it, he absently pushed up his sleeves, Instinctively, this was a sign that concentration or hard work would soon follow. Rog was not quite sure what he would do. He knew little about cars, but he could make a good show of it to the passing traffic. Perhaps a kindly person would stop and offer assistance or at least offer the use of a personal cell phone. As he lifted the hood and fixed it open, he accessed that indeed the motor was still in the car. All looked complicated, but as it should, he though. Perhaps he should check the oil. His father always seemed to check the oil level in everyone's car. He was rather obsessive about it. Maybe that was where Penny got some of her quirks.
Yes, he could find the dipstick, but what to wipe it on? He checked his pockets, but all he could come up with was a brochure for a jewelry store. That would have to do. There was something apropos about using the paper from the weary journey of the morning to help him move forward at this time.
As he slowly drew out the dipstick, traffic slacked off. It was as though everyone on the road knew he might need assistance, so they avoided driving by. He wiped off the dipstick oblivious to the pending doom of being a stranded motorist.
The breeze ruffled through his hair, startling him slightly. It had felt like cold fingers brushing the hair out of his eyes. He realized he was getting cold or perhaps just a little more nervous.
The sudden honking of a passing car, almost caused him to jump up and hit his head on the hood, but he was able to laugh at this paranoid reaction. He began to wonder if it would be better to just start walking and abandon the car, but that did not feel right.
Finally, when he was about to lose all hope of help, it appeared that a car was slowing down just a bit in front of him. As he watched it crawl towards him, out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a dark shape run behind his car. Before he could walk around to the back of his car to see, the car that had been approaching reached him. It was an older car and an older man who rolled the window down and asked if he needed any assistance.
"Maybe," Rog replied, "Can't seem to get her started again."
"Maybe you just need a jump. Do you have cables?" the man asked.
"No, I don't think so."
"Well, I do. Give me a second and I'll see what we can do," the driver said as he began to back up his ancient vehicle and parked facing Rog's car. Rog was so intent in watching the man connect the cables from car to car, and so full of hope that this would work, that he did not see the dark figured that climbed in the backseat of his ride.
___________________________
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Monday, September 17, 2007
No Turn-over
Slowly Rog collected himself, grounding himself, feet upon a slowly spinning earth. He breathed in the slightly cool air of the twilight, breathing out a silent prayer of thanks that he was alive and the car was not damaged. Stretching his lanky body, perhaps best described as sinewy, he began to feel revived, a little more like himself, the him before the diamond escapade of disappointment. Life was moving forward, one mile after another and he had a plan, a plan that would sustain him until he figured out the whole Joan and marriage thing. Perhaps a few years in the military, gambling that this life was not expendable, would bring some maturity to his desire to do the right thing. Best not to travel this road anymore tonight.
He opened the car door, climbed into the driver seat and made a few adjustments to the rear view mirror. The familiarity of buckling the seat belt felt comforting and secure. He closed the door and inserted his key into the ignition. It slid in smoothly, just as it always had. He turned it away from him as he had hundreds of times since he had bought the car. It clicked familiarly, but the engine did not catch. He tried again. Nothing.
Without realizing it, Rog took a deep breath in and let it out slowly. He pushed the gas peddle in a few times and then the brake peddle. He turned the ignition again. Nothing. No familiar sound of a start, just the sound of incoming traffic.
Inside his mind, he swore for a moment, and wished again that he had not been so insistent in remaining phone gadget-free.
Little was he aware that his movements were being followed and recorded.
He opened the car door, climbed into the driver seat and made a few adjustments to the rear view mirror. The familiarity of buckling the seat belt felt comforting and secure. He closed the door and inserted his key into the ignition. It slid in smoothly, just as it always had. He turned it away from him as he had hundreds of times since he had bought the car. It clicked familiarly, but the engine did not catch. He tried again. Nothing.
Without realizing it, Rog took a deep breath in and let it out slowly. He pushed the gas peddle in a few times and then the brake peddle. He turned the ignition again. Nothing. No familiar sound of a start, just the sound of incoming traffic.
Inside his mind, he swore for a moment, and wished again that he had not been so insistent in remaining phone gadget-free.
Little was he aware that his movements were being followed and recorded.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
The Other Side of the Door
Madeline held out hope that perhaps the knock at the door was Rog, but that would be a sign that something was wrong. Rog never knocked. He either unlocked the door with his own key or found the front door open. Being closer to the countryside than the suburban sprawl where he lived, this area was still fairly crime free and doors remained unlocked during the sunlit hours. It seemed a little soon for Penny to be arriving. The thought crossed her mind that it could possibly be Joan, since the girl was not answering Penny’s efforts at phone calling.
Trepidation began to play havoc with the cords of Madeline’s nerves. Not one prone to thoughts of hysteria, she was normally unfazed by much, but the change in Rog’s rituals were disturbing to her. It was unlike him not to call ahead and let her know that he would not be keeping their weekly date.
Carefully she looked out the window that faced her driveway. No unfamiliar or familiar car. Nothing, yet just as she supposed the knock had been her subconscious mind’s doing, it sounded again. Before crossing to the entryway of the house, she stood back and examined the figure behind the door, murky from the gaze-like curtains hanging over the door’s window. Before squinting at it more, she looked over at the corner of the hallway, behind where the door would open. Her shotgun lay in waiting, fully loaded, without a safety. She knew that this might be cause for alarm among many, but she had no little children running around, only grown ones, who had chipped in and bought her the gun a few years ago, along with training from the local fraternal order of the police.
Madeline squinted at the figure before her. It was decidedly female. No, it was not Penny, but it was familiar.
“Madeline, dear, it’s Rebecca. Are you there?” the voice on the other side said. Madeline let out a small sigh of relief and hurried to the door. It was not locked and opened to the friendly presence of Rebecca, who walked in unceremoniously and headed for the kitchen. In her hands she carried a towel wrapped parcel.
“Sorry to intrude upon your time with Rog, but I know how he loves my home-baked bread. Since Jamey is visiting, I made an extra loaf.”
Madeline followed behind her, but before she could speak her greetings, Rebecca continued, “Oh Maddy, where is Rog? I thought he would be in here?”
So Madeline, rather than speaking the greeting she had prepared, said, “He’s not here. Hasn’t showed up yet. But that was very sweet of you to make him bread. He should be here soon, I hope.”
Rebecca, ever one to be inspired by the normalness of a kitchen and its inhabitants, flitted about looking at the dinner preparations. She seemed pleased that her sauce was about to be utilized.
As she made herself at home, she asked, “So what has detained your son from your raspberry tarts?”
Trepidation began to play havoc with the cords of Madeline’s nerves. Not one prone to thoughts of hysteria, she was normally unfazed by much, but the change in Rog’s rituals were disturbing to her. It was unlike him not to call ahead and let her know that he would not be keeping their weekly date.
Carefully she looked out the window that faced her driveway. No unfamiliar or familiar car. Nothing, yet just as she supposed the knock had been her subconscious mind’s doing, it sounded again. Before crossing to the entryway of the house, she stood back and examined the figure behind the door, murky from the gaze-like curtains hanging over the door’s window. Before squinting at it more, she looked over at the corner of the hallway, behind where the door would open. Her shotgun lay in waiting, fully loaded, without a safety. She knew that this might be cause for alarm among many, but she had no little children running around, only grown ones, who had chipped in and bought her the gun a few years ago, along with training from the local fraternal order of the police.
Madeline squinted at the figure before her. It was decidedly female. No, it was not Penny, but it was familiar.
“Madeline, dear, it’s Rebecca. Are you there?” the voice on the other side said. Madeline let out a small sigh of relief and hurried to the door. It was not locked and opened to the friendly presence of Rebecca, who walked in unceremoniously and headed for the kitchen. In her hands she carried a towel wrapped parcel.
“Sorry to intrude upon your time with Rog, but I know how he loves my home-baked bread. Since Jamey is visiting, I made an extra loaf.”
Madeline followed behind her, but before she could speak her greetings, Rebecca continued, “Oh Maddy, where is Rog? I thought he would be in here?”
So Madeline, rather than speaking the greeting she had prepared, said, “He’s not here. Hasn’t showed up yet. But that was very sweet of you to make him bread. He should be here soon, I hope.”
Rebecca, ever one to be inspired by the normalness of a kitchen and its inhabitants, flitted about looking at the dinner preparations. She seemed pleased that her sauce was about to be utilized.
As she made herself at home, she asked, “So what has detained your son from your raspberry tarts?”
Monday, September 10, 2007
Joan Has a Visitor
The computer, the one sitting on the dining room table, longing for a desk of its own rather than the protrusion of being continually out of place, was humming loudly thanks to its internal fans that spoke of much being done to keep it busy. Penny could not see from her vantage point what was on the screen as Joan's body took up the space of the monitor. Joan seemed completely absorbed in whatever she was typing, typing at what seemed an insane pace. Penny paused before intruding, waiting for a break in the typing. It did not come. On and on Joan's fingers taped across the keyboard. No hesitation, no pause. Just deliberate typing, a rhythm almost.
Penny watched for a another few moments. Joan's spine was completely erect. Penny could not remember if Joan had always had such posture. Somehow, it seemed out of place. It was like watching a very mechanical robot, devoid of human gesture, doing a repetitive job.
"Hello," Penny said more to the room than anything, while knocking lightly on the wall. No response. The same rhythm.
Clack, clack, clack, clackety clack.
Clack, clack, clack, clackety clack.
Clack, clack, clack, clackety clack.
Clack, clack, clack, clackety clack.
Clack, clack, clack, clackety clack.
Joan did not even flinch at the sound, not even a minimal break in concentration for there was no break.
Clack, clack, clack, clackety clack.
Clack, clack, clack, clackety clack.
Clack, clack, clack, clackety clack.
Enough, though Penny. This is nuts. So, she walked closure to the figure typing away. Still no response.
Clack, clack, clack, clackety clack.
Clack, clack, clack, clackety clack.
Penny could not decide if she was becoming frayed by this odd behavior, genuinely creepy in its precision of rhythm. Step by step, each a little more hesitant that the last, Penny came to a stop directly behind Joan. Were her thoughts beginning to take on the rhythm of the typing? She was now close enough to see the computer monitor, but it did her no good. She could not read it. It was in a combination of hexi-decimal coding and Greek, or it may as well have been. Had Joan learned a new coding language? Penny had no idea the younger girl was interested in such things.
As Penny leaned down to get a better look, her arm brushed against Joan.
"Sorry," Penny said faintly, suddenly aware that the typing had stopped. How slowly time suddenly moved. Each tick of a second was loudly punctuated as if this was a tragedy unfolding. The figure still sat rigidly facing the computer. Then slowly, as though its neck would creak, it turned its head sideways toward Penny.
Penny was not aware that she had started to hold her breath. All she knew was that somehow, she was in a different consciousness than her real world, and she really was ready to wake up. As the figure turned its head, slowly rotating its eyes to meet hers, Penny heard the scream, and even heard the lack of air that made it gurgle to a stop.
She stumbled backwards, gasping, seeing the blue lips of death grin at her, and the eyes deplete of color or pupil that gazed into her own.
Penny watched for a another few moments. Joan's spine was completely erect. Penny could not remember if Joan had always had such posture. Somehow, it seemed out of place. It was like watching a very mechanical robot, devoid of human gesture, doing a repetitive job.
"Hello," Penny said more to the room than anything, while knocking lightly on the wall. No response. The same rhythm.
Clack, clack, clack, clackety clack.
Clack, clack, clack, clackety clack.
Clack, clack, clack, clackety clack.
Clack, clack, clack, clackety clack.
Clack, clack, clack, clackety clack.
Joan did not even flinch at the sound, not even a minimal break in concentration for there was no break.
Clack, clack, clack, clackety clack.
Clack, clack, clack, clackety clack.
Clack, clack, clack, clackety clack.
Enough, though Penny. This is nuts. So, she walked closure to the figure typing away. Still no response.
Clack, clack, clack, clackety clack.
Clack, clack, clack, clackety clack.
Penny could not decide if she was becoming frayed by this odd behavior, genuinely creepy in its precision of rhythm. Step by step, each a little more hesitant that the last, Penny came to a stop directly behind Joan. Were her thoughts beginning to take on the rhythm of the typing? She was now close enough to see the computer monitor, but it did her no good. She could not read it. It was in a combination of hexi-decimal coding and Greek, or it may as well have been. Had Joan learned a new coding language? Penny had no idea the younger girl was interested in such things.
As Penny leaned down to get a better look, her arm brushed against Joan.
"Sorry," Penny said faintly, suddenly aware that the typing had stopped. How slowly time suddenly moved. Each tick of a second was loudly punctuated as if this was a tragedy unfolding. The figure still sat rigidly facing the computer. Then slowly, as though its neck would creak, it turned its head sideways toward Penny.
Penny was not aware that she had started to hold her breath. All she knew was that somehow, she was in a different consciousness than her real world, and she really was ready to wake up. As the figure turned its head, slowly rotating its eyes to meet hers, Penny heard the scream, and even heard the lack of air that made it gurgle to a stop.
She stumbled backwards, gasping, seeing the blue lips of death grin at her, and the eyes deplete of color or pupil that gazed into her own.
Saturday, September 8, 2007
The Silence
He watched closely as she got out of the car, stopping his puttering, and even ignoring his beer can. It was as if he were watching Jeopardy and waiting for the $25,000 clue.
Penny tried to disregard his gaze as she walked up to the front door of Rog's house – Rog's and Joan's house, she reminded herself. Other then the man who leered at her from the next yard, there was no real movement on the street, and Penny felt a bit surreal. Had she mistakenly entered a Salvador Dali painting by accident? Perhaps the door handle would melt in her fingers.
There was no other noise than the man's radio and noise it was. He was still listening to AM frequencies apparently, no satellite here.
Normally, Penny would hear some sort of celestial strains coming from the dwelling her brother shared with Joan. Even since the New Age princess had moved in, it was all harp music and other variations. Frankly, Penny missed the edgy strains of Rog's thrasher preferences, or at least she missed chiding him about it. But today, their little house seemed very silent. She knocked on the door, but then resorted to using the doorbell when the knocking appeared useless. The doorbell echoed into the house. Silence answered. The man continued to gape at her and she imagined that if she were to approach him, his mouth would feature an absence of teeth.
Where was Joan? Here she was set to apologize and there was no one there to accept it. Rog's car was gone, but that was not unusual. Joan did not drive, nor did she really have any friends. You could count that very strange woman named Rainey, but Joan seemed to not like spending that much time with the woman. Penny suspected Rainey intimidate Joan.
Feeling her keys in her hand, she spent little time debating about letting herself in with the key Rog had traded for a copy of her own. The locked clicked, and the door opened easily. Most of the house was becoming dark with approaching twilight, but there seemed to be a small amount of light emanating out from the dining room.
"Hello," Penny called out into the quiet rooms. No answer.
So, Penny went in search of paper and pen to leave a note. As she walked into the dining room, where the light was, she realized, she was not alone after all.
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Friday, September 7, 2007
How do you get on the New York Time's Best Seller List?
Sermonizing. Forcing others to listen to your words just to get a message through, seems a bit much. There has to be a better way. How would one set one's book apart from the millions that come out every week? And to be really noticed, one would need to be on the New York Time's Best Seller List. That is how one really achieves success. Whenever anyone suggest a book to others, the list often is a factor. It is a validation that it is worth the time to read the book. But what is the trick to getting onto the bestseller list?
There is John Kremer's way to becoming a New York Time's bestselling author. He has a program devised to help aspiring writers, or those with profound messages, to do just this. Using 12 telesessions, he lays out a marketing plan on how to get books into bookstores and how to help these books climb their way to the top. Apparently this is how books end up on the bestseller list. The list monitors bookstore sales, so Kremer's approach is to help others sell more of their books. The more books sold, the higher potential for getting on the list.
These were the things she wondered about as she drove to her destination.
A Message for the Damned
"Your soul is doomed. The world is damned. We cannot save it. We can only save ourselves. Repent now," boomed the voice attached to the creature gripping Penny's arm. His grip had gotten tighter with each syllable in his message. She had actually winced at the sound.
"Let go of me," she said pulling her arm away from his clutches. This wass what she did not like about the city. One was never completely free to travel its sidewalks without being apprehended by some maniac, some person looking for a handout, or the inevitable lost tourist. The preaching sort, such as this one, all seemed to be made of the same mold. Perhaps there is truth in stereotypes she mused, not really panicked or frightened, but just wanting to stay on track with her reconciliation task with Joan.
The man stepped in front of her now, blocking her entrance into the safety of her car.
"Even as you get into your pollution maker, you are damning yourself. Toxic chemicals will enter your body and death becomes inevitable," he said earnestly with this yellowed eyes, of which dirty, thinning, long hair hung. Then Penny realized she was not intimidated by the encounter, as she once would have been. This dirty, older urchin of the street was tiny, quite a bit shorter than she. Luckily, he did not carry an odor of unmentionable horror. There was just a tiny aroma of sweat and no bad breath. In fact, now that she looked, he seemed rather clean. Not too many, if any, nights had been spent sleeping on the city streets.
"Well, damned I am then. I shall be even more damned if I do not get in my car and go now," Penny told him, understand that ignoring his efforts would only delay her more. Normally she would turn on her heels and walk towards her building and wait out this personal storm, but today, the idea incensed her. She had a right to walk from Point A to Point B and go where she needed without the hassle of communication. With these thoughts came a small jolt of adrenaline or irritation.
"Excuse me, I am late," deliberation of task shown through the tone of her words, authoritarian and decisive. As they were spoken, she moved around the source of irritation, put the keys into the lock of the car and began to open the door. Apparently subconsciously she had been fingering the keys to find the right one for just such a moment of opportunity as this.
But the preacher was not so forthcoming with his moment of opportunity to leave her alone. Though there was now no way he could block her, his hand reached for the door, unaware that he might get his fingers smashed when she slammed the door shut. It never occurred to him that her own inner processes would not yield to his words. Here was a lost soul he could save, or so he told himself.
With his other hand, he thrust a pamphlet at her, "Save yourself sinner, the time has come to repent."
Penny actually took the pamphlet, again, hoping this would end this unexpected, unwanted menage. For a moment she looked at the words on the piece of paper, hating that with the onset of personal computers people could now publish their own literature. It would not have been so bad, but most people had absolutely no design instinct. They went for too many type faces (more is better after all)and different sized one's at that, thus making their message chaotic and unreadable. But in her quick summation of the pamphlet, she did notice it was actually an add for a lecture and book release. She squinted at the piece of paper and noticed it was to be at a book store not too far away from this address. As her eyes roamed the page, the annoyance had become silent and had removed his hand from the door, apparently in shock that someone was actually reading his pamphlet. Penny became aware of this, and without lifting her gaze, she quickly slide into the driver's seat and shut the door. Even quicker, she locked the door and prepared to start her ignition.
He stood on the curb looking both puzzled and dejected. Penny actually found herself feeling bad for him for a moment. Had he never been rejected before or dealt with in this manner?
Without realizing she was rolling her window down, as it opened she asked him, "You were hired by the bookstore or author to spread his 'good word,' weren't you?"
He looked stunned and brushed the scraggly hair out of his eyes. As he did this, he suddenly looked much younger, his eyes that she thought were yellow, were actually a very clear green. Penny was struck dumb with her next thought, he was actually beautiful. Innocent.
He took a deep breath, "Yeah. They hired me. How did you know?"
A laugh erupted within her, "Your fervent tone was a good approach, though grabbing my arm was a little over the top. Really street preachers probably know not to touch people. It can get them in trouble. Now I suppose if they were hungry enough and wanted a place to rest they might do such a thing to enjoy the benefits of being hauled to jail for a short time. And you are too clean. Wearing yesterday's clothes is not enough to pull off the stench of living out here."
He actually grinned back, "Hey thanks. I will keep it in mind." And with that, he turned back to the sidewalk and to others who were traveling upon it. As Penny rolled up her window, she watched as he gave out the pamphlets, no speech, no fake insanity, just a smile. As she pulled out from the parking spot, she looked back at him for a moment, and caught his wink.
"Let go of me," she said pulling her arm away from his clutches. This wass what she did not like about the city. One was never completely free to travel its sidewalks without being apprehended by some maniac, some person looking for a handout, or the inevitable lost tourist. The preaching sort, such as this one, all seemed to be made of the same mold. Perhaps there is truth in stereotypes she mused, not really panicked or frightened, but just wanting to stay on track with her reconciliation task with Joan.
The man stepped in front of her now, blocking her entrance into the safety of her car.
"Even as you get into your pollution maker, you are damning yourself. Toxic chemicals will enter your body and death becomes inevitable," he said earnestly with this yellowed eyes, of which dirty, thinning, long hair hung. Then Penny realized she was not intimidated by the encounter, as she once would have been. This dirty, older urchin of the street was tiny, quite a bit shorter than she. Luckily, he did not carry an odor of unmentionable horror. There was just a tiny aroma of sweat and no bad breath. In fact, now that she looked, he seemed rather clean. Not too many, if any, nights had been spent sleeping on the city streets.
"Well, damned I am then. I shall be even more damned if I do not get in my car and go now," Penny told him, understand that ignoring his efforts would only delay her more. Normally she would turn on her heels and walk towards her building and wait out this personal storm, but today, the idea incensed her. She had a right to walk from Point A to Point B and go where she needed without the hassle of communication. With these thoughts came a small jolt of adrenaline or irritation.
"Excuse me, I am late," deliberation of task shown through the tone of her words, authoritarian and decisive. As they were spoken, she moved around the source of irritation, put the keys into the lock of the car and began to open the door. Apparently subconsciously she had been fingering the keys to find the right one for just such a moment of opportunity as this.
But the preacher was not so forthcoming with his moment of opportunity to leave her alone. Though there was now no way he could block her, his hand reached for the door, unaware that he might get his fingers smashed when she slammed the door shut. It never occurred to him that her own inner processes would not yield to his words. Here was a lost soul he could save, or so he told himself.
With his other hand, he thrust a pamphlet at her, "Save yourself sinner, the time has come to repent."
Penny actually took the pamphlet, again, hoping this would end this unexpected, unwanted menage. For a moment she looked at the words on the piece of paper, hating that with the onset of personal computers people could now publish their own literature. It would not have been so bad, but most people had absolutely no design instinct. They went for too many type faces (more is better after all)and different sized one's at that, thus making their message chaotic and unreadable. But in her quick summation of the pamphlet, she did notice it was actually an add for a lecture and book release. She squinted at the piece of paper and noticed it was to be at a book store not too far away from this address. As her eyes roamed the page, the annoyance had become silent and had removed his hand from the door, apparently in shock that someone was actually reading his pamphlet. Penny became aware of this, and without lifting her gaze, she quickly slide into the driver's seat and shut the door. Even quicker, she locked the door and prepared to start her ignition.
He stood on the curb looking both puzzled and dejected. Penny actually found herself feeling bad for him for a moment. Had he never been rejected before or dealt with in this manner?
Without realizing she was rolling her window down, as it opened she asked him, "You were hired by the bookstore or author to spread his 'good word,' weren't you?"
He looked stunned and brushed the scraggly hair out of his eyes. As he did this, he suddenly looked much younger, his eyes that she thought were yellow, were actually a very clear green. Penny was struck dumb with her next thought, he was actually beautiful. Innocent.
He took a deep breath, "Yeah. They hired me. How did you know?"
A laugh erupted within her, "Your fervent tone was a good approach, though grabbing my arm was a little over the top. Really street preachers probably know not to touch people. It can get them in trouble. Now I suppose if they were hungry enough and wanted a place to rest they might do such a thing to enjoy the benefits of being hauled to jail for a short time. And you are too clean. Wearing yesterday's clothes is not enough to pull off the stench of living out here."
He actually grinned back, "Hey thanks. I will keep it in mind." And with that, he turned back to the sidewalk and to others who were traveling upon it. As Penny rolled up her window, she watched as he gave out the pamphlets, no speech, no fake insanity, just a smile. As she pulled out from the parking spot, she looked back at him for a moment, and caught his wink.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
And the audio is live
We are proud to announce that our podcast Thoughts on Fire - Chapter 1, Part 1 is now available as an mp3 download.
Click here to download it.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
And now a note from Penny's creator
For those who are missing Penny today, she will be back tomorrow. We are in the process of creating a Penny Potboiler podcast so that you can listen to the misadventures.
And it looks like Penny may try Match.com, so stay tuned...
And it looks like Penny may try Match.com, so stay tuned...
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
On the Road
Rog was still in the car that a moment ago had been full of momentum. His heart no longer seemed to be in his chest, but more in his head. He could hear it, really feel it in his ears. Pulsing. His breathing also seemed a little more difficult as though his windpipe was a paper straw that has been saturated with some gooey liquid.
The seatbelt gripped him tightly, pressing him back against the seat in an odd life-embrace, rather than pitching him into a death kiss with the pavement. There was also a moment of panic when he realized all was dark. He could not see. Oh, my god, he was blind. Had he hit his head on the steering wheel? He had no memory of it. Then carefully, he opened his eyes to the last of the day's pink setting rays. Even during this time of high stress and confusion, he found pleasure in the beautiful colors of the approaching twilight. Perhaps it was just a profound concept that he was still alive,in one piece, not blind, and able to experience yet another sunset.
The sudden blare of a horn put an instant end to this quiet moment of gratefulness. His car was on the wrong side of the road. A car had passed by and sounded its horn. Miraculously, in his turnabout on the road, he had avoided hitting another car or telephone pole. The street, not far from his mother's house, was a quiet enough street. But what had happened? What had darted out in front of him and caused his dive into the edge of car-out-of-control. Had he hit whatever it was?
Another car passed him. Another blast from the horn. With shaky hands, he fumbled his hands along the cool ridge of the steering wheel. Keeping a foot very much on the brake, he steered the car over to the side of the road and turned off the ignition. Rog was just too freaked out to drive. Slowly, resembling a person of feeble body, he climbed out of the car and leaned against its outer surface trying desperately to feel normal again. The stress of the incident had shaken him up and he had no idea what to do.
So shaken was he that he did notice the dark figure watching him from the trees. Only about twenty feet away, it blended into the shadows. It barely moved, aware that even breathing would give its location away. But Rog was so perplexed with his predicament, that it would not have mattered it the figure had tapped dance. It would not have been noticed. Yet, it remained still, intent on watching Rog.
The seatbelt gripped him tightly, pressing him back against the seat in an odd life-embrace, rather than pitching him into a death kiss with the pavement. There was also a moment of panic when he realized all was dark. He could not see. Oh, my god, he was blind. Had he hit his head on the steering wheel? He had no memory of it. Then carefully, he opened his eyes to the last of the day's pink setting rays. Even during this time of high stress and confusion, he found pleasure in the beautiful colors of the approaching twilight. Perhaps it was just a profound concept that he was still alive,in one piece, not blind, and able to experience yet another sunset.
The sudden blare of a horn put an instant end to this quiet moment of gratefulness. His car was on the wrong side of the road. A car had passed by and sounded its horn. Miraculously, in his turnabout on the road, he had avoided hitting another car or telephone pole. The street, not far from his mother's house, was a quiet enough street. But what had happened? What had darted out in front of him and caused his dive into the edge of car-out-of-control. Had he hit whatever it was?
Another car passed him. Another blast from the horn. With shaky hands, he fumbled his hands along the cool ridge of the steering wheel. Keeping a foot very much on the brake, he steered the car over to the side of the road and turned off the ignition. Rog was just too freaked out to drive. Slowly, resembling a person of feeble body, he climbed out of the car and leaned against its outer surface trying desperately to feel normal again. The stress of the incident had shaken him up and he had no idea what to do.
So shaken was he that he did notice the dark figure watching him from the trees. Only about twenty feet away, it blended into the shadows. It barely moved, aware that even breathing would give its location away. But Rog was so perplexed with his predicament, that it would not have mattered it the figure had tapped dance. It would not have been noticed. Yet, it remained still, intent on watching Rog.
Monday, September 3, 2007
Frozen Garlic Bread
Madeline poured herself another glass of wine and left the friendly glow of her computer. She would ask Rog what he thought about the idea of signing Penny up for a dating service and which type of service would best suit her.
He should know. That is how he met Joan after all. It was not exactly a dating service, but one of those social networking sites like myspace.com or facebook.com. She had remembered him showing her the page Joan had set up, something about "I hate Kafka," because it had completely appealed to Rog, who was not a big fan. Madeline wondered now if Joan was even familiar with Kafka. She did not seem the type. More apt she had heard that somewhere and thought it sounded intelligent. Joan had also listed herself as a 100-year-old-woman. This had made Rog laugh and for a few minutes believe they were soul mates.
Madeline often wondered if one could really know if someone typing lines into a computer was a soul mate or not. What was real? What was not? Joan was certainly not a 100-year-old woman. She was not even legal. But, if she made Rog happy, well then, that was all that mattered. Penny was taking a traditional stance with this relationship, saying that it was moving too fast. They were too young, but it was Madeline's belief that when one found happiness, even if just a glimmer, than one should and go for the carpe diem. Happiness could be so short-lived.
In reality, it had surprised Madeline to hear that Joan was moving to this area. She had said it all had to do with a special environmental program for which she had won a scholarship, and little to do with Rog. Then suddenly, Joan was always at Rog's house, the one that his uncle had left him, and first it was replanting the flowerbeds, painting the walls, and then oh-by-the-way-I-am-about-to-be-your-daughter (cough, in law). Indeed Madeline had coughed, but managed to seem gracious and congratulatory.
As tempting as it was to dwell on all this, Madeline remembered she would be having company tonight. There was not much to offer in the way of dinner, as she had not been to the store recently. She thought about calling Penny and having her pick up something, but then again, Madeline was the one inviting her to dinner. It would have been rude to have her guest bring in the meal.
She finally decided on making a large pot of pasta. She had several jars left of Rebecca's homemade sauce. And it would go well with the red table wine she still had sitting on the wine rack. There was even a loaf of pre-made garlic bread in the freezer, waiting for such an opportunity. No one would mind if it was not homemade.
Just as she was pulling this out of the freezer, there was a knock on the door.
He should know. That is how he met Joan after all. It was not exactly a dating service, but one of those social networking sites like myspace.com or facebook.com. She had remembered him showing her the page Joan had set up, something about "I hate Kafka," because it had completely appealed to Rog, who was not a big fan. Madeline wondered now if Joan was even familiar with Kafka. She did not seem the type. More apt she had heard that somewhere and thought it sounded intelligent. Joan had also listed herself as a 100-year-old-woman. This had made Rog laugh and for a few minutes believe they were soul mates.
Madeline often wondered if one could really know if someone typing lines into a computer was a soul mate or not. What was real? What was not? Joan was certainly not a 100-year-old woman. She was not even legal. But, if she made Rog happy, well then, that was all that mattered. Penny was taking a traditional stance with this relationship, saying that it was moving too fast. They were too young, but it was Madeline's belief that when one found happiness, even if just a glimmer, than one should and go for the carpe diem. Happiness could be so short-lived.
In reality, it had surprised Madeline to hear that Joan was moving to this area. She had said it all had to do with a special environmental program for which she had won a scholarship, and little to do with Rog. Then suddenly, Joan was always at Rog's house, the one that his uncle had left him, and first it was replanting the flowerbeds, painting the walls, and then oh-by-the-way-I-am-about-to-be-your-daughter (cough, in law). Indeed Madeline had coughed, but managed to seem gracious and congratulatory.
As tempting as it was to dwell on all this, Madeline remembered she would be having company tonight. There was not much to offer in the way of dinner, as she had not been to the store recently. She thought about calling Penny and having her pick up something, but then again, Madeline was the one inviting her to dinner. It would have been rude to have her guest bring in the meal.
She finally decided on making a large pot of pasta. She had several jars left of Rebecca's homemade sauce. And it would go well with the red table wine she still had sitting on the wine rack. There was even a loaf of pre-made garlic bread in the freezer, waiting for such an opportunity. No one would mind if it was not homemade.
Just as she was pulling this out of the freezer, there was a knock on the door.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
Joan types a message
If anyone had been watching her, they would have seen Joan suddenly sit a little straighter with a perfectly erect spine, shoulders gracefully back in a posture of readiness, yet also like the straight back one would use while in a meditative state. Joan was not really a meditator, though she had been trying to be as of late. She wanted that glowing, awareness look that those who practiced the esoteric arts of New Age thought seem to generate. It was similar to the drug induced state and eyes that those at the Grateful Dead concerts ended up with after a few hits of acid. She had no general knowledge of this, but her father had told her all about it. Before becoming an environmental activist, he had been a photo journalist, even had a book on the followers of the Dead. He said he found their lifestyle too tempting (what with his new wife's traditional value set) and had decided to make a bigger change and dragged them both on the life altering course of saving the world's resources. He thought it would shake up Joan's mother, though she still clung to some of those traditional ideas like big weddings. Somethings would be an abomination if they changed.
Joan's finger glided across the keys, typing out an involved message. It was to no one in general, and yet to everyone. If it were for her father, he would be proud of the results of the rat-ta-tat of the keys. The words Joan were typing were old concepts, poetic in their ideas and reverberating a longing of soul trapped in the confines of the body.
The words followed smoothly, like a river on its natural course, following a natural course, bending here and there, stretching out before her with no end and no beginning. She typed with all the energy of the universe, not just her own, a consciousness other than any she had know. They came not from her heart, not from her mind, not even from her own spirit, but a deeper source. Had she been reading as she typed, Joan would have been baffled by the concepts her fingers created on paper or totally bored.
But it did not matter what she thought about these words. Had she wanted to, she would have been unable to stop them. They would have found an outlet one way or another. So there she sat, eyes closed, typing flawlessly, unaware.
Joan was not there.
Joan's finger glided across the keys, typing out an involved message. It was to no one in general, and yet to everyone. If it were for her father, he would be proud of the results of the rat-ta-tat of the keys. The words Joan were typing were old concepts, poetic in their ideas and reverberating a longing of soul trapped in the confines of the body.
The words followed smoothly, like a river on its natural course, following a natural course, bending here and there, stretching out before her with no end and no beginning. She typed with all the energy of the universe, not just her own, a consciousness other than any she had know. They came not from her heart, not from her mind, not even from her own spirit, but a deeper source. Had she been reading as she typed, Joan would have been baffled by the concepts her fingers created on paper or totally bored.
But it did not matter what she thought about these words. Had she wanted to, she would have been unable to stop them. They would have found an outlet one way or another. So there she sat, eyes closed, typing flawlessly, unaware.
Joan was not there.
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