Inspiration 2.0

[Cadaverous Pallor]

The time has come! Sound the horns, shout the rallying cry! The Open Mic shall live again!

Some of you may remember the inspiration thread (http://www.loungeoftomorrow.com/LoT/showthread.php?t=560) of bygone days. I think this community is showing signs of creative stirrings again, and so, I bring you Inspiration 2.0!

"Rules" are the same. I give you a phrase/thought/concept/word and you run with it, taking it in any direction you wish. Your offering can be as simple as a haiku or as complex as a short story. I'd also love to see other forms of art - music, drawing, sculpting, photography - surprise us!

There are no prizes or awards, though I'm sure good entries get lots of mojo ;)

Here is your first theme: Phoenix from the ashes.

Go! I'll be back later.

:snap::cool:

[Not Afraid]

The Incredibly Inappropriate Wedding Gift.

A woman, who was an Art History teacher, and her beau, an artist, were married in a festive and creative ceremony befitting the artistically-inclined couple.

After they returned from their honeymoon, they held a small gathering to share stories with friends and open their wedding gifts. The evening was a joyous occasion full of laughter and storytelling, memories of the wedding and delicious cocktails - which make the evening even more joyous. Present after present was opened and the gathering oohed and awed over the wonderful gifts. Amongst the packages was a present that, to the experienced eye, looked like a piece of framed artwork. Everyone was looking forward to the unveiling of this piece. Who was it from? Which artist had bestowed upon the happy couple a very special piece of art? No one could wait to see it.

Finially, it was time for the last package. The card was opened....OOOH it was from Bill! His work is WONDERFUL! Then, slowly, the wrapping paper was removed. The bride held the art in front of her but her look was one of confusion - almost disgust. The group all began chattering at once..."What is it?" and "Let us see!". Slowly the bride turned the painting around. It was a somewhat abstract painting but the subject matter was clear. It was a painting of a penis. The group sat silently for a moment until someone asked "What's the name of this piece". The bride answered quietly "Self Portrait: Pheonix Rising".

[wendybeth]

Lol- great job, NA! It starts out almost like a fable, then takes a bit of an O'Henry type turn. Might have to elaborate on this one, dear.:cheers:

[wendybeth]

Leave this one up for a bit- I have an idea, but I need a little time to work on it! :cheers:'s for re-starting this, CP!

[Gemini Cricket]

The Incredibly Inappropriate Wedding Gift.
Nice! :) :D :snap:

[Cadaverous Pallor]

She breathed stale air and considered her outdated view of what her life would be.

He was gone. The radio was silent. Light fell from one lamp, in one corner. The rest of the house didn't breathe without her breath, didn't exist without her touch.

Curled up into as small a ball as possible on the long couch, she clutched her own skin as if to ward off a chill. The token light slid off her arm. She stared into the void of her own house, as if a demon could crawl out of the shadows at any time and tear into her.

The thought bubbled to the surface: The bills were paid. He wrote the checks just a week and a half ago, sitting at the old-but-not-antique desk they'd bought for just that purpose. Right....there. Although alone, she almost felt compelled to point to the darkened wall where the desk sat. Pens and post-its and bill receipts lay on it's small surface, window dressing for a life not lived, background on a TV show.

The insurance would pay for everything. He had a great policy through the city. They're not kidding when they say the best jobs are with the government, she thought helplessly. She hadn't even known about the life insurance but it all came to light quickly after they found his bloodied car.

The bills were paid, she thought again. Today's and tomorrow's and the day after that's. The other driver had taken care of them by killing both himself and her husband in a grisly enough way that the insurance company had to pay out.

Guilt tried to rise, tried to infect…was it she that was trying to feel guilty? She went to work, he went to work. It was Tuesday; where else could they go? Who could say, “Don’t go, something will happen?” “Take the day off and let’s go to the beach.” “Honey, could you take a different route today?”

She hadn’t known. The guilt didn’t come.

What now? She silently asked the empty house. Now that the reason for so much space has been sucked out of the master bedroom, 2.5 baths and ample living room, now what? Could she scrub her expectations from the walls and start over? Could she bring another man in here and make love to him and bear his children? How much time and repainting and alcohol would that take?

She looked over her stillborn life and shook her head.

Whoever she was now, she wasn’t this person, wasn’t that person. She thought of signing the mortgage papers less than a year ago. She thought of her upward-moving job and the waiting game she’d been playing. She thought of how he’d loved to nibble on her jaw when they ****ed, and how she was sure she’d dump the pill in about 6 months.

She thought of hermit crabs and migratory birds and the proverbial Phoenix.



Phoenix, she thought. I’ve never been to Phoenix.

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Forgot to respond to this sooner.Leave this one up for a bit- No problem - I'm thinking two weeks is a good period of time.

[blueerica]

OK - I hadn't seen this thread until now - but while just in the shower moments ago I was thinking that this needed to be ressurected!

I FREAKING LOVE YOU, JEN!

I'll have something written shortly.

Damn...

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Love you too! Can't wait to see you posting in this thread :snap:

[Boss Radio]

You must spread some Mojo around before giving it to Cadaverous Pallor again.

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

F&*king A, CP. You just get better and better.

Much love and mojo to you!

[Cadaverous Pallor]

F&*king A, CP. You just get better and better.

Much love and mojo to you!Thanks....now where's everyone else's submissions? ;)

I swear, it always seems hard, but once I sit down and give myself a minute to think, it just flows...

[Motorboat Cruiser]

That was awesome, CP! :)

I would love to submit. If my brain starts thinking creatively again after the burnout of 3 gigs this weekend, I'll see what I can come up with.

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

Nobody who can stomach a visit will tell me what started the fire. Not knowing might be the only thing keeping me alive. Swabbed and bandaged, a woman made of wax. Melted and reshaped, I wonder if I’ve been altered on a molecular level.

My freckles. My moles. The scar I had on my shin from when I was ten and fell off my bike. Gone, gone, gone.

The first time I ever sat around a campfire, I was with my father and brother. My mother stayed home. She hates the great outdoors, high altitude, slopes and moguls, and the squirrels hustling around the porch, begging for nuts. My father, brother and I were a tribe of our own. We had matching sleeping bags and never minded eating beans out of a can. We fought bravely against our mortal enemy, the mosquito. Dad told us ghost stories but we still slept a thousand winks because he was there and so nothing could harm us.

Before bed we made Smores and I’d become entranced by the color of flame, its electric blue bottom and the pale yellow of its zenith. The fork of the flame enveloped the marshmallow and the marshmallow bent and sighed into the warmth. It melted and was made into something perfect.

What have I been made into? Stick a wick through me and sell me at the Yankee Doodle Candle Company. Set me on a trolley and roll me into Madame Troussads. Put be back into the fire until I’m melted down completely. Transform me back into the woman that I was. Give me back my nose. Replicate it exactly. Don’t forget the bump on right hand side; I inherited that from my grandfather. He’s dead now and that bump was better than having his photograph.

The nurses keep telling me I'm a very brave girl. I scream sometimes and other times I whimper. I pass out and have bad dreams. I wake up and they tell me again that I'm brave, but they are wrong. My survival was chance and curiosity is the only thing keeping me from swallowing my own tongue. Something started the fire. I doubt it was arson. Maybe I left the iron on again. Maybe my rusty gas stove is the culprit. Perhaps a neighbor left their cigarette burning, and this is the first time I wonder about the other tenants. Are there others here like me?

If so, complete the process already started. Melt us down and shape us into an army of plastic soldiers, a sentry for the gates.

Burn us down to ashes and watch how we'll arise.

[wendybeth]

Emily's Flight



“No, really- I’ll be just fine. Thank you so much for everything”.

Emily gently shut the door and leaned against it, sighing with relief. The long, dreaded day was finally over and she could enjoy a moments’ peace. That is, once she’d deposited whatever it was the neighbor had brought over in the garbage disposal and poured herself a stiff drink. She opened the corner of the Tupperware container and sniffed at the contents- whenever would Mildred realize that no one ate tuna casserole anymore? Did they ever? Still, she meant well; she always did. Poor Milly- she had cried longer and louder at the funeral than anyone, including Emily. She always did. Too bad her husband had left her; instead of the lonely death he’d suffered in that seedy little Vegas motel room, he’d have been feted away with rivers of tears and casserole. Milly had a dramatic streak, no doubt about it. She would probably never forgive him for dying out of her jurisdiction. Now, she haunted the ever increasing funerals of her friends, dispensing her usual platitudes and casseroles and finally making use of that little black dress in her closet.

Emily set the food on the counter and turned toward the pantry. Standing on tiptoes, she felt around the back of the top shelf- there it was! She carefully withdrew the bottle of Scotch from its hiding place and surveyed it’s contents. They looked to be sufficient. Turning, she opened another cupboard and from it she took a small juice glass. Smiling to herself, she wondered what would have bothered Warren more- the fact she was drinking, or that she was using a juice glass in such an inappropriate manner? She remembered a time when he wouldn’t have cared. She never had. No doubt this had been a source of great disappointment to him, but he was beyond caring now. “Poor Warren” she murmured, but it wasn’t the Warren of yesterday that she was thinking of….


“Buy you a drink?” the handsome boy had asked, and she declined. The next night, he’d asked again, and by weeks end he’d grown devastatingly handsome and she had no choice but to say yes. His looks were only outpaced by his intellect, which was curious, searching and insatiable. They read Fitzgerald and Hemingway, and spoke of expatriotism as though it were a virtue. Then, the war began, and before Emily knew it, she was married and her husband was somewhere in the European theater. She endured morning sickness while he cowered in foxholes. She grew a Victory garden and joined in the metal drives while he scrounged for petrol in the Bulge. She gave birth to a stillborn son while he recuperated in a London hospital. He returned home a virtual stranger.

Years passed, and their family grew. Warren became a partner in his law firm, and later a judge. They moved into the same suburban enclave that all their legal friends resided in, and their children played and grew up together. Warren became more conservative with the passing of every decade and when the Sixties hit he was blindsided by the social and political upheaval. He couldn’t understand the anger and the activism, but Emily did. She was a bit frightened by it, but she knew what drove it and had faith that this vibrant new generation would learn to channel that energy into something good. After her youngest went off to college Emily began volunteering at the local library. Warren retired and retreated to his office, where he finally died last Monday morning. Emily found him slumped over the newspaper, facedown in a puddle of coffee with a half-eaten piece of toast still in his hand.

She shook her head, trying to erase the image from her mind’s eye. Poor Warren. He was so angry and so frightened, but now he was beyond all that. Emily finished her drink and set the glass in the sink. Time to get busy. She walked about the house, lighting fragrant candles that had been strategically placed about, then went downstairs to where the water heater and main furnace was located. When she’d finished, she went back into the kitchen and grabbed her purse and small bag that she’d packed earlier in the day. Turning toward the door leading to the garage, she hesitated, then set one of her bags down and strolled over to the stove. Bending down, she gently blew out the pilot light, then slowly turned the knobs until she heard a soft, hissing sound. She straightened up, ran her hand over her hair, and then picked up her bag and headed for the garage. As she backed the car down the driveway Emily heard a small explosion and she smiled, a smile that grew along with the conflagration she watched in her mirror as she drove away into the Arizona night.

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

Emily's Flight

“No, really- I’ll be just fine. Thank you so much for everything”.



Write more! More, more, more!!! Wonderfully paced short story, lady.

"Now, she haunted the ever increasing funerals of her friends, dispensing her usual platitudes and casseroles and finally making use of that little black dress in her closet."

Loved all these little details. So, so great!

[Motorboat Cruiser]

Wow, Wendy and Eliza (and CP and NA, of course). Love all of your contributions ! :)

You all are really hard acts to follow. You all write so well. :)

At the risk of embarrasing myself, here is my meager attempt...

Adam sat at the patio bar, repeatedly rolling the burning cigarette between his fingers, waiting impatiently for his drink to be refilled. As he flicked the forsaken ash, his mind pondered the glass receptacle to which it fell, a simple ashtray that was in desperate need of being emptied, a collector of what once was. It was as if each cigarette of the evening represented one of his prior performances, one that had once burned brightly for a few moments, then quietly faded away into obscurity. And while the ashes piled up endlessly, Adam couldn’t help but reflect, anticipate, and try to reign in the feelings of anxiety that festered within.

In only a few moments, the lights of the patio would dim as he once again took center stage. Those in the audience would be expecting something inspired and exciting, something that moved them. Adam was fully aware, however, that there were always two potential outcomes once his hands touched the keyboard. His fingers would either glide gracefully over a sea of black and white, on a whitewater journey to undiscovered melodic territory, …or… just as likely, they would simply fall into a familiar trap; traveling a well-worn path of mediocrity. He was troubled that he had so little control of which way the performance might go. Mediocrity was always happily waiting in the wings when inspiration failed. And while his fans would more than likely be unable to spot any difference in his playing, it was his own internal integrity that was at stake.

As he stared at this glass ashtray in front of him, he wondered if the freedom to create demanded that these ashes of days gone by be discarded, as if by tossing away what once was, a new collection of fresh ideas would have the room necessary to materialize in their place. And yet, those ashes contained the very building blocks that he would need if he were to succeed this evening. They were his collective experience, his triumphs and his failures. They were what they were, and discarding them would be a futile gesture. Yet, in their present form, they represented a crutch, a safety net. Nothing good, or original for that matter, ever came from playing it safe.

The only hope was in the serenity of letting go, to recognize the ashes for what they once were, and yet, to realize that they would never be the same again, no matter how hard he tried. Rather than cling to the safety of pre-conceptions, the key was in simply allowing himself the permission to move ahead. Only then could a new chapter set forth, rising from these ashes like a phoenix. A bird, given the freedom to explore unknown territories far away from its humble beginnings, yet never losing sight of where it came from.

Tapping his shoulder, the waitress asked, “Can I get you a fresh ashtray?”

“That’s ok”, Adam replied as he stood and took the final swig of his drink.

“This one still has some life in it, I think.”

The waitress looked a bit puzzled but nodded anyway, as if she understood. It didn’t matter. What was important was that Adam understood. He made his way to the stage as the lights began to dim, looking forward to the journey ahead.

[tracilicious]

Seriously, this is why you type things in word first. At the last line of my post I dropped the mouse and the window closed. arrg.

[Motorboat Cruiser]

Seriously, this is why you type things in word first. At the last line of my post I dropped the mouse and the window closed. arrg.

Oh no! :( I've had similar experiences and they are so frustrating.

[tracilicious]

In the 5am light Lena couldn’t see the beer bottles and cigarette butts that littered her bedroom floor. She could barely see the face of the beautiful boy who lay on the bed next to where she was sitting. Carlos? Was that his name? She had been drawn to his angst and his beauty and the tattoo on his neck. A few hours ago she had licked his track marks while he f*cked her. In the drunk of night he had told her that he believes in castrating rapists and selective breeding. Now he just looked like a little boy with blue punk gunk in his hair.

Lena stood up slowly and braced herself against the wall while the blood returned to her head. She bent down and groped around for her thong and tank. She slipped them over her bony ass and flat chest. In the half-light before dawn she almost looked beautiful, in that car wreck sort of way. She stumbled out of the room and thudded down the stairs. She was careful not to look at the kitchen as she kicked clothes and pizza boxes out of her way. Grown ups don’t live like this, Lena muttered.

Someone she didn’t know was sleeping on top of her roommate on the couch, so she slid open the glass door slowly and crept into the dark. The rough gravel in the tiny condo yard poked into her soft pink feet. It was the realest thing Lena had felt in a long time. She maneuvered her way over to the old ladder on the side of the condo, climbed up to the roof and sat down.

A lone star shone in the fading dark. She stared at it as reminders of her wretched life crept up her spine and started shouting in her head. She stood up quickly and shook them off. Lena stretched her arms out wide, looked straight into the sky and started to spin. Her feet turned around each other slowly at first. Every other turn or so her toes would curl around the edge of the roof. She regained her balance and spun faster. Lena’s eyes closed as her hair whipped her cheeks. She took deep gulping breaths of the cold fresh air that eddied around her. She felt alive, and for Lena, that was unusual.

As Lena spun she pictured her nearly naked flesh covered in scars. Each scar began to molt away and fly into the dawn. Goodbye emotional instability. Goodbye self-loathing. Goodbye drugs and booze and caffeine and sugar and starving and vomiting and diet pills. Goodbye two guys a night.

Lena stopped. She waited two seconds for the dizziness to subside and the she cracked her eyelids. She was looking straight into the rising sun. It took her a bit to figure out what she was feeling. It was hope.

“Hope.” She said out loud.

“I am the goddamn motherf*cking phoenix reborn.” She said with a small degree of amazement.


“I AM THE PHOENIX REBORN!” Lena’s hoarse voice resounded into the newborn morning.


She grabbed a roof tile and chucked it at her pervert neighbor who was leaning out his window aiming his camera phone at her and catcalling. Lena quickly descended the ladder and went into the house to pack up her ****. She hoped that this time she could leave the ashes behind.

[Cadaverous Pallor]

I love all of these! It's been too damn long. I've mojoed you but I feel the need to do at least a little public recognition.

"A woman, who was an Art History teacher, and her beau, an artist, were married in a festive and creative ceremony befitting the artistically-inclined couple." I love the set up - totally digable. Just this one line evokes so much.

"A woman made of wax." I loved the squishiness of this....it kept slipping through my fingers, changing in front of me.

"Emily found him slumped over the newspaper, facedown in a puddle of coffee with a half-eaten piece of toast still in his hand." Wendy, you have no idea how easy it is for me to see this. A similar thing just happened to someone I know and the thought is so chilling, for such a possible scenario.

"Mediocrity was always happily waiting in the wings when inspiration failed." I'm such a sucker for art about art. The fears and stumbling blocks you write on are very close to my heart, and the analogy is spot on.

"Grown ups don’t live like this, Lena muttered." Lena is so instantly real, Traci, so immediate and true. The characterization here is stunning.

I could write for days about how great these are! :snap: I'm definitely waiting two weeks to change the topic, so we can see more submissions. Let's see what you've got!

[wendybeth]

This is really fun- I love short stories, and I really love seeing the different stories arise out of a central theme or idea.
MBC, you're full of ****, mister. What a fantastic story! :snap:

Traci, I believe I know that chick you wrote of, but she was offed by a serial killer a few years back. Sorry....* (Huge snaps on the story, though- punky and right up my alley!)

Eliza, I read your story right after I posted mine and immediately felt guilty, as though Emily had caused your person's difficulties. I assure you, she made certain the house was empty before torching it! Great read, ty!!:cheers:

CP, my initial idea was too similar to your wonderful story, so I changed it this morning. (Now I see all the typos and rough spots, but oh well....) Thanks for getting this going- great fun!

(*My sis-in-law was very much like Lena, but she wasn't able to rise above the dreck and was killed a few years back).

[Motorboat Cruiser]

MBC, you're full of ****, mister. What a fantastic story! :snap:



Thanks for the kind words. :) Still, I'm surprised that you are just now figuring out that I'm full of ****. :D

[LSPoorEeyorick]

Man, I cannot WAIT to read these. I am, however, still in the middle of mine and I don't want to check out everybody else's until I'm done-- probably later today. Know that I'm not ignoring everybody's creative output-- and that I'm so glad this thread is back on track!

[tracilicious]

I love all of these! It's been too damn long. I've mojoed you but I feel the need to do at least a little public recognition.


I feel that need also, but I'm way too lazy to do it right now. Let me just say though, that I LOVED every single one.

It occurred to me last night that this is the first fiction I've written since ninth grade. That would make it about ten years. I know my topic isn't nearly as creative as the others, but I had to dig pretty deep just to find the story I wrote. :p Kudos again, CP, for helping us find our creative voices. :coffee:

[Cadaverous Pallor]

It occurred to me last night that this is the first fiction I've written since ninth grade. That would make it about ten years. I know my topic isn't nearly as creative as the others, but I had to dig pretty deep just to find the story I wrote. :eek: Bullsht! No WAY you've been laying dormant for that long. Your story is definitely creative! Don't even think otherwise. The scenario you created was totally different from the others. And what execution!

I hereby forbid any negative thinking on your part - you don't deserve it, sweets.



I keep forgetting you're younger than me...:p

[blueerica]

It's funny, LSPE wrote that she didn't read the other stories because she was still writing her own... I read them all to propel me to do something... I've been in such a block. I hope I can get something out, if this mild hangover doesn't threaten to remove my brain.

[tracilicious]

:eek: Bullsht! No WAY you've been laying dormant for that long. Your story is definitely creative! Don't even think otherwise. The scenario you created was totally different from the others. And what execution!

I hereby forbid any negative thinking on your part - you don't deserve it, sweets.



I keep forgetting you're younger than me...:p


Lol, I couldn't believe it myself when I realized how long it had been. In fact, the only things I've written since high school have been either here or my LJ, so anything I've written in the last seven years, you've most likely read.

And thanks for the compliment. No negativity here, I'm impressed that I came up with anything at all, though I did feel that my character was a bit cliche. Whereas, I didn't feel that at all about any of you guys characters.

I'm not much younger am I? I'm 25. Aren't you 27?

[LSPoorEeyorick]

Meg's heart did not break when Angela left. It did not feel broken, exactly, like shards of her heart were slicing cleanly into the organs, the flesh surrounding it. At a cocktail party, when one of their mutual friends accidentally mentioned Angela in passing, the words did not plunge into Meg with ragged pain. They did not draw blood. They did nothing.

She imagined that if a heart was to break, it would need to be brittle in the first place. Cold, smooth, glass. Or it would have to be like bone china; a broken heart would have skeletal ash ground into the fabric of it, to steel a softer material with the powdered remains of what once was strong.

But bone china breaks like any other plate, if hit with enough force. If her heart head been made of such mettle, the jagged edges would already have torn into her ribcage, through her breasts, gashing the soft skin from the inside so the blood would sluice out and release her.

It hadn't. But then, when her heart had felt anything at all, it felt nothing like glass or china. It was not cold, or smooth. It was intangible. It was horrible. It was ablaze. Meg had felt more pain while she was with Angela than she ever had after she was gone.

There was that time they'd driven to the ocean. Meg had never seen it before--they were sophomores at Wesleyan--and Angela's family had once lived in a seaside village a four-hour pitch down the road. They weren't there anymore, but Angela remembered a cove that was difficult to reach.

"Come on, bunny," Angela had tempted. "A free, private beach for a daytrip getaway."

"It's just not practical. I have class early tomorrow, and you have to work tonight."

"Who needs practicality? I'll call in sick."

"You'll get fired again," Meg said.

"I won't," she huffed. "I told them yesterday I was feeling queasy."

"You are sneaky. But we don't have money for a trip."

"We have enough money for gas. You'll weasel some croissants and cheese from the cafeteria for lunch. I’ve got some cheap champagne I lifted from the Merchant of Vino." Angela always was light-fingered. And charming. Meg acquiesced.

They parked the car on a side street, and walked passed row upon row of airy pizza parlors, salt water taffy stands, and stores full of kitsch and flip-flops before they got to a steep, rocky hill. Lost in her own thoughts, Meg continued on for several yards before she realized the other girl had quietly darted over the stones. As she stumbled to catch up with Angela, she concentrated only on the cracks and crevices in her path.

It wasn't until she was well over the impasse that she looked up to see the profile of her lover, already barefoot and dancing along the edge of the shore, waves lapping at her feet. The sun was kissing Angela's shoulders just so, and at that moment Meg felt an aching in her chest. In her stomach. In her teeth. Meg yearned to be closer to Angela-- no, not closer. Touching was good enough. She wanted to be inside her. And not even in a sexual way, she knew, though surely she wanted that as well. But at that instant, she only wanted to curl up into a little ball inside of her. To meld with her. To be her, to have her. The fire she felt in her heart was exquisite, maddening.

Years later, Meg mused, it only made sense that she was left with nothing but ashes.

She stayed in one place. New crops of students sprouted every fall, ebbed predictably in the summers. She never needed to get to know any of the temporary residents of Middletown; in four years they’d probably be brave enough to move on. She hadn’t been.

Meg settled into a position as a grill cook in a shiny diner trailer not far from campus. She kept her head down, her thoughts stymied by constant influx of demands for crispier hash browns and more feta cheese. The cheerful banter of clientele was only white noise.

During her off-hours, she tuned in--tuned out, rather--to old television reruns in order to fill the cavity that had once been filled with ideas, or energy, or motivation. The wretched and repeated storylines hardly registered. Every thought was neutral. Shades of white, of eggshell, of taupe. What she ate, what she wore, what she wanted didn’t even register.

In later months, she felt strong enough to find solace in the movie theater, challenged slightly more by complex relationships and exploding boats.

And then, finally, she returned to books. Reading was an active pastime; she could not zombie her way through literature. Or poetry.

She sat slumped in a wicker chair she’d dragged to the woods behind the diner. She ran her fingertip along the edge of her most recent tome, a collection by Edna St. Vincent Millay, which sat heavily in her lap. She was in control of how the words moved, how they passed over her, how they crumbled into her soul. And she let them.

She is neither pink nor pale,
And she never will be all mine;
She learned her hands in a fairy-tale,
And her mouth on a valentine.
She has more hair than she needs;
In the sun `tis a woe to me!
And her voice is a string of colored beads,
Or steps leading into the sea.
She loves me all that she can,
And her ways to my ways resign;
But she was not made for any man,
And she never will be all mine.

And there it was again, against her will: that fire, that cursed aching need to see the sun glint off Angela’s hair as she danced on the shore. To run her fingertips across Angela’s stomach, to feel the gooseflesh raise and ripple her soft skin. To hear Angela’s breathing go quicker, shallower, as she lost herself in the throb of her clitoris. And Meg lost herself in the pulse of her own heart, rising like a phoenix from the ashes.

[Cadaverous Pallor]

I'm not much younger am I? I'm 25. Aren't you 27?Just turned 29 :)

Every thought was neutral. Shades of white, of eggshell, of taupe. What she ate, what she wore, what she wanted didn’t even register.Seriously nailed it, H.

[Motorboat Cruiser]

Wow, LSPE, that was just wonderful. :)

[blueerica]

She lay flat on her back wondering why sand always gets, well… you know… It’s not like John would notice if she pulled the bottom out a little to shake some of it out, then she wouldn’t have to pad back to the hotel or jump back into the cold water. She was so toasty-warm already… John snored lightly.

She stood up, tugged gently, and felt the right tie loosen. Sh*t! Who is that creep over there? Why does the beach feel crowded all of a sudden?

When I’m sad, she comes to me
With a thousand smiles, she gives to me free

Running through the front door, the smell of eggs, mayonnaise and mustard slaps her across the face. But it’s a gentle slap. Maybe pickles? MMmm…. She could smell the barbeque sauce, too. Mom gives a sideways glance at the dirty little girl running through the living room into the kitchen. I just vacuumed...

Ay candela, candela, candela, me quemo aé!

Her hips swayed with his to the beat, tapping their entire bodies to the congo drums, the bongo beat. Dark room, shoulders brushing, shoulders back, chest out, chin up, back and forth and forth and back. One-Two-Three-Four. Ruffles and sweat, roses, candles…

¡Y ahora si quieren bailar, búsquense
otro timbalero!

Little One coos against her chest, full from the Gerber Peas and Carrots… Laughter. Smiles. Bright blue eyes, just like John’s. Glad she got that pretty ocean blue from him. Good thing she’s got mama's nose. Maybe she’ll be a teacher, a singer, a doctor? Wow, maybe. She could be President. Or a janitor.


Work It Harder Make It Better
Do It Faster, Makes Us stronger
More Than Ever Hour After
Our Work Is Never Over

Tum-tum-tum-tum-tum-tum…
Feet pounding to the rhythm in her headphones.
Tum-tum-tum-tum-tum-tum…
Past the corner store…
Tum-tum-tum-tum-tum-tum…
Keep going… Breathing hard…
Tum-tum-tum-tum-tum-tum…
God, why do I feel so panicky?
Tum-tum-tum-tum-tum-tum…
Cross the street to the park…
Pick up the pace… faster… faster…
Tum-tum-tum-tum-tum-tum…
Who’s behind me?
Tum-tum-tum-tum-tum-tum…
Smacked in the face with a stray branch…
Faster…
Tum-tum-tum-tum-tum-tum…
What! Where am I? This…
Where am I going?…
Tum-tum-tum-tum-tum-tum…

With all your power
What would you do?

Startled by the alarm, I straightened up and slammed the palm of my hand across the snooze button. One eye open, it’s 7:45… Maybe I can get another 10 minutes… Yeah… Why does this apartment have to always smell like cigarettes?

[blueerica]

Yeah, H pretty much astounded me.

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Erica - didn't see it coming. What a great way to show off your grasp of the moment. :snap:

[blueerica]

Haha, I keep reading it over and over - and I can't help but wonder if anyone knows why I wrote it this way. It barely makes sense to me... /shrug ;)

[wendybeth]

Man, I am just so impressed with these stories- seriously impressed.

LS- I loved everything about your story. I agree with CP and Erica wholeheartedly- you nailed it down.:cool:

Erica- I loved the layers of your story. I don't know how to articulate it, except to describe it as layered, and each part (excepting the spanish, which I suck at) I could identify with. I know something has struck home when I can personalize it, and yours struck home.:snap:I'll think of it tomorrow when I hit the snooze button.......

CP- really, you rock for starting this!:cheers:

[LSPoorEeyorick]

...I can't help but wonder if anyone knows why I wrote it this way. It barely makes sense to me... /shrug ;)

I just said it to you, but I'll say it out here, too. I really don't think that something has to be obvious or resolved for it to resonate with an audience.

Everyone's pieces are really terrific, all very evocative. This thread always fascinated me in the way it always reveals how different points of view can run with a small idea. (And how it reveals just how many excellent writers we have among us. Good work, all!)

More people should contribute, too! I know Tom is hoping to get a piece up before this one closes. Is there an ETA for closing?

By the way, CP, are you looking for future theme ideas? I have one... :D

[wendybeth]

LS is absolutely right- I like having to think about something, and I only want to think about something if it hits home with me. I don't care to be spoon-fed the story anymore than I want to have someone else tell me how I should feel about a work of art. If I want that, I can read some of those stupid Nora Roberts books one of my clients insists on bringing me......


(MY client is an absolute sweetheart, but I don't have the courage to tell her I don't like that crap, so I just smile and hope she doesn't ask for a book report).

[tracilicious]

Sometimes when I'm reading, I feel as though I have a phoenix sitting in my lap. I feel my fingertips singe as I open the cover, the first sparks of his pyre already igniting. The fire burns slowly at points, barely a crackle. Other times it burns so bright and hot that my eyes can only focus on the blue bright flame. Feathers of words burn off and flitter around me as I fly and bounce over the text.

The more I read the more the fire blazes the nakeder my regal bird gets. Until finally, I'm staring at the last sentence and my phoenix is sitting vulnerable in the ashes of the dust jacket. We stare at each other for a while, then we look away for a while, then he flutters back to his shelf while I stare at traffic and try to digest what just happened between us.

I shoot him lingering glances as I pass by, trying to discern if we're ready for another go. Sometimes his plumage is bright and beautiful again right away and we dive right back in. Other times he needs a month or more to recover, so I pass the time with travel literature and organic cookbooks, waiting for him to call. Then there are the times when I've gotten a bit too close to the fire, so I ignore his phoenix song, unable to bear the pain of the heat again so soon.

Eventually though, I unfailingly approach him and extend my arm for him to perch on and we sit down again together, ready to burn and be left naked once again.

[Bornieo: Fully Loaded]

Somewhat of a work in progress...

Title: Ge=

It was the happiest little red dot that ever lived and it was named Ge. It was formed not more than 20 seconds ago in the brain of the one it-which it was born and lived. Its journey was swift and quick as it skipped across the nerves, of the one in-which it was born and lived. Happy and joyous it sang as it passed blood, dna, snot, earwax, vocal patterns and the tiny molecules that live within the one in-which it was born. It skipped, danced, bopped, hopped, jigged, waltzed, twirled, shooked, leaped, tapped, boogied, grooved, swayed, and generally was having a real swanky time. It rolled, walked, bounced and ran with the joy of 100 volts of pure delight as it moved towards the heart of the one in-which it was born and lived. At the door of the heart of the one in-which it was born and lived, Ge found a line up of about 30 other similar red dots, all doing various things like reading a newspaper, there was one playing poker with another red dot. Moving down the line it came across a red dot that was lying on the floor. It was holding a pistol and had a distinctive hole in the center of it’s head. Next to it was a darker red dot who spoke in a slow as molasses vocal pattern saying that Ge should “not worry, it was bored.” Confused Ge moved down the line and saw that the other red dots had become darker and darker and the surface of the bubble, which its was smooth shinny and vivid, became wrinkled and dusty. By the time Ge got to the front of the line up, it couldn no longer see its reflection in the dull, beat up, aged very first red dot.

Ge asked “What are you doing standing here?”

“We are waiting to get into the heart of the one in-which I was born and lived!” said slothfully the dull dark red dot.

“Oh?” asked Ge “How odd, I just came down as I was created no more than 30 seconds ago in the brain of the one in-which I was born and lived. Can I get in?”

“Be my guest,” said the old dot “if you can get in, you’re better than I.”

Ge walked up to the large steel door that was dark gray and was covered with rivets, chains and a huge “Master” brand lock with one of those combination dials in-which the numbers were all 7’s. Gently Ge knocked. BANG! The noise echoed and everyone still awake in the line up grabbed their ears in pain.

“Knock it off asshole” said one.

Not giving up, Ge moved closer to the door to listen if there was anything on the other side. “Bu-bump, bu-bump” And it went on and on. Not loud, but enough to know it was there.

“What must I do?” asked Ge blankly.

“Go back to end of the line ya jerk!” came a voice.

“Must I? Ge questioned. “I am here to get in. I came from above and I was born no more than 35 seconds ago in the brain of the one in-which I was born and lived! I need to make my way into the heart!.

“Shut the hell up!” Came the voice again, and from that voice came an appendage that grabbed hold of Ge and forced it to the back of the line. “Can’t you read the sign!?!”

Ge looked up and in gigantic neon green letters it read “Closed”

“What does that mean?”

“It means the heart is closed off. There’s no way in you stupid bastard. We’ve been waiting here for years tryin’ to get in, but the one in-which we were born and lived has sealed it off from us.” Gripped a similarly red dot that was frowning and standing firmly in front of Ge. “Get used to it, non of us are getin’ in.”

“But I’m bringing everything with me! I have it all! All for the one in-which I was born and lived. How can I be refused!” Again Ge questioned.

Ge marched back to door more determined than ever. It waited silently for another 10 seconds. “Hear me heart of the one in-which I was born and live! I come bringing things for you. I bring you everything you desire! The past, the present and the future! It is everything! Open up, let me in and you can feast on the eternal in-which I bring. Hear me!”

Ge waited.

Ge remained.

Ge was.

483 seconds after leaving the brain of the one in-which it was born and lived, Ge entered. The flash of light was blinding beyond all. The sound was thunderous beyond all. The force was powerful beyond all.

“What happened?” asked the old faded Red dot.

“That my brother ... was the one.”

[Motorboat Cruiser]

This thread continues to amaze me.

Erica, Borneo, and Traci, I loved each of your recent contributions. You all rock. :snap:

[Cadaverous Pallor]

More people should contribute, too! I know Tom is hoping to get a piece up before this one closes. Is there an ETA for closing?

By the way, CP, are you looking for future theme ideas? I have one... :D
I said two weeks from the OP, which makes it the 24th. Not hard and fast, of course.

I don't need to be the only idea person. When the topic runs out of steam you can post your idea, no problem. :)

[€uroMeinke]

Good - I have some time then...

[Boss Radio]

I have enjoyed all of your contributions immensely. This is a most talented aggregate of writers, and a most excellent thread.

[Cadaverous Pallor]

I think the Boss needs to post something!

And where the hell is Capt Jack?

[Capt Jack]

an explosion of flame erupts in a relentless night
a thousand sparks fly away on the night breeze
like a fleet of ships setting sail for parts unknown
dancing about the night sky until their energies wane
leaving a spent and decaying remnant
of what once burned so bright and hot
as to deny the touch of mortal man

sent speeding to their yet unrevealed destiny
carried aloft by an uncaring and unknowing draft
their source left behind as a brightly burning memory
still lighting their way
not showing the fate that awaits

dark and cold now floating alone
all energy spent
no light beckons
no warmth comforts
no phoenix shall arise from these ashes

[Ponine]

Megan snuggled into her pillow a bit deeper, one arm supporting the pillow, the other curled up under her chin. She briefly opened her eyes; saw the moonlight playing shadows about the room, while the cool night breeze embraced her bare leg.

“Why am I awake? What happened to the covers, and what time is it anyway?” Knowing better than to move more than a muscle she turned her eyes to the clock. 3:18 am. “Why am I awake?” she wondered again.

Megan listened to the sounds of the house; no cat was purring, no sounds of children, no wildlife sounds from the outside. Odd. She was never an early riser; something must have awakened her. Maybe it was an earthquake. She stretched her legs out gently, coming back into the fetal position she tended to favor at night. That’s when she felt it. That’s the reason she was awake.

He had woken her up. Rhythmically his hand went from her hip to her breast, and back, over and over again. Dammit. That stretch had cost her, he thought she was awake. “Now what?” A common enough question, one she in fact asked herself quite often. She’d tried to lie as still as she could, maybe in fact lull herself back to sleep. Just maybe, he’d think she stretched in her sleep.

She already knew how many knots were in the wood of the closet door, how many hangars were on her side of the closet, as well as how many of those hangars were plastic. There were thirty-two pleats in the lamp at her bedside, and if you looked at it just right, the teddy bear she’d had since college looked as if he were carrying a torch of flames.

She closed her eyes, slowed her breathing and prayed for sleep. “This cant be all there is. There has to be a day that isn’t met with silence and day dreams of other times and places they may never come.” Megan tried to convince herself that all she had to do was get herself back to sleep, to be anywhere but where she was.

It wasn’t going to work, not tonight. She felt him push up against her, grab onto her hip, and make sure she wasn’t going to move as he pressed into her back. “3:20 am, what a time to start the day”, was about all she could think.
He hadn’t spoken a word, nor would he in all likelihood, that just wasn’t his style. He’d never know if she was awake, but he’d assume she was, and that’s all that would matter.

“There’s an open coke on my desk at work. I could really stand to clean out that basket in the closet. I wonder what’s in it. There’s that box of fabric downstairs that I haven’t touched in five years, maybe I should donate it.” Her mind kept working through the problems of the day, of the week, and a great many things that weren’t problems at all. Anything to keep her mind somewhere else entirely.

As continued to press rhythmically against her back, Megan continued to drift further and further away. It was 3:30 now, at least the numbers on the clock were moving, even if time it self were standing still. It was only a matter of time and he’d have done what he needed to, then roll away and fall asleep.
What would it be like she wondered, to hear someone’s voice in your ear at those moments? What is it like to really know that smile is for you, and not just for show? What is it like to be who you are, and not hide away in your personal cave inside?

“I want to start over. I want to burn this life, and walk out of the flames unscathed and start again. Can I do that? Or would I show the scars of the fire? How does that bird do it? Isn’t there an oriental bird that rises from ashes? God, why can’t I remember that?”

Megan’s memory searched and searched for that answer, looking in places in her mind she hadn’t opened in years. Places she wouldn’t look again. She was turned over onto her back, one of his forearms crossed her windpipe and pressed down, the other arm held her hands above her head. By her calculation that meant two more minutes. She started counting…1…2….3….4…5…6…………………………………221…222……
He stopped. Placed his head on her stomach, rolled over and in moments, started to snore.

3:45. “Phoenix” she said aloud. The first word uttered in twenty seven minutes. “It’s a god damn Phoenix.”

[Motorboat Cruiser]

Two more excellent posts.

A few more pages like this and we might as well publish it. :)

[wendybeth]

Great writing, Bornieo, Captain Jack and Ponine! :cheers::snap::cheers::snap:

[€uroMeinke]

It wasn’t a week past Rey’s birthday when she told him she was in love with someone else. Of course it didn’t surprise him, things had been strange for awhile and now it all made sense, the longer hours at the office, the delays and excuses about picking up groceries on the way home. She probably strained to find the right moment to make this confession, and now with his birthday over, the last occasion had passed and she was left with no more excuses.
“It’s not that I don’t love you anymore it’s just that…”
“…you’ve fallen in love with someone else”
“Well, yes – I have. It’s not like I wanted it to happen. It just did.”
“But what about us?”
“Hun, I don’t know – but it can’t stay the same.”
“Well, you don’t have to act on it, you say you still love me, we can get counseling or something?”
“It’s too late for that.”
“Too Late? How can it be too late, you just told me – besides, what about Jacks wife?”
“He left her last week – Honestly we never wanted to hurt either of you – but, I have to look after myself now – and you need to do the same.”
“Were you suffering so much with me? You seemed pretty happy up until now”
“I was, but I was missing something – something I didn’t even realize wasn’t there until I met Jack. He makes me feel alive. Do you really want me here with you out of duty? I can’t do that to you.”

She left that night. Rey was surprised he never noticed that most of her clothes had already been packed and taken away, not that he ever spent much time in her closets. Later he bought himself a large bottle of bourbon and proceeded to finish it off. He was not ready to cry, or rage, rather he sat out in a patio puffing on a cigar left over from somebody’s bachelor party. He hated smoking, but took long deep puffs on this stale cigar, rinsing his mouth with more whiskey as he just asked himself why.

Weeks past, with days and nights spent in identical despair. The trash he took out was mostly empty liquor bottles and fast food wrappers. A month later after another late night of lonely drinking. He had a dream.

Rey dreamt he was being attacked by crows in some sort of cross between Alfred Hitchcock’s the Birds and Prometheus. Each crow would peck off a little bite of his flesh, an act more annoying than painful. He fought them off at first, and then just resigned himself to his eventual devouring.

It was then one of the crows stopped and sat next to him, cocked its head and looked him in the eye. The crow spoke, “You know, it doesn’t have to be this way.”
“What do you care, you and your friends will soon have me picked to the bone.”
“Me and my friends? – May I remind you that this is your dream.”
“Well then stop already – You’ve made your point.

Suddenly the other crows stopped their pecking and took flight vanishing into the peripheral fog of the dream.

“Who the heck are you anyway?”
The Crow let out a sigh that bristled his feathers for an instant
“You know, you only took a couple psychology classes in college and that puts us both at a disadvantage. So let me put it to you this way, in a sense I’m you – or rather your crow-like nature that perpetually picks away at your flesh leaving you a well-cleaned skeleton”
“Does this mean I’m schizophrenic?”
“Look, let me try again – your wife isn’t the only one who’s grown bored with you, you bore me too – that is to say, you bore yourself – and honestly, we the inhabitants of your subconscious are kind of tired wallowing around in your self pity – But heck, this is your life, your dream, so if you want to be chased by a murder of crows who eat out your liver every night, well that’s fine too. But admit it you’re done here aren’t you?”

[€uroMeinke]

The Alarm rang at 6:00 AM. Three hours of sleep. He thought, “She could wait till after my birthday but she couldn’t tell be before then. Am I really that boring, that unapproachable?” He lay in bed fully awake waiting for the snooze to go off. When it did, he called in sick to the office, turned off the alarm and went back to bed. That is until the tapping began. A quick rapping at the bedroom window followed by silence, and then it picked up again.

“Who is it?” He finally yelled tossing a pillow against the drapes. The tapping continued, until he threw open the drapes to see who could be so annoying so early in the morning. No one was there. But at the bottom corner of the window, a crow was tapping his beak against the glass.

“Good Lord! It’s bad enough I have dreams about these flying vermin, now they’re visiting me in real life!”

Squawking through the window, the crow replied,” Remember, I’m just another part of you, so you’re really just insulting yourself.”
“Hey, I’m awake now – you’re no longer a part of my dream.”
“You do have a point there – none-the-less, I ask you to think first about what you say before you say it. You never know who you might be insulting.”
“Crows don’t talk”
“Actually, certain members of our species are equipped to speak, so this isn’t really all that outlandish – but honestly you’re getting dull again, what say we go out and have some breakfast?”
“Breakfast? And where do you suggest we go? Denny’s?”
“If you’d like, I fancy the park myself, a little picnic might be nice, get you some fresh air – you look awful you know.”
“I wasn’t expecting company – my wife left me last month you know”
“Yeah, yeah, I was there – best thing that could have happened to you”
“Damn you’re a callous bird.”
“Look, bub – I don’t recall you shedding any tears. Remember I’ve been flying around in that brain of yours, so save your self pity for some other fool stranger. C’mon let’s go get your life in order”.

Within two hours they were both at the park. Rey had picked up a breakfast sandwich and a cup of coffee at the local mini-mart
“Hey, can I have a piece of your bacon?”
“You’re a crow, shouldn’t you be pulling out worms somewhere? – No wait a minute you’re a figment of my imagination, you shouldn’t need to eat a thing.”
“I could start picking at your flesh again…”
“All right here,” Rey pulled a piece of bacon out of his sandwich and handed it to the crow who greedily downed it in one labored but satisfied swallow.”
“Thanks man, sure beats the dream stuff” The crow continued, “So here’s the deal, your 37 years old.”
“38, I just turned 38”
“Yeah - right - whatever, you’re still on the good side of 40, no kids – so you don’t have that baggage, and your wife left you so you’re totally sympathetic – as long as we can spruce you up anyway, I mean we can clean you up all right – but we’re going to have to make you a bit more interesting. No more of this boring stuff.”
“I think it’s called stability.”
“yeah whatever – it’s totally dullsville and perfectly fine for Mrs. Hapshack in Peoria who’s balling the mailman while your at work. It’s time for you to become that mailman. Are you a man, or just a steady income?”
“Okay, I understand where you’re coming from, but don’t you think that maybe I like the stability myself, that maybe I want someone who’s just happy to see me when I come home, spend time with me, hang out together?”
“Jeez, get yourself a dog then – look, you haven’t much time, you’re les than two years from 40. Your hairs already thinning and that paunch isn’t getting any smaller. You must take advantage of this time to finally live the life you’ve always wanted – you’ll have plenty of opportunity to resume that boring life of yours when you get older.”

“If I’m going to find someone, I want someone who’s going to stay with me till old age. Someone who will love me for who I am, not what I look like.”
“Bub, listen to me – I’m not talking love here, I just want to get you laid right now.”
“well what the hell is that supposed to do for me?”
“Far more than wanking off to the internet, I assure you – you need some human contact other than your own”
“Then why did you have to come to me as a crow? Why couldn’t my subconscious manifest itself as some beautiful woman”
“Bub, that’s a question you’ll have to ask a qualified therapist – for those classes you took in college you got me, and you should be damn well grateful for that. You could have just as soon gone to work not wearing any pants. You’ve had enough of those dreams after all. What do you think Elizabeth would say to that?”
“Elizabeth?”
“Yeah Elizabeth, that gal in the front office? The hot Latin number? C’mon don’t be coy with me, you’ve wanted to do her since you laid eyes on her. She’s been loosing weight and dressing sharp for the past 3 months now. And - That gold band been missing From her finger too.”
“She’s divorced?”
“See your subconscious picks up on these things even if you still prefer to dense up there. But I’m glad we got your attention now, because now we can talk about how you’re gonna ask her out”
“Ask her out? I’m still married, for all I know this mess will all blow over in another month or so and June will come back to me. It hasn’t even been 4 weeks since she left.”
“Strike while the iron is hot, I say. Even if she does come back, you’ll at least have some indiscretion to match hers. Bub – stop being a putz will you?”

[€uroMeinke]

After further discussions with the crow, Rey decided he would actually try to talk to Elizabeth, the hot Latin number at work. After all, what could he loose? Or so he kept telling himself, all the while he was terrified that he would say something stupid or inappropriate. She would in turn file some sort of sexual harassment lawsuit. He was certain to not only loose his job, but would become unemployable. Rey, started wondering about what other country he might move to where no one knew him – what would June say then? Of course, this went on for days.

“Bub – What’s your problem – just talk to her!” The crow called through Rey’s sliding glass door. Rey, pulled down the blinds and the crow started to peck more violently against the glass, “You know, you’re only gonna see me as soon as you fall asleep.”

Rey put on a pot of coffee and turned up the volume on the stereo.
“You’re in denial Bub, you’re gonna have to face this sooner or later.”

The next morning, Rey found himself opposite Elizabeth in line to get coffee. She smiled at him and said, “Good Morning.”
Flustered and blushing, Rey responded, “Uh, Hi, uh how are you doing this morning?”
“Tired as usual, I just can’t get enough sleep these days, my cat’s been driving me crazy. It’s like he sleeps all day just so he can keep me up at night.”
“I know the feeling”
“Do you have a cat?”
“No, no cat – it’s just …I’ve had a lot on my mind”
“Ah, I’ve been there,” she smiled, “We’ll, I’ve got to get back to my desk, hope things get better for you.”

Rey remained dumbfounded as he admired Elizabeth’s form slowly disappearing down the hallway. “God she has great legs,” he thought.

“Idiot!”
The crow was quite livid when Rey came home that night, calling him every insult he had ever heard before and some he was sure were new.

“You had a perfect opportunity to ask her out, or at least to get a bite somewhere! No wonder your wife left you – could you get a clue?”

Rey ignored the crow as best he could but even as he slept, he dreamt the crow now giant-sized snatched him up off the street and dropped him down a steep sea cliff. As horrible as the dream was, he found himself wondering if when he awoke, the real-life crow would be larger too. The next morning there was no sign of the crow – his home was strangely silent.

[€uroMeinke]

Rey arrived at work the same time as Elizabeth.
“Hey, you wanna grab some coffee”
“Sure, let me just drop my stuff off”
“Cat let you sleep last night?”
“Almost, but he got me up early going crazy over this crow in my back yard. Honestly, it was like he was there just teasing him. Charlie’s a sweet cat, as docile as can be, but man he really wanted to get this bird.”
Rey blushed, “uh – Crow? – Hmmm, that is unusual. Uh, was the crow…um…making any noises?”
“He was just cawing relentlessly – I just gave up and thought I’d come in to work early”
“Wow that is odd.”
Rey, felt a chill, “What the Hell is that bird doing now.” He thought as they made their way to the cafeteria.
“So how did you sleep? Any crows bothering you this morning?”
Rey laughed nervously, “No, none of that – I actually slept quite well last night.”
“Not thinking so much?”
“You might say that, maybe I’m just moving into acceptance”
“Accepting what?”
Rey took a deep breath wondering how much of anything he should say, and resolved as he exhaled to be honest.”
“My wife left me last month. It took me completely by surprise, or so I thought. If I think about it all the signs were there – I guess I just didn’t want to see them.”
“I know what that’s like. I just got divorced myself. I didn’t want to believe that he would actually sleep around on me. But what really pissed me off is that he just seemed to think I should overlook it, like it was no big deal. Easy for him to say. After the divorce was final he kept calling me to see if we could get back together. Guess his other girlfriends didn’t like the idea of having him around all the time either. By then I was done.”
“So you’re not seeing him, or anyone?”
“No, not him, I’ve been on a few dates, friends of friends kind of things, but nothing serious. How about you?”
“No, nobody – still getting use to being on my own.”
“That’s probably a good thing – nobody can make you happy except yourself.”

They talked a little more before going back to their desks. Rey felt great. He actually talked to Elizabeth, and she really seemed to like him. He wondered why it took him so long just to talk to her. Now he had something to tell that crow.

He ran into Elizabeth again in the parking lot when he left that night. She was standing next to her car with a perplexed look on her face.
“What happened?” he called to her
“I don’t now,” she replied, exasperated by her situation, “I’ve got a flat, but it looks like someone slashed my tire or something”
Sure enough, the tire looked like it had been gouged. Pieces of rubber lay on the ground as if torn out bit by bit from the tire itself – or maybe pecked out by some annoying bird. Rey, began to panic.
“How awful,” he exclaimed, “Who would do such a thing”
“my ex might have a couple months ago, but this was probably some kids out for some kicks.”
Rey nodded in agreement while he caught sight of a crow perched on the top of one of the trees surrounding the parking lot. The crow winked at him, when we caught his glance. “Bastard’ he muttered under his breath.
“Cretins,” she answered having heard him.
“Well, can I offer you a ride?”
“Could you? That would be great, I just don’t have time to deal with this right now, I have to take Charlie to the vet before they close.”
“I’d be happy to take both of you to where ever you have to go.”
“Thanks, you’re a sweetheart”
Rey, both grinned and blushed and then quickly glance back to the tree only to see the branch was now empty.

[€uroMeinke]

Elizabeth lived close to work so they got to her place in no time. Elizabeth excused herself to change and grab the cat carrier. Her cat, Charlie jumped into Rey’s lap as soon as he took a seat and started to purr loudly.”
“he’s a friendly guy,” Rey called.
Charlie rolled onto his side, looked him in the eye and said, “The bird’s got to go”

Now by this time Rey was used to having the Crow talk to him, but Elizabeth’s cat was a different story. He practically jumped off his seat when Charlie spoke up.
“Not you too?”
“Sorry, but I don’t want to waste any time”
“What do you mean?”
“The bird – you need to get rid of it”
“But, I can’t – or I don’t think I can – see he’s part of me, my subconscious…Hey, you must be me too, another manifestation of my subconscious”
“Elizabeth just calls me Charlie”
“Do you talk to her, are you part of her subconscious?”
“No, I’m her cat. She takes good care of me, feeds me all the ocean fish I want and takes me regularly to the vet to make sure I’m healthy”
“Then why are you talking to me?”
“I don’t know, I could be your totem, your familiar, or maybe you’re just delusional. I really don’t have time to discuss metaphysics at the moment. Right now it’s about the Bird. You don’t need him any more. Elizabeth likes you, and he’s likely to just make you do something stupid. So, loose the bird, okay?”
“How?”
“Tell it to go away?”
Just then he spotted the crow in Elizabeth’s patio. He was strutting around on the outside table. Rey moved Charlie off his lap and opened the door to the backyard. In a hushed voice he demanded, “Just what the Hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Bub – you’d be no where without me. Who do you think arranged your meeting this morning? Who do think made sure you now here in her house? Without me, you’d be home emptying another bottle of bourbon.”
“That maybe so, but your done now, I don’t need your help, which frankly is now bordering on being creepy”
“Don’t blow it now bub – you drove her home – she owes you now and I’m not going to let you leave this place before she pays up.”

Before another word passed between them, Charlie sprang from behind the door and with a well placed blow with his paw, sent the crow stunned to the ground. Time stood still as Charlie bit into the crow and threw him backwards into the air, his one wing bent into an unnatural position. Charlie pounced again, this time biting into the crows neck, shaking him vigorously until the frantic flapping slowed and turned into the limp ragdoll flopping of death. Charlie dropped the crow at Rey’s feet. Black feathers still floated about the backyard.
“Charlie! No!, Elizabeth called as she stepped out into the backyard. By then Charlie was rubbing up against Rey’s leg once again purring loudly.
“You shouldn’t have”
“I’m sure the crow deserved it,” Rey responded in a resigned tone.
“Honestly he’s such a docile cat. I don’t know what got into him – but I guess he likes you. He left you a present.”

And so this one bird would never rise again. But something else emerged that day. Self confidence? A new romance? That would all have to be seen. But something new is always made from the destruction and passing of something old.

[wendybeth]

Yeah!!!:snap::cool::snap:

Great story! Charlie is a wise and wily boy, isn't he? I especially like the aspect of the crow being a manifestation of his subconscious, but scaled according to the limited quantity and quality of his pychology education. Cripes! I shudder to think what mine might be- a tapeworm?:eek:

[Motorboat Cruiser]

That was really something. :) Just when I thought the topic was pretty much exhausted, something completely fresh and entertaining. For all its underlying pain, I smiled quite a bit while reading it.

Go Charlie! :)

[tracilicious]

I can't mojo you yet, but that was awesome! :snap:

[Capt Jack]

I shudder to think what mine might be- a tapeworm?:eek:


I think I can safely speak for the group in this instance and say in all honesty and with heartfelt conviction....


ew

[Cadaverous Pallor]

I dig the concept of a part of oneself that wakes up to bug us into traveling in the right direction....and that it needs to be put to death again when the services are no longer needed.

The mystery of what Charlie is and represents is interesting. It's also possible that without the crow, Rey will lapse into his old boring self again. Charlie could be a demon of some sort! I prefer the idea that the unsettled feeling you get when you need to get something squared away needs to be controlled, or it will make you a nervous wreck.

Wonderful, intriguing story, Mooncat :cool:

[Not Afraid]

I think Charlie is the subconscious of the Latin hottie.

[wendybeth]

I think I can safely speak for the group in this instance and say in all honesty and with heartfelt conviction....


ew

Well, I only took one Psych class at a city college. I couldn't think of a bird that small. I really don't know where the tapeworm idea came from....perhaps my subconscious?:D

[Cadaverous Pallor]

I think Charlie is the subconscious of the Latin hottie.Then why would her subconscious want to squelch the very impulse that forced him to ask her out? Does she not want to date him?

[LSPoorEeyorick]

Are you a man, or just a steady income?

Yowsa, and youch. This quote is just a buried seed of the pain wrenched into the soul of this story. And at the same time, I enjoyed the playfulness of it, too. Some excellent work, C, and I commend you for it.

I'm glad to see you on the inspiration thread. I think it's time for you, and me, and everyone contributing, to take our subconsciouses and our familiars and get them working for us instead of the other way around. Heil creativity!

[blueerica]

Brilliant psychomachia! A powerful story! I'm so glad you've stretched your writing muscles... it was a joy to read.

And it's just as well that I can't seem to give you any mojo right now.

[Gemini Cricket]

And so this one bird would never rise again. But something else emerged that day. Self confidence? A new romance? That would all have to be seen. But something new is always made from the destruction and passing of something old.

I love your story. We all have our crows and cats. Cool stuff!
:)

[€uroMeinke]

Aww - Charlies' just a cat - with stories to tell. They say they have nine lives, perhaps this is just one of them ;)

Thanks everyone for your comments, they made my day

[Gemini Cricket]

His lips kissed his coffee cup as he wished he were somewhere else. He dove his hand into a pile of letters on his desk and one envelope dug its corner between a nail and a tender cuticle on his finger. Brick red welled up making his nail look polished.
"Fu cking sh!t." He said sticking his finger into his mouth. "I guess I should read you first."
He slit the top of the envelope open with flick of wrist and gold letter opener. He pulled a card out. It was a Wallmark Expressions Card. 'How intimately trite.' He thought.
The cover was white with the etching of a red bird rising from a grouping of ashes at the base of the card. Inside it read, 'Rise up.'
'Can I puke now?' He thought.
Handwritten in the inside of card was:
"While I love what your homeless shelter does, I am quite sick of all of your mailings. I am 80 years old. I do what I can to get by. Here's a five dollar bill. Roll it up and stick it up your a$s."
He laughed tears out of his eyes as he read it over and over. After he wiped salty happiness from his cheeks, he gazed down at the signature on the card. The name was his own. The card was dated May 23, 2051. The year he would be 80. He looked at the five dollar bill and the face that looked back at him wasn't Abe Lincoln's. He couldn't believe his eyes. The face was of Colonel Sanders. Next to his face it read 'In Taste We Trust'.
'Oh my God.' He said.
He read the card again. 'Rise up.'

[Cadaverous Pallor]

How much did KFC pay you? ;)

[Gemini Cricket]

How much did KFC pay you? ;)
lol! :D
Okay, lots of times I'll put "lol" but it doesn't necessarily mean I laughed out loud but that it's worthy of an out loud laugh. This CP post made me lol for reals.
:D

[Cadaverous Pallor]

lol! :D
Okay, lots of times I'll put "lol" but it doesn't necessarily mean I laughed out loud but that it's worthy of an out loud laugh. This CP post made me lol for reals.
:DAww, thanks.

Seriously though, I'm interested - "Wallmark", yet "Colonel Sanders". In light of what you've said in the movie thread, what made you decide to go not-exact-brand on one but exact on the other?

It's funny, now that I think about it, I don't think I mention brands often in my stuff, but I don't do fake brands either...

[Gemini Cricket]

Seriously though, I'm interested - "Wallmark", yet "Colonel Sanders". In light of what you've said in the movie thread, what made you decide to go not-exact-brand on one but exact on the other?

It's funny, now that I think about it, I don't think I mention brands often in my stuff, but I don't do fake brands either...
I think you bring up a good point. The answer is, I don't know. I wrote it in like five minutes this morning. Not only that, but I loathe Hallmark. (Hallmark is anti-gay when it comes to benefits for their employees and their lack of gay themed card bug me. But that's my own baggage.) I guess I could have made it an American Greetings card...
I also didn't want to have to explain out who the person on the bill was. I wanted the piece to be short and to the point.
I also don't put my work on the same level as a multi-million dollar film. My work is for fun and for art. Fed Ex in a film about something powerful makes it seem like the director sold out and sold his soul. (But again, that's just me.)
Thanks for the critique, CP! :)

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Thanks for the critique, CP! :)Ouch, you saw that as critique? :( I didn't mean it that way, I was just intrigued by the cross-pollination of threads giving me a chance to understand your motivations.

I did enjoy the piece, it felt spontaneous and I always love the time travel concept.

[wendybeth]

The first thing I though of was that Wallmark was a merging of Hallmark and Walmart, both places worthy of disdain from many people. At any rate, I loved it! I'll apologise in advance for my personal contributions to the KFC takeover......:D

[Gemini Cricket]

Ouch, you saw that as critique? :( I didn't mean it that way, I was just intrigued by the cross-pollination of threads giving me a chance to understand your motivations.
I don't see critiquing as something bad. I don't think I could misinterpret anything you post as something notorious either. Not after 5 years, CP. :)

I also thought of another example of real versus not real in a film. Kahuna Burger in 'Pulp Fiction'. That's fake but then they talk about McDonalds in another scene...
:)

[Motorboat Cruiser]

Loved it, GC! :)


Sooooo, CP...

Are we about ready for a new topic to be introduced?

[Motorboat Cruiser]

Well, until we have a new subject, here is another submission (in two parts).

Michael pulled ten dollars from his wallet and handed it to the clerk. In exchange, he received an orange slip of paper and wishes of good luck. He folded the paper carefully so that it would fit into the watch pocket of his jeans.

“This is my ticket out of here”, he proudly exclaimed.

“Wouldn’t that be something”, the clerk replied, smiling. “You could buy this store and I could retire early.”

Michael laughed as he exited the store. “Considering the frequency of my visits, I should already be a part-owner”.

Of course, deep down, both men knew that the odds of him winning were smaller than Zeus himself pitching a perfect strike of lightning and hitting Michael square between the eyes. Still, each ticket represented another chance, a chance at a better life to be exact. He looked towards the heavens, just to be sure that the bullpen hadn’t been called but the sky was clear as usual. Clouds were a rarity in the summer months of Los Angeles, as was a cool breeze.

“Damn this heat”, Michael muttered to nobody in particular. Waiting tables in this heat had not been particularly pleasant at the upscale outdoor café where he worked, one of the dozens that lined the street. It wasn’t the dream job by any means, just a stepping-stone. At least that is what he told himself. Some days though, he felt like it was his only future, a sad realization for someone approaching 30. Life moved far too quickly for his liking and it didn’t help that the acting jobs were starting to dry up. He felt older than his 28 years, old and exhausted.

He walked slowly down Melrose, past the rows of stores and boutiques that, like most of his fellow pedestrians, he could never justify patronizing, not with his humble earnings. Michael wondered why anyone would ever purchase a shirt that cost more than he made in a week. Still, he couldn’t help but be entertained by the colorful store names, places like “Retail Slut” that could only exist on a street such as this.

Finally, arriving at his bus stop, Michael eyed his watch. Ten minutes left until his bus would arrive. He hoped that there was a seat available today, unlike yesterday when he was forced to stand for the duration of his trip home. Winning lottery ticket or not, Michael could have afforded an automobile if he really wished. But, as he stared into the passing vehicles, the drivers all possessed a look of solitary disconnect, as if they were unaware that there was a thriving city around them. Michael preferred to be a part of the city, not just one of the zombies passing through, mindlessly listening to the latest pop crap or mundane talk show seeping through the car speakers, robbing them of whatever remaining intellect they possessed. He was sure that some of them were driving on autopilot, accumulating a puddle of drool in their lap. The only surroundings they were aware of were the ever-changing stoplights, hastening their trip home.

No, he refused to be a part of that scene. This city was a living, breathing entity and better observed from the bustling sidewalk than merely through a windshield. He usually preferred to walk the entire distance home but not when the heat was like this. A few minutes of air-conditioning would offer a safe haven from the heat stroke that seemed inevitable should he continue walking.

To pass the remaining minutes, he strolled over to the sidewalk vendor, selling a number of fragrances of incense, candles, and assorted holders.

The vendor, a recent immigrant from the Bahamas, looked up and smiled in recognition, “Another scorcher today, eh?”

“Man, I can’t believe this heat wave”, Michael said as he wiped the sweat from his face, “I’m surprised you aren’t standing in a pool of candle soup.”

“Only a matter of time, my friend”, the vendor laughed. “How about a box of incense today? I have new scents you will like. Mystical escapes, each one of them”.

Michael eyed the boxes, adorned with names like “Mandarin Dream”, “Indigo Breeze”, and “Rainstorm”. He picked up a box of “Rainstorm”.

“Nothing sounds quite as refreshing as the smell a good rainstorm right now. I suppose this is the closest I can get for another few months though.”

He was right. In the past few years, summer didn’t let up until the end of November. Grey skies wouldn’t rear their head anytime soon. He paid for the incense, patted the vendor on the back, and made his way to the bus stop, #88 just pulling up to the curb.

As Michael stepped up into the bus, he was immediately exposed to a gust of cold air, startling, yet indescribably refreshing. It was in this moment that he sincerely felt that the inventor or air conditioning should have been made a saint. Letting out a sigh of relief, he scanned the bus for an empty seat. A few rows back, he found his prize, an empty seat next to a young girl. Seeing him approach, she moved her backpack to the space by her feet and smiled. Michael thanked her and sat down.

The bus wouldn’t reach Michael’s stop for almost a half-hour. It wasn’t that it was a long distance, just the pitfalls of rush hour. Michael frowned moments later as he spotted the emergency vehicles passing him to the right and felt the bus come to a halt. “Crap” he sighed, “this is going to take forever”. It wasn’t that he was anxious to leave his semi-arctic environment. He just wanted to get home and start enjoying his next two days off. Resigned to the inevitable delay, he leaned back and closed his eyes, figuring that a little catnap never hurt anyone.

[Motorboat Cruiser]

He felt an elbow not so gently nudge his ribcage.

“Wake up, sleepyhead! You’re going to miss your stop.”

Eyes still closed, Michael wondered, “How does that little girl know which stop is mine?”

He opened his eyes, looked around, closed them, rubbed them, and opened them again.

“What the…???”

A chill moved swiftly through Michael and it wasn’t air-conditioning induced.

He tried his best to cope with the sensory overload he was experiencing. For one thing, he was wearing a jacket, which came in handy because the bus windows were streaked with raindrops. Breaking his stare at the wet glass, he looked towards the little girl and noticed that it wasn’t the same little girl from before. No, this girl he knew. They had lived on the same street and grown up together. He looked back out the window and realized that this was the street they were now traveling down, its edges lined with oak trees, their leaves yellow and orange. A rainy autumn day in Long Island, circa: who the hell knows.

As the bus came to a stop, the little girl, Kelley, grabbed her backpack and said “C’mon Michael, you want to stay on the bus or something?”

To be honest, Michael wasn’t sure what he should do. Still, he got up and walked to the front, exiting the school bus. Everywhere he looked, a flood of memories washed upon him, far more captivating than the cold rain that battered his face.

“See you tomorrow”, Kelley said as she turned and walked the opposite direction of Michael’s boyhood home.

“Uh, yeah, see you tomorrow”, Michael said, having no idea if it were true or not.

He slowly walked down the street, seeing the front doors of houses he had gone trick or treating to many years ago. He walked past the pine tree filled patch of woods that had once housed a mighty tree fort. He wondered if the fort was still there. He hadn’t the courage to go to his home just yet. He had some thinking to do. Walking into the woods, he spotted the fort and climbed the makeshift ladder. Pulling himself inside the shelter, he found himself hyperventilating, not from the climb, but from the events that had transpired in the last ten minutes.

“Surely, this is a dream”, Michael told himself. But, try as he might, he couldn’t wake himself from it. He reached into his pocket for the incense but it wasn’t there. “Rainstorm”, he remembered, “How odd”. Instead, he found a packet of baseball cards. Reaching into his watch pocket, he felt the lottery ticket. “Finally”, he thought, “a link to reality”. But again he was mistaken. Having replaced the lottery ticket was a slip of paper with two words and a four-digit number printed on it.

ANOTHER CHANCE - 1988

The implications hit him like a truck. If it was really 1988, he was 13 years old. Another chance at life, without all of the costly errors he had been responsible for. Another chance at being a kid, and this time, appreciating every moment. Another chance at love, this time without the insecurity of not knowing himself, without the insecurity of being rejected.

ANOTHER CHANCE

What if he actually had the chance to live his life all over again, yet this time around with every ounce of experience already gained? What might he do differently?

Assuming that he was, in fact, not dreaming, he realized that he was about to embark upon a journey of circumstances, in which, unlike before, he could now control. The thought was pleasing. Still, for all intensive purposes, he was a 35 year old in a child’s body. Folks were going to get mighty suspicious if they knew that he could fill out an income tax form or pass a driving test. He was going to need to utilize every acting skill he had ever learned to pull this role off. He was also going to need to exercise extreme caution. One slip and he would be branded a freak, a heretic. They would burn him at the stake.

He tried putting himself into the role, that of his former self. He was certain, for example, that at his age, his mother would be worried if he were to come home late without calling. “Oh my god!” he suddenly realized. He was going to see his mother, the woman whose funeral he had attended almost 5 years ago. Maybe this time he could get her to see a doctor sooner. Maybe they would catch the cancer before it metastasized throughout her body. Maybe she would grow old with him this time around.

He thought of all the good he could do in this rerun of a life. The lives he could save, the lives he could change. Of course, all of his thoughts weren’t quite so altruistic. Thinking back to life in 1988, he wondered if he could raise enough money in time to bet on the Dodgers before the World Series began. He wondered what Microsoft stock was selling for. He wondered if he would ever need to hold a real job.

He was reborn for all practical purposes. A new chance at life had risen from the ashes of his former self and he was ready to soar. He climbed down the tree and walked out of the woods, heading towards his mothers loving arms and a home-cooked meal, neither of which he would ever take for granted again.

[wendybeth]

I like this story. Very much. It makes you wonder lots of things- would knowing the future change it for the worse or better? How weird would it be to be that age but know what someone much older would know? Could you stand being bossed around by adults? It's 'Big' and 'Back to the Future' all mixed together.

:snap:, MBC!!!

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Sooooo, CP...

Are we about ready for a new topic to be introduced?LSPE said Tom wanted to participate, and she also said she has the next idea, so the ball is in her court :)

[Gemini Cricket]

Nice, MBC! I liked your story a great deal.
:) :snap:

PS ~ So that's what that little pocket is called. A watch pocket. Cool! I always called it my change pocket...

[tracilicious]

PS ~ So that's what that little pocket is called. A watch pocket. Cool! I always called it my change pocket...

Makes me want a pocket watch!

[LSPoorEeyorick]

Sorry! We've been in Santa Barbara, so Tom has not had the chance to submit, AND I didn't realize that so many people were chomping at the bit at the ball in my court! (So that's what the kids are calling it these days.)

Try this topic on for size:
This Is Not Your Ordinary Fairy Tale

[Gemini Cricket]

This Is Not Your Ordinary Fairy Tale
Princess Denise was loved by all the men in the land. She was pretty, happy and lots of fun to be around. One day she woke up and found that her legs were transformed into squid tentacles.
"Who will love me now?" Princess Denise asked the bathroom mirror...




No.



King Walter Hamptenfitch was the gayest king in all the land. He liked to romp and roll through the forest while singing tunes he remembered from childhood. One day, while picking daisies in the garden, King Walter came across a dying panda bear. The bear looked up at him and said, "I need bamboo..."
King Walter scratched his head with his scepter. "Heavens!" He said.




No.



Ralph, the Gnome Keeper, stood over several gnomes that were bludgeoned to death in the enchanted cave. He looked at the large mallet in his hand and said, "Maybe I shouldn't have done that."






I got nothin' right now, LSPE...
:D

[LSPoorEeyorick]

Hee hee.

The topic is wide open for your interpretation (when you've got somethin'--hee) but I had also been thinking of twisted reinterpretations of existing tales.

Besides, I think that the bludgeoning gnome keeper surely isn't nothin'!

[Capt Jack]

Not Your Ordinary Fairy Tale



A knight at the ready
To conquer the day
To the dragon did march
But fell by the way

The knight would cry out
As loud as he could
For strength not forthcoming
No justice, no good.

No slayer was he
No righter of wrongs
No tales would be told
No verses, no songs

His heart lay in pieces
His limbs cold and numb
His eyes staring blindly
At the world, deaf and dumb

The battle was lost
Long before he’d arrive
No survivors were found
Not one left alive

And the dragon un-stirring
Unmoved by the day
Upon his mountain of death
Still awaiting his prey

No damsels were rescued
No evils undone
No treasures were captured
No walks in the sun

So this story is over
No moral is found
Just an unending silence
As the world keeps turning ‘round.

[Gemini Cricket]

You must spread some Mojo around before giving it to Capt Jack again.
That was wayyy cool. :)

[Motorboat Cruiser]

What GC said. :)

Loved it, Captain Jack!

[Gemini Cricket]

"Beauty and the Beast" – The Deleted GC Alternate Ending
by: me

Tears flowed down Belle’s fair face, she laid her head gently upon the Beast’s chest and uttered these words, softly and sadly: “Please don’t leave me! I love you.”

The final petal released itself and fluttered gracefully to the table top.

All was silent for a moment. The only sound that could be heard was the constant ticking coming from Cogsworth.

Suddenly, the skies opened, the rains were replaced with magical blots laden with enchanted dust. The colorful bolts of magic showered down upon the fallen prince. A fog encircled the Beast as he rose off the ground. Belle looked up in wonder and surprise as limb by limb the Beast is transformed. His cape cupped and lowered the Prince’s body to the ground. Belle looked upon a handsome young man lying on the ground.

Lumiere, Mrs. Potts and Cogsworth all gasp in anticipation as they wait for their master to rise to his feet. He does not. They look at each other in wonder. Without warning, Lumiere and Cogsworth are transformed into their human forms. They hug each other happily. Mrs. Potts, however, is not as lucky. A curtain of magical dust surrounded her but as it leaves, we see that she has the body of a human but her head is still a teapot. She screamed, looking at her reflection in the glass windows.

“Mama! Mama!” Chip called from the back of a galloping, barking footstool. Chip and the footstool are transformed into their proper states. Chip looked up at his mother in shock. “Mama?!” The child then erupted in uncontrollable laughter, rolling on the ground holding his stomach.

The laughter was not to last for long. Belle walked up to her prince and put her hand beneath his nostrils. There is no breath. She felt his chest. No heartbeat.

“He’s dead.” Belle uttered sobbing.

Lumiere, Cogsworth, Chip and the dog gasped. Mrs. Potts, meanwhile, began to run around in circles with her palms flat against her porcelain face. Angrily, she wailed: “Tale as old as time, tale as old as time, tale as old as time!”

“Oh la la,” Lumiere said, “this is a disaster.”

The former clock and candelabra, so distracted by the tragedy at hand, looked around them. The once dark and dreary castle was replaced by its equal dressed in white and marble. A shaft of sunlight hit the terrace happily.

“How can this end this way?” Belle sobbed into the prince’s chest. Her tears flow fast like a river to the ocean.

The shaft of sunlight before them flashed from a warm gold to a subtle green. Another rain of magic and a beautiful woman appeared before them in an emerald gown.

“It’s the enchantress!” Lumiere and Cogsworth said in unison.

“Tale as old as time, tale as old as time, tale as old as time!” Muttered Mrs. Potts while she circled the two men.

“This is not your ordinary fairy tale, sister.” The enchantress said to Belle. The beautiful woman knelt next to the fallen prince and shook her head. “Too bad, too. He was quite a dish.” She then looked up at Mrs. Potts, “No offense, sister.”

“But I don’t understand.” Belle said looking into the enchantresses eyes.

“Well,” the enchantress pulled a clipboard chocked with papers from her gown, “you see, it’s like this. The deal was that he had to find true love and she had to love him back. If he did, then I’d turn him back to a human. But I didn’t say nothing about bringing him back to life. That wasn’t part of the deal.”

“But, you could bring him back if you wanted to couldn’t you?” Belle asked.

“No.” the enchantress said scratching her lower back with her wand. “Ain’t you ever been to Enchantress School? I guess not. Curses and Spells 101, dearie. You can’t bring ‘em back to life. It ain’t a pretty picture. Ain’t you ever seen ‘Aladdin’? Anyway, I can’t do it. It wasn’t my fault anyways, blame that Gaston guy.”

“I’m heartbroken.” Belle said sadly.

“Yeah, you should’ve stuck with that fella instead. He had quite a build. Knows how to handle a gun, that Gaston.” The enchantress said. “But I shouldn’t talk about the dearly departed like that.”

“Madam?” Cogsworth cleared his throat. “May I inquire about the current status of our Mrs. Potts? She doesn’t seem to be completely herself.”

“Let’s not get all wound up, Cogsie.” The enchantress said plopping her fists on her waist. “About her, well that’s another kettle of fish. You see, Prince Eustace turned me out of the castle ten years ago.”

“Eustace?” Belle said looking blankly into the horizon.

“The Chipster and his brothers and sisters were all born after the spell took place.” The enchantress fondly messed up Chip’s hair as she spoke. “You’re only allowed so much spell per person. Well, I figured good ‘ol Pottsie here wouldn’t want her kids all half-China, half-human, so she gets the raw end of the deal instead. Sorry, sister, but no one told you to bang all them dancing plates.”

“Tale as old as time, tale as old as time…”

“Why is she doing that?” Lumiere asked.

“Don’t worry about that.” The enchantress said sticking a couple of bobby pins in her hair. “She’s just blowing off a little steam.”

Chip continued his laughing fit on the ground.

“Eustace?” Belle said again.

“Well, I’m going to head downstairs for the auction.” The enchantress said fixing her stockings.

“Auction?” Cogworth wondered aloud.

“Yeah, Eustace here had no next of kin.” The enchantress said. “So, all of this is up for grabs. I got my eye on a really cherry ballroom chandelier. I got the perfect place for it at my summer estate. Gotta run, knickknacks.”

Belle sobbed on.

“Listen. No hard feelings, huh, sister?” The enchantress patted her on the back. “You still got your father. He got that nice gig going on in his basement. Not just anyone can make up stuff like that. You gotta have brains to do that sort of crap.”

“Yes.” Belle said wiping a tear from her chin. “Poppa. I still have my Poppa.”

---------------------

Belle ran through the town and headed towards her house. Her heart raced as she saw the mill wheel turning gracefully greeting her as always. A curious looking kite flew up to the sky from the chimney. Father was at it again. She burst into the house.

“Poppa?” She cried out. “Poppa, where are you?”

“Down here, Belle!” Maurice yelled from the basement.

“Poppa. The most horrible thing happened to me.” She began as she made her way down the basement stairs. She stopped at the bottom of the stairs in shock.

“I heard, Belle. I heard. He’s gone.” Maurice said. “And we’re gonna fix that for you.”

In the middle of the basement was a long steel table connected to electrodes and glass devices that lit up with lightning inside them.

“We’ll bring him here, Belle.” Maurice announced. “I’ll make him well again. Bring him back to life, that’s what we’ll do.”

“Poppa.”

“I have it all set. Any parts that don’t work, we’ll replace. Hee hee, Belle, hee hee.” Maurice began waddling around the basement flapping his arms. He suddenly got down on his hands and knees and poked the ground with his nose. “Bok bok bok, Belle. I’m a chicken!”

“Poppa?” Belle knelt by her father and patted him on the back. ‘Crazy old Maurice.’ She had heard someone say in town. Maybe the town was right about her father, maybe they were right about her too…

Fin

[tracilicious]

I can't mojo you right now, but you crack me up!

[Gemini Cricket]

I can't mojo you right now, but you crack me up!
Ain't I a stinker? :D :evil:

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Ain't I a stinker? :D :evil:Bwahaha, I can't mojo you either! Funny and disturbing! :D

[Motorboat Cruiser]

That was terrific, GC! Fun stuff. :)

This topic is proving to be harder than I originally anticipated. Eh, it'll come to me. :)

[tracilicious]

This topic is proving to be harder than I originally anticipated. Eh, it'll come to me. :)

I've got nothin. Actually, I dreamed about this thread. Here's what I posted in my dream:

This is not your ordinary fairy tale. Actually, it's not a fairy tale at all. It's just a random post, in a random thread, in a random forum.

That post was repeated many times in my dream. And then I went and applied for a job at a bank. My dreams are weird.

[Cadaverous Pallor]

I'll contribute after Alaska - tonight is panicked packing time :)

[Cadaverous Pallor]

So I go away and everyone abandons the thread, eh? :p

I've been trying for days to write an essay about the history of fairy tale spoofs but it's just not coming out entertaining enough for me to even continue. I know what I'm writing is bad when it bores ME to death (I'm my biggest fan ;) ) so I'm pulling the plug on it. I think I need to try another tactic.

Anyone else working on This is not your ordinary fairy tale?

[Ponine]

I've tried... and tried. I get no vibes from this topic at all. Its not speaking to me. Sorry.

[CoasterMatt]

The man in the parakeet suit tells me this must be the place, but I can't quite catch my feet up with the rhythm of the rain falling down the rabbit hole and I don't know where I placed my sympathies but something tells me some of these should lead me in the right direction...

[Motorboat Cruiser]

Anyone else working on This is not your ordinary fairy tale?

I have, just not successfully. I get to about the 40% mark and then lose my way. For such a simple idea, it is really driving me crazy. And yet, I'm reluctant to give up just yet.

[tracilicious]

I've tried... and tried. I get no vibes from this topic at all. Its not speaking to me. Sorry.

This is me too. I love the topic, I've just got nothin.

[Not Afraid]

I love fairy tales. I have bookloads of them. I read lots of writers who are modern fairy tale tellers.

But, I don't want to write one.

[Cadaverous Pallor]

I love fairy tales. I have bookloads of them. I read lots of writers who are modern fairy tale tellers.

But, I don't want to write one.Exactly my feelings. Instead, I was trying to write about how "fairy tale turned on its head" is basically its own genre because it's been around almost as long as the tales have....and how the original tales have been PC-ified over the years until they are practically spoofs themselves....and how writing about how the girl saves the day is actually not that wacky, and that in fact the underdog wins in most traditional tales....

Anyway, I'm bored just writing that paragraph. I get up on the soap box when I talk genre for children's stories. Yeech.

I'd say that I'll work on it more but it seems everyone's stuck. Sorry, LSPE!

[Gemini Cricket]

Damsel of Distress
by: Me

Melanie shoved the file cabinet drawer closed with her knee. It slammed shut with a crash as if from a door to a castle dungeon. She locked up the drawers to her desk after putting his picture in the drawer. He smiled at her, with his hands shoved in a windbreaker leaning up against a fence that enclosed that bobsled ride at that park. He had gained some weight since that picture, but that infectious smile was always there. I could reprint the photo, Melanie thought, but I wouldn't want it stolen just the same. The hospital green paint in her cubicle turned from a mint to a grey as she shut the lights off in the shared office space.

She removed a black smudge from an indented design on her steering wheel as she sat in traffic. The car hadn't moved in quite some time. The car reminded her ad nauseum to inch forward, so she really didn't need to pay attention much, not that she ever did.

When she was a child, she didn't picture herself preparing people's taxes for a living. It's not the life one dreams about, but it was steady. And her prince in shining armor wasn't supposed to be a manager at an art supplies store, but he tries.

Melanie thought back to the fight they had last night. A bounced check is hardly anything to throw in the towel for. Hardly. She had no idea how much an easel sold for. She was good with accounting, but at that point in time, that easel was all the money in the world.

Looking up at the next road sign, she realized it was an unfamiliar one. She had missed her exit. How do you miss an exit going 2 miles per hour? She wondered. She tensed up and a tear leaped from her eye. Silly, Mel. It's just L.A., people do this all the time. Your routine is just a little off, don't fret.

Melanie shoved her hand under the seat to look for the Thomas Guide. If only he'd put it back where it was supposed to go, in the slot in the door. She began to cry. The world was cavng in again. Don't panic, her doctor said last week and the week before.

No, she found it. She grabbed the book from under the seat and rested it on her lap. She looked down at the book. It wasn't the Thomas Guide. It was a beaten up old book that was dogearred and housed three book marks. She read the cover, "Helping the One You Love Through Depression".

She didn't buy the book. He did. It was his book about her.

Melanie had the urge to thumb through it, but didn't. She hugged the book tight as a horn blared behind her. A smile creased her face. She put the book back and couldn't wait to get home.

Melanie ran from the garage to the front door. She walked in the house to the smell of burning chicken.

"Gadfree!" He said. It was his word of choice. She had no idea what it meant.

She stood in the kitchen doorway and watched him scoop three pieces of black from a sputtering pan. The counters were cluttered with egg shells, chopped vegetables and for some reason a leaky carton of ice cream.

He turned to her. A smear of white flour went from his chin to his ear down his arms and all over his hands. He smiled at her. His tummy peeked out from under his UC Irvine t-shirt.

"I made dinner." He said laughing. "The really bad stuff is in the trash can. I'll clean this-"
"I love you." Melanie said.
"Don't worry, don't panic, I'll-"
"I love you." She said again.
"Huh?"
"I love you." She said once more.
She pulled her knight in shining chicken grease towards her. And kissed him until they were both covered in flour.

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Once upon a time there was a land under a plague of limitations. Only within the boundaries of one's neighborhood could one become involved. The people within one town could not work within another's. Sending messages from one town to the next was tedious and slow. Goods were limited to local sale. Even those with lofty power and standing were stuck within this poor physical realm, and escape was hard to come by and slow in function.

It is true that most keep their heads to the ground and their minds on their employment, but some do look up and over the fences to new possibilities. The main road to freedom was hard to find and many side courses were taken before the horizon could be glimpsed. Even then, one cannot be told the road, one must walk the road. It took many years of hard work, but eventually the waterways were spanned and the tunnels were dug. The execution seemed like magic.

Suddenly, one could visit instantly with acquaintances. Images from far abroad were visible a few inches away. Many voices could be heard and hold weight on the happenings within society. Old treasures were converted to gold at a market open to the entire country. Unseen art and unheard music hiding in small pockets seeped out onto the world stage.

The power pulled people together from the four corners of the earth, uniting those that were once strangers, liberating those once chained to worlds against their natures. Knowledge sped out faster than lightning and the responding thunder could be heard in towns, homes, and minds around the world.

The people were freed.

[Motorboat Cruiser]

Cannot mojo you but I like it, CP. :)

[Gemini Cricket]

I like it, too, CP! :)

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Thanks. Reading it again now, I realize it turned out far better than I thought it would. :blush:

[Motorboat Cruiser]

Once upon a time, there lived a very handsome Prince. He was well loved in the kingdom and his eventual marriage was widely anticipated. The Prince, however, didn’t feel that he deserved this universal love. For in his possession was a dark secret, one that was sure to destroy the kingdom, were it to ever be revealed. Hiding this information from the people he loved brought him great sadness.

The Prince went about his life, pretending to be happy, and quietly hoping that his deceit would never be discovered. Little did he know what the future would hold. While out walking in the forest one day, the prince was approached by a stranger. This man proceeded to offer his daughter’s hand in marriage to the Prince. Very politely, the Prince declined the offer, adding that he was flattered but not yet ready to choose someone.

Looking deeply into the eyes of the Prince, the old man lowered his voice and said “It would be in your best interest to accept my offer for I hold some information about you that would destroy you and this kingdom.”

Startled, the prince tried desperately to regain his composure and not let his alarm show.

He asked what secret the man spoke of.

“I saw you one night, doing something you shouldn’t have in the stables. Does this ring any bells?”

Mortified, the Prince knew instantly that this old man knew too much. He desperately tried to bargain.

“I will make sure that you are given a horse and two oxen if you will mention this to no one”.

The old man let out a sinister cackle and replied, “I have no use for these animals. I’ve already told you, I want you to marry my daughter and you will. Otherwise, everyone learns of what I saw. I expect you to propose by nightfall”. And with this, the old man walked away.

The Prince sat down and tried to steady his mind. He would have to marry this girl or the whole kingdom would know the truth.

Riding back to his castle, the Prince decided that he must seek the advice of his only confidante, his sister. He approached her and let her know what had transpired. She gently took his hand and said. “No, you will not marry her. You cannot live a lie for the rest of your life and be beholden to the power this old man holds over you”

“So then I tell everyone?” the Prince asked, clearly uneasy with the prospect.

“Yes, and they will all still love you and respect you. You may not believe this now but you have to trust me”

The Prince knew she was right. As long as the secret existed, someone else held power over him. And if he kept it revealed forever, he would never find the happiness he so desperately sought.

In the evening, the Princess told all of the townspeople to gather as the Prince had an announcement to make. Upon hearing this news, the old man danced gleefully, certain that once his daughter became a princess, he would be wealthy beyond his wildest dreams.

Everyone gathered in the courtyard and soon the Prince appeared.

“It is with great regret that I inform you that I have not been honest with you about who I am. I have always felt a need to keep a secret from you and for this, I apologize. And yet, I can never live my life to the fullest, never experience true love without being honest with myself and with all of you.

My secret is that I will never be able to marry a woman. It just isn’t who I am, nor is it someone I can ever be. My heart will someday belong to another man. And if you should choose to hate me from now on, I completely understand. Still, I felt I should finally tell the truth”.

Upon finishing his announcement, the Prince expected to be shunned or possibly even attacked by the crowd of people gathered and driven forcefully from the castle. Much to his surprise however, the entire crowd moved towards him, arms outstretched as they embraced him and commended him for his honesty and integrity.

Standing alone, far behind the crowd, the old man lowered his head in shame. For the truth had removed all the power he once held. He took his daughter and left, never to return again.

And as for the Prince, he learned a most valuable lesson. You can’t hide who you are for you are then forced to live a life of lies. Nothing but despair can come from that. And yet, if you give people a chance to love you for who you are, they often will surprise you. From this point forward, the Prince had a life he could truly enjoy and appreciate, without fear and without regret. He proceeded to live happily ever after.

[Gemini Cricket]

Did the prince find the love of his life? Who did he shag in the stable? Will there be a part two?

Love it.
:)

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Dug it. :)

I wonder about the blackmailer though...what a jerk. Would you want your daughter to not only be forced to marry, but forced to marry a queer? :eek:

[Motorboat Cruiser]

Thanks for the nice words. :)




I wonder about the blackmailer though...what a jerk. Would you want your daughter to not only be forced to marry, but forced to marry a queer? :eek:

I worried about his motivation as well. Then I thought of the numerous stage moms I have seen that would easily trade their kids souls in return for just a little fame. It made more sense then. :)

[€uroMeinke]

Once upon a time – because after all this is one of those timeless stories, that is the place in time doesn’t really matter as this is a story is really just an archetype – an experience we all encounter at some point in our lives either in ourselves or through a loved one. So time is irrelevant to some extent though it is still manifestly important to us mortal beings whose clocks are always ticking, whose time is always running out, so once upon a time really is just a placeholder, a sometime in your life so to speak.

So once upon a time there was a man – of course, he needn’t really be a man. In fact the story would probably hit better demographics if it were about women since they outnumber men by some marginal amount that increases over time. Some time. Once upon a time. But in this instance, the story is of a man – if for no other reason than the writer of this story is a man, and to claim otherwise would distract from the tale.

Not that this is an autobiographical tale, though certainly the writer will be drawing from his personal experiences, that is, experiences he has had himself as well as those he may have observed in others.

Once upon a time, there was a man who discovered he was mortal – that is he discovered that his once upon a time was a very specific time, his very specific time – it might have been 3:50 PM on the afternoon of Tuesday, June 13, 2006, or it could have been moments before, this time and this discovery.

And the man was filled with fear. Not a fear of death, rather a fear of not living. For he noticed the specificity of time, not just once upon a time, he saw that he was finite, that the moment, 3:50 PM on the afternoon of Tuesday, June 13, 2006 was now forever gone to him, wasted away in some embarrassing intellectual exercise, a contemplation yielding nothing. How many moments had he left? How many specific instances? 3:50 PM on the afternoon of Tuesday, June 13, 2006 was already gone to him, passed into memory, unchangeable, wasted, or worse yet even forgotten - if not commemorated in this passage.

So in his fear he was paralyzed, unable to move forward - too busy watching the time as it passed, trapped in an endless moment of denial, trying to prolong each moment, to capture its significance – for this is one of those universal experiences, the passage of time, one coming face to face with one’s mortality, that one will eventually pass from existence and vitality into memory – if not somehow captured and preserved somewhere. In time.

So he turned to his computer and began to type, ”Once upon a time…”

[blueerica]

I can't even form coherent words, other than tears came to my eyes when I finished that. The pacing was wonderful, pushing forward, speeding up... going going going at the end, the staccato beginnings only emphasizing the flow and sudden stop at the end. Brilliantly written. Thank you.

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

I am going to catch up with this thread. I am GOING to. I will. I will! I want to read everyone's posts.

[Cadaverous Pallor]

MBC wondered in the other thread whether I'd ever post another topic.

My To-Don't list is being fixed. I have a week of mornings off next week and I plan on getting ALL my To-Don'ts DONE before committing myself to more time on the LoT. Yeah, I'm on break at work.

I'll be back ASAP...

[Motorboat Cruiser]

No hurry, CP. I understand being busy all too well right now. Life comes first. :)

I will admit to being eager though. This is one of my favorite threads.

[Cadaverous Pallor]

I can't help but come back here and resurrect my dead baby. Just like in Pet Semetary. Not the movie, the book. Nearly all of the adaptations of King's books sucked ass, with only a few golden exceptions.

Ahem. Here is your subject.

Invisible.

You may fire when ready.

[wendybeth]

Ooooh- good one.:snap:

[Motorboat Cruiser]

Indeed it is. :)

Hmmm...

[Motorboat Cruiser]

Nearly all of the adaptations of King's books sucked ass, with only a few golden exceptions.


At least he had a few. Dean Koontz has to be the most unlucky author when it comes to adaptations. They have completely ruined every misguided attempt.

Not that I'm bitter or anything. ;)

[blueerica]

OK, I've had a lot of ramblings in my head over this one. I think I'm going to flesh one out tonight, and hopefully have something by the end of Comicon... (Sorry to be so 3 weeks late)