The idea for this week's story is from a nightmare I had last week. I have a few nightmares a week, and I assume that's pretty common? Maybe? Well, anyway, here's one that stood out, hope you like it.
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Just don't look anyone in the face directly, they already hate us. We just need to survey the area and we can get out of here, said Eric.
Joe was less than willing to talk to the locals, let alone make eye contact. He knew this area only from the news, and knew it wasn't the best place to be visiting. But duty calls, and he had to get this job done before he could return back to the US.
Ok lets just get this over with, Joe muttered, quickening his pace. His beige duster whipped around in the wind like a cape. He stuck his hands in the big pockets, closing his right hand around his gun. He expertly turned the safety off and had it ready for action. Let's hope I don't need this, Joe thought, scrunching his forehead in the pale sunlight as he and Eric rounded the corner of the block.
This was a very poor town, it didn't even look like it had electricity. The streets were all made of mud, hard packed and seemed perpetually damp. The trees that did survive these hard winters were twisted and bare; not a single leaf was left on a branch. The little bit of snow that was on the ground was mushy and brown. Joe's boots would squish every time he took a step, coating them in grim and mud. The buildings were mostly make of brick, and all had at least two windows missing glass, as well as damage to the facades. They were sad and needed some rehabilitation, but the locals all went about their business without giving the buildings a single glance. Everyone wore shades of neutrals, and their clothing looked like it was from centuries ago. Children walked beside their parents, quiet and serious, like they were forever on time out. There were no cars, just bikes and small scooters. Every time Joe and Eric passed a building, the townspeople would stop talking and glare at them, watching as they passed.
Joe looked at his feet to avoid another glare, and realized his boot was untied. He was approaching a long bench and decided to stop there and tie it fast. The laces were muddy but he didn't want to risk tripping on it in the factory. As he straightened up he looked at an old man sitting at the other end of the bench, who unknown to Joe had been staring at him the whole time. Joe gave him a small smile and waved, and the old man moved his hand up as if to return the greeting, only to take his thumb across his throat in a slicing motion instead. Joe's face fell and he swallowed hard. He sped up to catch Eric.
The factory came into view finally for them, as they hustled towards the entrance. Terribly tall, it had a charred black exterior, the smoke stacks were void of any smoke. There was a group of weather worn men waiting outside, all bundled up in old factory jackets and pants. No one said hi or greeted them, but one opened the door and they all walked inside. Eric gave Joe a glance that seemed to say don't do anything stupid now. Don't worry, Joe wanted to say, these workers look like serial killers.
They twisted and turned down corridors and hallways, like they were trying to solve a maze. Finally they got to the main structure's space, which looked worse than the outside. Most of it was gutted out from an explosion, leaving partially crumbled chambers in it's absence. There was graffiti all over the place, all saying anti-American slurs and threats. The mud had pilled up in here, and the lighting was cloudy. There was a sad little tree growing out from one of the chambers that no longer had it's seal attached, the door flopped open and crooked. How the hell is that the only greenery in this place?, thought Joe.
Eric took out his glasses and started walking around the space. He had his notepad out and was already scratching down notes.
What are you doing? said the unofficial leader of the group in a thick Russian accent.
I'm just taking down notes so I can evaluate the factory and determine whether or not this can be repaired, said Eric, still looking around.
What do you mean? We must start work again, how will we afford to live? - Unofficial Leader
Well I can't tell you if that is going to be a possibility yet until I assess the damage. - Eric
Another worker suddenly broke from the group and hopped up onto a pile of rocks. F***ing Americans!!! He shouted in a similar Russian accent, so loud the place echoed the insult back and forth. All you do is push paperwork, you never work in factory! You have no idea how our town works and how we live! You have been taking advantage of us for too long. No more!!
The other workers started to cheer and picked up debris from the ground to throw at the walls. One worker picked up a pipe and charged at Eric. He looked to be about three times the size of an average man, with his jumpsuit ripping at the seams as he raised his arms.
STOP! Joe pulled his gun out and shot into the air. A flurry of dust fell from the ceiling, and the sound stung the air long after it was shot. The workers all stopped throwing things, but turned towards Joe with menacing faces.
Eric, you got what you need?, said Joe, pointing his gun at the unofficial leader.
Eric nodded and the two shuffled out of the main room. The sound of rebellion had resumed, chasing after them in the dark corridors.
How do we get out of here?, mumbled Joe, Eric close behind him.
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
Story // 7 In The Wings
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, so as not to be heard. The spotlight spilled brightly onto the stage, casting a velvet shadow on the curtains hiding the wings. He slowly rotated his neck, trying to calm his nerves. The exit sign flickered to his right, as if to remind him of his options. He looked at his ballet slippers, covered in chalk and ready for action.
I could just run out now, the understudy could take over my role...
No, he argued within his mind. What the hell would you tell your grandma? And your mother would never let it go, all this hard work for nothing...
He inhaled again, straightening his posture this time.
No, screw these nerves, I know this, I can do this, this is what I live for.
The solo was almost over, the music jingled to an end, and the stage went black.
He grinned, feeling new confidence and a surge of adrenalin.
Show time! Potabore...
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
Story // 6 Dye Job
She woke up with a jolt.
SHIT!
She got up fast from the couch, and grabbed her head, holding the towel that was still tightly wrapped around her hair. It felt cold and slightly damp. Her stomach was in knots and her heart was racing.
PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE BE OK!!
She slammed the bathroom door open, her cat sprung back from the sound like a cartoon. She cast off her towel in a flustered heap, and slowly turned towards the mirror.
There it was, her new hair, in all it's glory. Pink as a flamingo. She had left the dye in for hours, falling asleep by accident, and realized she hadn't really done a great job wiping up the drippings. Her forehead was smudged with pink dye, as well has her hands. Each crease and line on every finger was now outlined with hot pink. Her nails looked like stained glass. Everything, all of it was pink.
She grabbed the instructions again, double checking the words as if they could somehow fix her unfixable problem. The box was sitting calmly in the trash can, with big bold letters across the top: "LIGHTEST PALE PINK". It promised to tint blonde hair with a semi-permanent pink hue, and had a photo of a model with barely there pink colored hair. It promised it would be a quick job too, "20 minutes to cotton candy locks".
She read aloud to herself: "Leave in hair no longer than one hour, rinse out, and use the included conditioner afterwards. If hair doesn't look pink after rinse, wait four hours and use other half of dye".
Other half?? WHAT?
...
Thank you sir, she said to the waiter. He gave her a big smile while handing her the napkin.
You're very welcome miss.
She looked sheepishly at her boyfriend across the table, who was trying not to get caught looking at her hot pink hair. He held up his menu and cleared his throat,
You look great tonight honey.
She smiled, knowing he loved her with any hair color. She reached for the bread with her pink hands and giggled.
SHIT!
She got up fast from the couch, and grabbed her head, holding the towel that was still tightly wrapped around her hair. It felt cold and slightly damp. Her stomach was in knots and her heart was racing.
PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE BE OK!!
She slammed the bathroom door open, her cat sprung back from the sound like a cartoon. She cast off her towel in a flustered heap, and slowly turned towards the mirror.
There it was, her new hair, in all it's glory. Pink as a flamingo. She had left the dye in for hours, falling asleep by accident, and realized she hadn't really done a great job wiping up the drippings. Her forehead was smudged with pink dye, as well has her hands. Each crease and line on every finger was now outlined with hot pink. Her nails looked like stained glass. Everything, all of it was pink.
She grabbed the instructions again, double checking the words as if they could somehow fix her unfixable problem. The box was sitting calmly in the trash can, with big bold letters across the top: "LIGHTEST PALE PINK". It promised to tint blonde hair with a semi-permanent pink hue, and had a photo of a model with barely there pink colored hair. It promised it would be a quick job too, "20 minutes to cotton candy locks".
She read aloud to herself: "Leave in hair no longer than one hour, rinse out, and use the included conditioner afterwards. If hair doesn't look pink after rinse, wait four hours and use other half of dye".
Other half?? WHAT?
...
Thank you sir, she said to the waiter. He gave her a big smile while handing her the napkin.
You're very welcome miss.
She looked sheepishly at her boyfriend across the table, who was trying not to get caught looking at her hot pink hair. He held up his menu and cleared his throat,
You look great tonight honey.
She smiled, knowing he loved her with any hair color. She reached for the bread with her pink hands and giggled.
Wednesday, February 5, 2014
Story // 5 The Return
She stood at the corner of the field, watching the breeze slowly bend the spring flowers towards her face. They wanted her to jump in, so she obliged. She barreled into the neck high shoots of wild flowers that appeared as if over night. They come back for her every year. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, refreshed by their hint of perfume. Some were a deep purple, while others looked almost white.
The sun was low in the sky, the clouds pushing it down to the horizon in streaks. She took her plaid blanket and threw it on top of the flowers in front of her, watching as it bounced a little before it sank. She helped push it down, and lay down on her back.
She knew better than to pick them, wanting to keep them in a vase was futile. Without the crisp spring air they wither within hours, and droop in the most depressing way. It looks like a butterfly that's lost the will to live, delicately deceased.
She thought about all the springs she's had with these wild flowers, and how they always return to say hi, every year. Would they still grow if she never came back? Would anyone appreciate them like she did, or just mow them down like a weed.
The light was fading, and the wind was slowing down. Pretty soon she would hear the cows mosey by from the field next door. They would look towards her with a mixture of envy and judgement, wishing they had a field of wild flowers to romp around in too. But the flowers were smart. They new how pointless it was to waste all their energy growing in the cow's field, only to be eaten or stomped upon. They instead kept a safe distance from the barbed wire fence, ending sharply, leaving a path a foot wide.
She wished she could keep this feeling forever. This carefree, simple, feeling. She didn't want a single thing to change in that moment. But she knew what happens after the spring flowers. And she knew she would one day never see them again, at least not every year. Her throat swelled up, and her eyes started to sting with the beginnings of salty tears. No, she told herself, I won't ruin this moment by worrying about what happens next.
She pulled herself together. She closed her eyes. Remember this moment forever, she thought to herself. Remember every single detail....
She opened her eyes after awhile, and looked around. She was in her office, floor 47, corner view. The city was just starting to light up as dusk fell. She sighed, missing her flowers as the memory evaporated. She looked down at her notes and fabric swatches.
"Sarah," she said, calling to her receptionist. There is audible scrambling, then Sarah came into the office a little out of breath, with a note pad and pen in hand, poised to write down orders.
"Let's do watercolor shades of purple for the new line. I need Ondrea on the phone, and book a meeting with Kyle for tomorrow morning. Then I need to talk fabrics again with Erica, so set that up too."
Sarah left in rush, nodding her head continuously, still writing down everything.
She leaned back in her office chair, smiling slightly at her new idea. Then she got out her sketch pad and began to draw.
The sun was low in the sky, the clouds pushing it down to the horizon in streaks. She took her plaid blanket and threw it on top of the flowers in front of her, watching as it bounced a little before it sank. She helped push it down, and lay down on her back.
She knew better than to pick them, wanting to keep them in a vase was futile. Without the crisp spring air they wither within hours, and droop in the most depressing way. It looks like a butterfly that's lost the will to live, delicately deceased.
She thought about all the springs she's had with these wild flowers, and how they always return to say hi, every year. Would they still grow if she never came back? Would anyone appreciate them like she did, or just mow them down like a weed.
The light was fading, and the wind was slowing down. Pretty soon she would hear the cows mosey by from the field next door. They would look towards her with a mixture of envy and judgement, wishing they had a field of wild flowers to romp around in too. But the flowers were smart. They new how pointless it was to waste all their energy growing in the cow's field, only to be eaten or stomped upon. They instead kept a safe distance from the barbed wire fence, ending sharply, leaving a path a foot wide.
She wished she could keep this feeling forever. This carefree, simple, feeling. She didn't want a single thing to change in that moment. But she knew what happens after the spring flowers. And she knew she would one day never see them again, at least not every year. Her throat swelled up, and her eyes started to sting with the beginnings of salty tears. No, she told herself, I won't ruin this moment by worrying about what happens next.
She pulled herself together. She closed her eyes. Remember this moment forever, she thought to herself. Remember every single detail....
She opened her eyes after awhile, and looked around. She was in her office, floor 47, corner view. The city was just starting to light up as dusk fell. She sighed, missing her flowers as the memory evaporated. She looked down at her notes and fabric swatches.
"Sarah," she said, calling to her receptionist. There is audible scrambling, then Sarah came into the office a little out of breath, with a note pad and pen in hand, poised to write down orders.
"Let's do watercolor shades of purple for the new line. I need Ondrea on the phone, and book a meeting with Kyle for tomorrow morning. Then I need to talk fabrics again with Erica, so set that up too."
Sarah left in rush, nodding her head continuously, still writing down everything.
She leaned back in her office chair, smiling slightly at her new idea. Then she got out her sketch pad and began to draw.
photo via
Saturday, February 1, 2014
Story // 4 THE WALL
I can't believe I missed my first deadline, whoops! It's been a rough week but it's Saturday now so life is good. Also I'm including the last three stories in my 52 count, didn't want to leave those out in the cold. Hope you enjoy this one!
"Sorry it didn't seem this high before," said Lindsay, huffing below Ally. She stopped to catch her breath and look down. She squinted in the sun as it cast it's rays on the two ladies. The wall was warm but the wind had a bitter sting to it, as if Winter were mad Spring was moving in.
Ally touched the top of the wall and pulled herself up as if she was getting out of a pool. She saddled it and looked out into the landscape.
"What do you see? Is it like the books?" Lindsay said, cupping her hand around her mouth to help her voice travel. Ally didn't respond. Lindsay finally reached the top and wrapped her arms on the wall, wedging her toes into some conveniently located holes in the crumbling grout.
It was a wasteland, covered in weeds and trash. At first it looked as if there were only piles of trash but after looking closer the trash covered every inch of the ground, the weeds were growing up out of it. Some were thriving, others would soon wither as the day passed, not living to see another sunrise. The piles of trash were haphazard, being formed carelessly by the wind.
The fountain looked like it would fall apart if the breeze picked up just a little. There was garbage all around and inside it, the water was moldy and dark green. Plants were reaching into it as if getting food from the Sizzler buffet, knowing they would regret their choice of food a few hours later. There were two tiers to it, with the top one missing completely. The post of what it was remained, like a naked flag pole.
Then there was some rustling sound coming from the right of the field.
The fountain looked like it would fall apart if the breeze picked up just a little. There was garbage all around and inside it, the water was moldy and dark green. Plants were reaching into it as if getting food from the Sizzler buffet, knowing they would regret their choice of food a few hours later. There were two tiers to it, with the top one missing completely. The post of what it was remained, like a naked flag pole.
Then there was some rustling sound coming from the right of the field.
"What's that's?" Lindsay said, a little jumpy.
"Squirrels maybe?" replied Ally, not sure herself.
"Oh my God..." Lindsay held up her hand to her mouth. There was what looked like a very decayed head, biting at the trash closest to its mouth. Gender was impossible to decipher. One of the eyes was out of its socket, bouncing around the cheekbone. Then an arm started to show under a moldy cardboard box, slowly waving around as if it was trying not to sink. Were those even connected?
"This is gross," Lindsay said, slightly gagging. "I don't see a road anywhere either. I think it's buried".
"Well, now what?" asked Ally, giving her a slightly annoyed look.
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