Writing Prompt “Facing Your Fears”
Prompt: We are living in trying times, and sometimes facing our fears can help us deal with them more effectively. So, for this prompt write a story that deals with one of your biggest fears. You do not have to be the main character, as long as the story deals with your greatest fear.
Good luck and Don’t Be Afraid.
Word Count: 1,200
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The writing prompt for March 19, 2020 will be chosen by Wendy Edsall-Kerwin.
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Roy
Keep up the good work and good writing. 👍🏻👏🏼
You sound very mature, and so does your writing.
Good luck writing a prompt!
I’m quite the opposite – used to be afraid of nothing, hopeful and all that. With the rolling years (I’m a bit older than you, but not by much), I became more skeptic on the hope front and more and deeper fears crept in upon me.
Cast your spell on me, Lady Magic!
But Fourth Place!?!? I don’t know how I’m going to break the news to Kim. She’s a very bad loser. And she’s got a devastating right hook. Wait, I know. I’ll lie. Yeah that’s it. Why didn’t I think of that a minute ago? (I must be gettin’ slow in my old adage.) I’ll just say that – there was a mix up in the voting. Some confusion because there are three Kens. And our stories were all similar. Most of the votes that went to Ken (F.) were probably meant for me, because an F and a C are fairly close together alphabetically, not to mention how similar our personalities are. We’re both polite, courteous, kind, deferential, obsequious even. (Heaven’s to mergatroid.) But very opinionated. Especially Ken. The other Ken. No. The other, other Ken. (Here’s where I offer to start over and she hates that. She can barely stand to listen to me explain something once, let alone twice.)
Okay, here goes, I’m going in. Wish me luck Andy. And Ken, and you too Ken.
If you never hear from me again, try not to be too obvious in your jubilation.
Interesting to see how Kenpetitive you guys are, as well as being jolly good Kenpany.
BTW, wasn’t there once a fourth Ken? Ken Allen? (?) Or is that the maiden name of one our current three, perhaps?
“Allen” not my maiden name lol!
Ken Allen, wherever you are and if you’re reading this, welcome back to A Place For Mostly Ken-Named Fiction Writers…
He seemed a bit sullen afterwards, and said he would think about it. Never heard from him again. I can’t imagine what happened to him.
Just kidding. He had a very good sense of humor and was adept at infusing that into his stories in various ways. You would have really liked his stories, Miles. He lives (or works) in Australia. Was working on a book along with a day job. And just dropped out of the writing after awhile. I even emailed him several times and tried to get him to come back. I don’t think he answered but one of my three emails.
Do it for me. You just said I’d, for one, love his stories…
Green Speedos? I shudder. Ufff,… that’s, that’s a brain stopping image if ever there was one. Although I must say, Ken, I totally deserved it. I had it coming to me. I bow to your comedy genius, young avatar.
Never mind, she even gave you the idea for this week’s story. But don’t tell her.
You’re ok, are you?
Don’t want to do a fear of Kim.
This is some good advice I borrowed from Former Def. Sec. Donald Rumsfeld.
The biggest fears are the fear of the unknown and the fear of the known.
The fear of the known unknown and fear of the unknown known.
And lets not forget fear of the Gnome, the unknown Gnome, and the known Gnome And…
The fear of Nome, Alaska. That’s a big one.
Just checking in to Kenpany headquarters. I wouldn’t want anyone to think that there may be less than three of us around this time. The chances of all three coming in the top four must be quite small………and yet, it happened. But fair praise for Andy, the cream rose to the top!
It makes for very interesting reading to go back over the results as far back as I can. I joined in around Christmas 2018. There have been so many different winners. That just goes to show what a wealth of talent is available in this group. Anyone can win although “winning” is not the main reason we are here, I hope. It’s a bonus to know that your fellow writers appreciate what you have written and that’s what keeps me going.
The level of debate has certainly tightened up my writing and I am much more careful now with my editing and proof reading prior to posting my stories. I know that if I miss something, one of you will spot it!
At the moment I am facing one of my fears that is, not having a clue what to write about for my next story. Admittedly, it’s not a major fear but the blank page needs to be dealt with so I’m off, can’t keep stalling.
Kind regards,
Ken Frape
I’ve just heard there is another Ken (Allen) who sometimes hangs around here. He may join us too. “Allen” is not YOUR maiden name, right? It’s not mine. Not Cartisano’s either. Cartisano is nee Poole.
As for me I’ve got an idea cooking in my head (for a story. No not for a coronavirus vaccine. Sorry). I just need to find the time to download it from my head onto my outer. I’m noticing that home-staycation is more time consuming than going to the office. Days are flying (sleeping in longer, admittedly).
Ken
My computer spell-checker changed it. Perhaps he’s shy when I mention him by name!
He does even stranger things than that. Like saying “not responding” when I finally click on “save document” after a day typing. He thinks that’s just so very funny. Even wonders why I’m not laughing like I should.
My greatest fear? I’m not telling anyone my greatest fear.This may require some thought.
But in our larger Chapter of three-lettered, two-legged writers. Of any gender.
Sorry about your cats, but four-legged writers are not allowed. I’d relax that leg rule, but Cartisano is adamant it must stay. He’s still haunted by a crazed millipede that once wanted to join.
What are the cats called? Are they three-lettered after all?
Jeez, I’m doing all the homework for you, these days!
Jeez, I’m doing all the homework for you, these days!
THAT WAS FOR CARTISANO. I don’t know why it came down here!!
(Thank G** for Andy, though – we’d never hear the last of it.)
This time I AM going to read and comment on stories as soon as they’re posted, and not leave it till the last minute.*
(If anyone’s interested, I posted a little explanation of my last story on the previous thread, responding to Ken F … but the comment finished up in a random spot. Anyway … as I say, if you’re interested.)
(*I’ve said THAT before …)
(But the internal dialogue idea works too … definitely not two distinct characters, though.)
If I ever need a legal or diplomatic consultant, your name will be at the top of the list.
Vicarious Redemption
By Kristin Record (1191 words)
“Is it worth it?” Lucas pulled linen pants onto his lean hips and flashed a mischievous grin.
“Hmm?” Florence pursed her lips in mock thought. Lying amidst the crumpled sheets and downy pillows she sighed in post-coital bliss. She eyed Lucas as he continued to dress and rolled over onto her side, the bedding forming to her body like a soft cloud.
“Yes,” she replied once he had tugged his shirt over his muscled chest. “If you’re asking me is it’s worth dying to love you, then the answer is yes.”
Lucas dipped down and brushed his lips against hers. Grasping her face in his hands he held her gaze. “In a different world, a different time.” His thumb stroked her cheek.
Florence pressed the soft skin of her face into his calloused palm and closed her eyes. “I would be yours, and you would be mine.” She whispered but when she opened her eyes his expression was no longer lustful. His face had gone white and his eyes focused behind her.
“What?” As she turned to follow his gaze a shriek escaped her lips. Her husband’s frame filled the narrow doorway giving him the illusion of a giant. Grasping at the sheets to cover her nude body, Florence cried out. “Duncan! Oh Gosh, this isn’t what it looks like!”
Duncan remained silent. His head tilted to the left as a bitter chuckle rolled through the room and waves of anger crashed over the two of them. He stepped aside as two uniformed men strode in, faces of stone.
“Duncan! No, I can explain!” One of the men ripped the sheet from her body, jerking her off the bed to her feet. The other took Lucas to the floor in one swift moment, tethering his hands behind him.
Duncan ignored her giving a simple directive. “Take him to the cells, leave her with me.”
Held in place by large hands Florence sobbed as the guard roughly hauled Lucas from the room. “Wait, no! This is my mistake, my punishment! Leave him! Take me! He didn’t know who I was, this isn’t his fault!”
Duncan nodded and the guard released Florence from the vice grip tossing her to the floor.
“Please, Duncan, let us talk about this first.” The guard left the room slamming the door behind him. The air weighed heavy with anguish.
“Cover yourself.” Florence flinched and reached for her robe. He kicked her, the toe of his boot colliding against her teeth and stars formed behind her eyes.
“An affair!!” His voice bellowed down at her as his foot caught her again but now in the chest. The air in her lungs whooshed out in a painful gasp. “Punishable by death woman. Death!”
Florence rolled onto her side attempting to breathe.
“I would rather die,” she rasped out, the words burning like fire.
Duncan stilled. “You would rather die? Indeed, I’m sure you would.”
“My punishment is death but spare Lucas.” Blood soaked spit ran from the corners of her mouth, her teeth ached.
“Spare Lucas.” He mocked her, “That’s how you want this to go? With you begging mercy for your pathetic lover?” Florence recoiled anticipating another blow. Instead, he paced away from her stroking his beard.
“Duncan, I knew the consequence for me. I know how the Church chooses to punish this violation. I don’t fear death.” Her voice a whisper as she watched him stride back and forth before her.
“I agree. Death is not a punishment for you. You wife, deserve a punishment worse than death.” A wicked smile curled at his lips. “Vicarious redemption.”
Her jaw dropped. The room started to spin and she vomited on the floor.
“Ah, the Church will allow it I’m sure. Yes. You will take this sin, this guilt, this violation and place it upon your lover to redeem yourself.”
“I would never! I bear the weight of this sin as my own!” She lifted a defiant chin.
“I’m the Bishop of the Church and I’ll decide how you choose to atone for your sins! Now stand up and dress bitch.” He sifted through the closet and removed a crimson gown. “A perfect color to wear while executing your paramour.” He tossed the garment at her.
Florence rose to her feet and dressed in slow motion. “Me? No please.” The words fell to deaf ears.
Duncan opened the door and motioned to the guard, “Retrieve the horses and prisoner. The Lady of the house will be hosting a dismemberment execution.”
Rage flew from her as she lunged at Duncan, striking him in the back. “I will not!” The back of his hand collided with her jaw and her head rattled.
“You will!” He barked. “You will put this on him and live knowing to never break our commandments again! Are you afraid now sweet wife? Well, it is time to become stronger because of it.” Duncan hauled her up from the floor, “Now, shall we proceed to the courtyard, my lady?”
Lucas was nude, spare the blindfold that covered his eyes. Ropes tied his wrists and feet. Each attached to one of four horses facing different compass directions. The horses stood grazing at grain buckets.
Florence let out a strangled scream at the sight. Leading by the elbow, Duncan guided her over to him and removed the soggy blindfold.
“Oh, Lucas!” She wept her knees buckling beneath her. “I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”
Duncan laughed as she fell to the ground. “Forgive you? No, Wife. He cannot forgive, for he is holding the burden of your sin.” He waved his hand and a guard mounted each horse.
“Stand now, and give the command.”
Lucas’s face was pale. He closed his eyes.
“I can’t do it,” Florence whispered. “How am I supposed to do this?”
“In a different world, a different time.” Lucas breathed the words audible giving her a grim smile.
Sobs rolled from her body like an avalanche of falling snow. Leaning close to his ear she wept, “I would be yours, and you would be mine.”
Florence let out a shallow breath and stumbled to stand. Duncan nodded to her once as her trembling hand raised towards the sky.
“I, Florence Fitzgerald. Wife of the Bishop, Duncan Fitzgerald ” She faltered her voice breaking in half.
“Do it now.” Duncan glared at her his rage reaching her like rays of the sun.
“Clean my sins by the way of vicarious redemption and sentence Lucas Hannover to die.” One of the horses let out a whine of impatience.
“I love you” she breathed and dropped her hand back to her side.
With a loud command, the horses jumped in unison. Lucas’s scream was fleeting as they fled, dragging his limbs behind them. A rain of blood-covered them as his head and torso hit the ground with a wet thud. Florence emptied the bile in her stomach between screams and sobs.
Duncan grinned at her, his eyes twinkling beneath his blood-soaked face.
“Tell me, wife, now what do you fear?” He spat on the corpse, chuckled, and strode away.
Now I know why I’m glad we don’t live in a medieval era.
Very good story, I was a bit shocked, cause I didn’t know what vicarious redemption was. Boy was I surprised…
There’s a story about Tsar Peter the Great that this story brought to mind. He had his wife’s adviser and alleged lover beheaded, and kept the head pickled in a jar on her dressing table to remind her of her offence. I don’t know if any vicarious redemption was involved, but her position as Tsarina was not affected.
I think it’s “The words fell ON deaf ears.” I also think that ‘naked’ is better than ‘nude’ (which is a bit ‘Benny Hill’, isn’t it?). And “Duncan! Oh Gosh, this isn’t what it looks like!” is (unintentionally?) funny, while ‘Gosh’ is perhaps a little weak in the circumstances (and probably not of this time).
Having said that, your story is terrific stuff.
(I agree with Ken C about the main scenario having elements of ‘Matty Groves’, though it’s not as horrific as your story. Also, have you read ‘The Execution of Damiens’ by HH Ewers? I read it in a horror anthology when I was younger and it’s been sleeping in my subconscious ever since; your story woke it up!)
Firstly, this is a superbly written story that packs quite a punch. I was aware of the death by horses as you describe but the way you set this out is really visceral ( no pun intended) There are one or two minor quibbles as mentioned by others but it’s a gripping and horrifying story nonetheless. Well done.
I had not heard of the expression “vicarious redemption” so I looked it up. The first example was Jesus on the cross dying for other people (us). Then I saw a link to a speech by a well-known British writer, intellectual and broadcaster Christopher Hitchens, now deceased, I believe. It was not very pleasant to listen too, especially for a Christian but it did explain the VR notion.
Great story that i am sure will be judged to be right up there with the best for this prompt.
Kind regards,
Ken Frape.
I read the story yesterday and I still can’t take out of my mind that image of torso-and-head hitting the ground with a wet thud. This image is so graphically powerful, if crude and gory. Something feels stuck between my stomach and the back of my throat each time I picture it. Your imagery works! At least you speak of Duncan spitting on Lucas’s “corpse”. My initial impression was that, at least in theory, a torso can remain alive for a while just after all four limbs are brutally pulled out from it, and until it hemorrhages. That would have been totally unbearable.
The quick transition from the warm sexual scene to the extreme violence that follows – both physical and psychological – left me rather breathless. But as extreme as it maybe, it’s all so realistically portrayed, especially for the era in question. The actions of the all-powerful bishop-husband to annihilate the humiliation and jealousy caused to him by his cheating wife is also perfectly believable.
Lucas twice says “In a different world, in a different time”. I’m not quite sure of the exact meaning of this, but it’s certainly significant for the story. Is it a cry for hope that somehow true love will reign over tradition in some other dimension/life? Lucas seems to be a believer. Is this how he faces his greatest fear?
Well done, Kristin, you’ve got this gore-horror subgenre well within your grasp. You got to be the lady who’s not afraid of anything to come up with a story like this!
Frape’s story’s next for me to read… I hope it’s gonna be light breezy reading. I’m still reeling off, can’t take another one like yours so rapidly in succession!
Ken
Vicarious redemption…just throw your sins to some one else, eh?
I kinda thought it did have a happy ending – unlike Kiz – but I speak from a husband’s point of view. I think the Bishop’s anger was misplaced. I’m willing to bet the thought of her lovers being drawn and quartered, (why it is called quartered mystifies me as there are 5 pieces – more like quinted), didn’t stop her from seizing the moment whenever the thought of a little side action grabbed her, while the Bishop was otherwise engaged. He should have dispatched her as well. Otherwise, he just ends up taking out a different lover every week or so. But you explain why he doesn’t kill her (which is the entire story), so there is that.
All in all, a well told story, and I really like some of your active descriptions, such as: One of the horses let out a whine of impatience’ although it probably should have been a ‘whinny of impatience’ for accuracy, but still, I heard the sound because I was completely drawn in. Nice job, Kristen.
FOUR DATES WITH DEATH
by Ken Miles
1,200 words
SIX
His body lay in repose before the altar. It hadn’t yet sunken in, that I won’t ever hear Grandpa Jack’s voice again. I knew that people died, just like flowers withered. But I’d never personally known anyone dead.
Grandpa was the epitome of life. ‘Jack-in-the-Box’, they called him, for he had no peace in his body. I knew he was faster than me, when we raced. He only let me win so I felt good. He was naughty too. He’d steal candies from Grandma’s kitchen and we’d eat them together, lots of them, sitting hidden on the floor behind the couch.
“It’s our secret, I promise I won’t tell,” he’d say to me. Now I knew he wouldn’t. I realized I was crying.
My grandparents more or less brought me up. Grandma fed me, grandpa entertained me. My filmmaker dad was often away. Mom couldn’t raise me. She wasn’t cut for it, shouldn’t have become a mother. She should’ve pursued the modeling career she’d once embarked on. But then I wouldn’t have existed. So I suppose she did the right thing doing the wrong thing. My good looks are the one thing I got from her.
I didn’t like that place, the church. Grandpa’d taken me there, once. It was dim inside, smelled creepy too. Seemed like a castle in a scary fairytale. Grim notes from the organ completed the spooky picture. There was then this man, badly beaten up, bloodied all over. His skin quivered to the myriad flickering candles.
“I’m scared of that man,” I whispered, huddling Grandpa.
“That’s Jesus!” he said, “when we die, if we’re good, we go to him.” I didn’t want to die, and now I wasn’t sure I wanted to be good.
A thought crossed my mind. I’d give Grandpa’s body in the uncovered coffin a good shake, yell out, as I often did, “Grandpa wake up! Let’s play!” He’d look at me, a little annoyed for rudely interrupting his sleep. A second later his face’d brighten up. “Yes! It’s playtime!”
But that day, in church, things were too somber. Everyone was sad, nobody spoke. Without Jack-in-the-Box the family seemed extinguished. We all wore black. I had a borrowed black suit on, it belonged to cousin Adrian when he himself was six. The organ sounded even spookier than the other time, even though I was older now.
The urge to play faded away. I thought I’d let Grandpa sleep this time.
SIXTEEN
Ten years later I encountered death again. Not that it mattered much this time. My dad never was a big part of my life. Besides, something else absorbed my attention.
Dad fell from a dolly-crane while filming ‘Madness’, crashed his cranium. Two weeks on and mum pulled his life-support plug. He was of no use to her in a vegetative state. My father did everything when he was home, changed the lamps and did the housewife. Mom wouldn’t touch a mop or microwave a McDonald’s meal.
Dad gone, she got this Honduran girl my age called Clara to do the housework. Clara’s warm exotic beauty and demeanor enchanted me. I’d walk her home after she’d done the evening dishes, that’s where our love grew. She worked to save up to study medicine, she said she wanted to make a real difference in the world. This made me fall deeper in love with her. I hadn’t met many nice people in my life since Grandpa died.
Mom noticed something. “You wanna tuck in bed with a bleach-smelling Mexican!?”
“She’s Honduran”, I corrected her, “and she’s becoming a doctor.”
“A doctor!” she burst laughing.
Slighted, I didn’t want to say anything else. Not to that woman.
So she continued unopposed, “Even your father cleaned toilets better than her!”
Because she shouldn’t be cleaning toilets, I said to myself but not to my mother.
TWENTY-SIX
I’d always been terrified of death. Not so much death in and of itself, but the idea of oblivion, of becoming nothing. I tried to put off the fear till later. So when that tumor appeared at 26, I couldn’t have been slapped harder in the face.
I’d sensed something was wrong for days. I told Clara, in the middle of the night, right after sex. We went downstairs to her clinic and she examined me. When she started crying I knew it was bad.
Her old professor at the university hospital agreed to take me on. The odds the operation succeeded were firmly against me. Three out of seven died under the knife.
When I was taken inside, my greatest remorse was leaving Clara in the waiting-room. Good chance I wouldn’t see her again. Anesthesia, then, did short work of my worries.
Something must’ve gone wrong. I could see them panicking.
“We’re losing him!”
I saw myself from atop. I felt at ease, serene, only somewhat confounded to see my own body from the outside.
“What’s that?” I wondered, disconcerted. I got nearer the back of my head. “Damn! I’m balding!” The little circular patch of scalp glowed in the theatre’s bright white light.
I saw Clara in the waiting-room. Funny how I could see her through the wall, and still see the wall itself. It’s like I could peer between the gypsum molecules. I went over, sat next to her, caressed her hair. She couldn’t see or hear me. She closed her eyes, breathed deeply and smiled.
The doctors and nurses pounded my chest frantically, their eyes glued to the obstinate straight line on the oscilloscope. They were about to give up. So I slipped inside my body again. For their sake too. Exasperated, they were doing their best.
Slipping back in was like putting your pajamas on after they’ve been air-dried for far too long, coarse and uncomfortable. But I soon got used to my skin again. The line on the oscilloscope reawakened. The room became jubilant.
But I soon slumbered, and next I know was coming to in the recovery ward much later, when the anesthetic wore off. The pain of the cut was excruciating, but mitigated by Clara’s beaming face peering over me, smiling. Relatives aren’t usually allowed in there, but being herself a doctor, she negotiated her way in.
“Professor Rutgers said you’re gonna be fine!” A warm tear rolled off her cheek onto my hand.
THIRTY-SIX
I’m mad at the authorities. I know this coronavirus caught them pants down. But how could you send a doctor to the frontline unarmed? No face-mask, no gloves? Would they send soldiers to war without guns?
The hospital chaplain called. He simply said, “The Great Gardener picked the prettiest flower.”
I couldn’t even tell her goodbye. Clara succumbed after consecutive 16-hour shifts trying to save others. It didn’t take long. From home under enforced lockdown, I see the convoy of military trucks on TV leaving the hospital for the cremation furnaces. Clara’s body’s in one of them. Then I watch, disinterested, endless statistics from the coronavirus deathbeds. Television channels are running out of fresh programs to air.
I’m mad, but not unhappy. I know for fact that Clara’s right here next to me. Just where else could she be?
What’s happening to me these days? I’m writing what people are calling sweet story after sweet story! I used to have people eating people. Monstrous savagery…
Is it the lockdown? Did I catch the bug? Is it what it also does to us? Maybe too much gluten from too frequent pasta… I know I should eat more fresh fruit and veg, and I usually do, but now how do I know nobody sneezed on them?
Glad you liked it Ken. And yes you’ll come up with a good one too, you’ll see! If not, there’s always the great fear of writer’s block to write about…
Ken
I meant sweet as in ‘a candy apple red Dodge Challenger with low-profile slicks, mag-wheels, super-charged engine, twin dual exhaust pipes, fuel-injected nitrous-oxide stacked hemi with four on the floor, roll-cage and wheelie bars. That kind of sweet. Or like, hitting the ball in the middle of the racket if you’re a tennis player.
Like it better that way 🙂
No, not my personal experience. It would be comforting to go through a clarifying NDE like that – it sort of resolves the mother of all fears once and for all; the rest of one’s life on earth would be a breeze.
But it’s the personal experience a fellow university student said he went through. Not an NDE, he practices astral projection and apparently that’s how he discovered he was balding!
On your fear, true, death is more of an issue for those left behind than for those who die. If there’s more after we’re gone, then it’s a sort of promotion, the next step in life, for the “dead” person. If there is nothing at all but oblivion, then the dead person doesn’t know. It’s the living that are left behind that are confounded and in misery…
Of course, that balding spot though. I laughed out loud at that one!
But Clara’s not really dead… that’s my final message. The narrator knows the mechanics of the afterlife from his own personal excursion to the “other side”. He’s sure the love of his life is right there next to him. I suppose that’s a great comfort for him, even if he may miss her physical presence.
I based this on many testimonials I’ve read (and some of people I met), but I don’t have such a personal experience myself. I never died and came back. I never astral-traveled. I never saw a ghost. I never even met a zombie. I did once see a UFO though.
Cheers!
Ken
Oookay, looking back, my miss-read version of the sentence doesn’t make a lot of sense lol. Now that I’ve got the right version, much more happier! My metaphorical heart has been fixed lol.
I’ve heard about those testimonials too. I’ve had quite a few horrid injury’s over these years, but never a brush with death (thankful for that one).
I also, have never seen a ghost, zombie or even a UFO! I did see several moose once…
moose trumps UFO maybe? Lol
I’m shocked to hear about your fair share of “horrid injuries.” Watch your step girl! I hope you’re all right now.
I wouldn’t want to get to the painful point of (almost) no return of my narrator. But, at the same time, it would be very comforting for the rest of one’s days on earth to experience first-hand something like that, which proves that there is more to life after we “die”.
Meeting up with some talkative ghost would be more convenient and less painful however, with more or less the same result!
Moose vs a UFO? Hmmm I’m torn on that one, now!
Cheers! And really, take care, don’t hurt yourself again…
Ken
The narrator has a fear of death – yet apart from the first one, in the event he takes each in his stride. Or, I should say, finds ways of coping. Do we, sadly, become more practised at it?
There is one typo that is interesting: “My father did everything when he was home, changed the lamps and did the housewife” …
Well, rather than ways of coping, I wanted to open a window to the possibility of death being a gateway to some other dimension. Very much like birth transporting us from water to air, death takes us from air to “ether”. I’m not saying I believe in this. But many have claimed to have had similar “brush with death” experiences. It might be their brain running low on oxygen. But who knows?
Did the housewife? I saw that lol and decided to leave it there! It will tell apart the clean minds from the dirty ones 🙂
Ken
Observations? As with my comments to Adi, these may seem churlish, but here goes:
– I found the ‘inter-titles’ (is that what they’re called?) a little distracting; you could maybe have established the narrator’s changing age in the body of the text (?)
– Typos? “… that I WOULDN’T ever hear Grandpa Jack’s voice again.” / “She wasn’t cut OUT for it.” / “… huddling UP TO Grandpa” / “… changed the lamps and did the housewife” (a Andy says, sounds naughty – ‘played’?) / “… next I know was coming to.” (“The next thing I knew I was …”)
– “We went downstairs to her clinic and she examined me. When she started crying I knew it was bad.” Sounds a bit quick and easy.
– “The odds the operation succeeded were firmly against me. Three out of seven died under the knife.” The odds are actually in your favour.
I may be using this story for a local writing contest. Since it’s got the coronavirus in it, now is the time to throw it around. Your corrections will of course be incorporated and if I win I’ll mention you in the award speech or buy you a virtual beer, whichever you prefer 🙂
I’m glad you liked the story. That balding spot bit seems to have made quite a hit with many of the readers. It’s like Marge making sure she rinsed the last dish on her way out of her house on fire in The Simpsons, the fuss we make about the little things in life, while Rome is burning…
Cheers!
Ken
Of course Phil is right about everything, but I would disagree on the inter-titles, as he called them. They are unusual, (that’s why none of us knows what they’re called) but I think they work wonderfully because they’re so short and perfectly self-explanatory. That’s the only suggestion Phil has made that I could, (and therefore must) disagree with. It’s your call though buddy boy. Good luck in the contest.
Roy
Roy
Great story. To me it has a number of threads that you have linked together and wrapped it all up in a virus blanket.
Others have pointed out a small number of minor issues but none of these detract from the quality of your writing. The day I write something that is perfect in every way will be Red Letter Day!!!
Seems strange that I am writing this comment directly under your story but when I press “post comment” it will go at the end. I have read through all the other comments and they have done a very thorough job in their comments.
I found the story sections to be helpful not distracting. The out of body experience, hovering above and seeing through walls and spotting the bald patch are really good devices that keep the story running along at a good pace.
Cracking stuff, Ken.
Kind regards,
Ken Frape
Some “threads” are drawn from life experiences or from things I’ve heard (including the out-of-body experience – an experience told by a University buddy who practices astral projection).
I missed a preposition here and there (while looking between hospital wall molecules…). Phil mentioned some… red pen out anyone who spots any other errors, please! Especially the teachers out there!
Cheers!
Ken
This a beautiful story! Well written and believable. I was taken in from the beginning. I learned something new. We don’t have statues or figures in the Church of Christ in which I was raised, so I never considered how a child might perceive a figure of Christ on the cross. I always explained to my children when they asked or if they saw a picture or if we were studying the crucifixion. Thank you for bringing that out in your story. It added to the realism. Wonderful work. Adi
What denomination do you follow? I know that most reformed churches keep artworks to a minimum, to avoid distracting worshippers from a more profound inward experiences. Catholic churches often go overboard in the other direction…
Ken
I’m a member of the Church of Christ, patterned after the New Testament church and based on strict biblical principles. We don’t have religious artifacts in our buildings and we sing A Capella (no instrumental music). We believe that baptism is essential to salvation and is a baptism of immersion once a person reaches the age of accountability (no infant baptism) and knows the significance of the baptism by repenting of our sins and choosing to follow Christ for life.
My father was a preacher, song leader and elder in the church for many years. He resigned from the Elder-ship after my mother developed Alzheimer’s. My grandparents were faithful members as well.
I have visited other denominations and some artifacts can be violent and scary, I agree.
My favorite part of the story is the “Twenty-Six” segment too: the bald spot, seeing through wall molecules, entering back in the body feeling like putting on coarse pajamas… I’m pleased you enjoyed those parts too 🙂
Ken
Ken
Life goes on after this earthly sojourn. That’s for sure.
The bald spot and the pyjama bit added the necessary pizzazz!
Good one!
I think that the narrator’s own out-of-body experience when he was 26 gives him more than just hope (perhaps certainty) that Clara is still alive in another form after the coronavirus kills her.
We just don’t know do we? Believing in afterlife is after all as difficult as believing in oblivion. It just can’t be that it’s all for nothing with us and the universe…
Ken
Even yet, another story of dying alone. This prompt is saying a lot through it’s various authors. Well done, liked the four steps and, while not a proponent of out of body experiences (although to this day I think I may have had one once – common sense tells me I have reimagined it after eye witness accounts may have altered my memory), you did that very nicely. Kept me engaged and I enjoyed reading it.
Your encounter of the character at the age of six thinking of his grandfather as sleeping reminds me of my 3 year old nephew who with his father carrying him, approached the coffin where my wife’s mother – his grandmother – lay as the two of them paid their final respects. My nephew Matt pointed and said, “Is Grandma sleeping?”. My brother in law, thinking this was not the time to explain death to a three year old, said, “Yes, Grandma is sleeping.” Then, he said, “Speaking of that, it’s about time for your nap.” Matt drew back in his arms, looked at his grandmother, then looked back at his dad with horror on his face, saying “In there?” We were right behind him in line and it was hard to stifle a laugh. To this day, I wonder what the people who saw us laughing were thinking.
Well written story Ken M. I got no quibbles with your writing. No critique from me.
Roy
It’s interesting how we (not only kids) often compare dying with sleeping. With the exception that there is no waking up. Or is there? I prefer to keep this an open question. Why should consciousness, after all, in all its subtlety, be exclusively bound to biology?
Ok that’s the question of the ages… just reworded a little…
Cheers!
Ken
‘He spat on the corpse.’ You mean the torso? Or…
The word ‘bishop’ sounds like somebody puking. Now I know why.
Kristin,
Have you ever heard the song “Matty Groves’? By Fairport Convention? Theme-wise, somewhat similar to your very fine story.
You should write more often. You’re so talented.
Small, Red and Deadly.
by Ken Frape. 1200 words.
Despite her diminutive size, the spider was venomous and deadly. She was on a mission to give birth and driven by pure instinct as she emerged from the cooling pile of discarded clothing on the bedside chair and scuttled across the polished, wooden bedroom floor. The fragrant air of a cooling Summer’s night gently wafted through the open shutters. To her it was dangerously cool, she must hurry.
She made her way up the wall and across the ceiling then abseiled down her silken thread towards the heat source she had detected. Abruptly, she came to a stop barely an inch above the sleeping man’s face. His regular breathing made her swing to and fro in the draught. As he breathed in he drew her towards his mouth and, as he exhaled, he blew her away.
The man and his wife beside him slept on, blissfully unaware of their proximity to almost certain death.
The spider maintained her position, her eight eyes watching. After a few seconds the man turned over and, as he did so, his luxuriant silver – grey thatch of hair brushed against the spider. Quickly, she darted from her thread and moved purposefully towards his warm and inviting ear cavity. A minute later she had completed her task and her tiny babies were resting safely in the warm, soft earwax of the still sleeping host. The tiny hairs in his ear sensed her presence and he shivered, his skin prickling. He pulled the duvet closer to him but, by then, his night visitor had scurried across his pillow and down the trailing quilt to the floor. Her life’s work done, exhausted, she would be cold and dead within the hour.
In the Entomology Department in The University of Oxford’s research laboratory the next day, Professor Solomon gathered his team around him.
“We have a new research project,” he told them. “This little arachnid, the female of the species,” he indicated the tiny black and red spider in the research tank, “is proving to be an incredible find. Warning. She is pregnant and programmed to leave her babies somewhere warm and moist, so be extra careful. The recent tests on her toxicity indicate that she possesses the highest levels ever found in any arachnid.”
The team moved a tentative, albeit nervous, step closer.
Bob Sherman, the newest member of the team, shuddered, partly due to his lifelong phobia of spiders crawling over his skin and partly by the way in which Professor Solomon moistened his lips with obvious relish, displaying a set of perfect white teeth.
He felt sweat break out all over his body. His recent long spell of unemployment after graduation had led to him applying for each and every science based research assistant’s post and this one had come up. A six month trial. The very thought of spiders made him go weak with nausea but if he could just face down this fear at least he would be able to pay his rent.
The professor continued, “She is called Solomonosia Cardinalis, named after yours truly, as I found her under a rock in the Amazon Rainforest during my recent expedition. But then you all know that already, don’t you?“
His team gave a polite round of applause but the Professor waved their applause away with a waft of his hand.
“You’ll notice that she has a tiny red spot on her back, hence the Cardinalis. Be very, very careful if you go anywhere near her as she moves surprisingly quickly and she jumps too,” he paused for effect, scanning the faces of his wide-eyed colleagues…”one tiny drop of her toxin on your skin will kill you, slowly and very painfully. As yet there is no antidote. Our job is to find one.”
Bob swallowed again and took another step back.
In the quiet of the early evening, Professor Solomon finally gave in to his fatigue. His head was aching as it had all day and his neck and back were cramping after twelve hours hunched over test tubes, culture dishes and microscope, performing cutting edge science.He had been able to carry out further tests on the toxicity of this tiny arachnid, nicknamed Little Red by his team. The results were astounding. The potential spin – offs for the pharmaceutical industry were enormous and, if managed effectively, this project could keep his research facility in funds for the rest of his career.
Possibly he could even realize his dream of a Nobel Prize.
His name would go down in history.
Before leaving for home, the professor rinsed his face under the cold tap in the men’s room. He dried his face and then, not for the first time, he knuckled his right ear to ease the itching. He ran his fingers through his luxuriant mass of silver grey hair and slipped his sunglasses on.
Cruising along the freeway, in his red sports car, ten miles from home, he casually probed his right ear again with his finger nail. “Wax” he thought but as he glanced back towards the road he suddenly registered that there was a dark speck on the end of his finger. His eyes widened with dawning horror.
The words “Oh my God, no!” had barely left the Professor’s mouth before his speeding car slammed into the crash barrier. The disintegrating vehicle then careered across the tarmac in a shower of broken glass, plastic and metal before slewing to a halt across several lanes.
By the time the emergency services had managed to force their passage through the stalled traffic, the Professor was barely conscious, his eyes wide open and staring, small red bubbles frothing on his lips. Most of the twenty or so tiny black and red spiderlings released by the professor’s probing finger had, by then, dispersed around his body or into folds in his clothing. Some were deep in his hair, enjoying the warmth of his scalp. Several landed on the warm tarmac where they scuttled away into tufts of roadside vegetation. One remained embedded in his ear wax, its tiny legs waving helplessly.
In the emergency room the medics quickly stripped away the Professor’s blood – stained clothing and got to work on his injuries. Several tiny spiderlings, unnoticed by the medical team, scurried away, one finding a new host as it quickly climbed an errant strand of hair and disappeared under the rim of a nurse’s surgical cap.
The consultant arrived and asked for an update as she leaned over the patient to make a cursory examination, her braided hair draped across her shoulder.
“Who is he?” she asked a team nurse.
“Professor Solomon, from the University. He is a specialist in the study of deadly spiders,” the nurse shuddered as she spoke. “Give me blood and broken bones everyday,” she added. “But spiders? No way!”
“Vital signs are weak, but he’s hanging in there,” the consultant commented as she nonchalantly brushed a tiny dark speck from the corner of her vision.
“At least we don’t have to worry about deadly spiders in here, do we?”
Word count 1199
Now I can prance around my house, showing my siblings this story with a smug smile, showing them, just how creepy spiders can be.
Let’s hope the shiver as much as I did.
When the spider crawled into the man’s ear, ugh, I got chills up and down my spine.
I dare say, I might just try and quarantine myself from spiders now!
Irony, a touch of hubris too. Great story, Ken, and excellent descriptive writing – as well as being skin-crawlingly horrific! You know what’s coming, and there’s no getting away from it. And then wham! Something even worse happens – though (maybe perversely?) something that is somehow less scary. We’re funny creatures when it comes to risk, aren’t we?
And then at the end – a kind of doubling down on the dramatic irony. Great stuff.
Observations:
– There could perhaps be a separator (asterisks?) before this line: “In the quiet of the early evening…”
– Not sure about the relevance of the ‘Bob’ thread.
– The thing I liked least was the last line, which I found a little forced. I think “But spiders? No way!” would have been the perfect ending.
Great stuff!
‘She came to a stop barely an inch above the sleeping man’s face.’
‘The spider maintained her position, her eight eyes watching.’ Eeee-uhhh- huhuhuhuhuh. (And I like spiders, from a distance.) (Okay, I respect them. I don’t actually like them.)
Professor Solomon, indeed. (Pride goeth somewhere you don’t want to be.)
Great dialogue, great ending. It’s amazing how similar this is to an epidemic, while being something entirely different altogether.
Fabulous story, writing, dialogue, The whole ball of ear-wax. (What is it with you, Alyssa and Kristen? You guys and gals are trying to give me nightmares.)
I can answer your question or I can leave you to work it out for yourself and possibly unravel my tale of horror.
Let me think……
Ken F
Last evening, I was watching a small blonde(!) spider, swishing with the breeze, slowly devouring an ugly fly three times its size, in the garden. I can’t stand flies..so was thinking up a rhyme.
But after your story, never again will I look at them.
But I am sad about that nurse….not during these days when they do so much.
They don’t need spiders to add to their woes.
Good story!
Thanks so much for contributing to my persistent insomnia. All I needed was yet more reasons to keep me from sleep. I fear I shall never sleep again.
Even though I was literally queasy from reading your story, I was hooked to the creepy, crawly end. UGH!
If your goal was to evoke emotion in your readers, you succeeded with this one! Great work.
It sometimes sounds like a documentary by David Attenborough (and that’s intended as praise, that guy is brilliant), and here and there you fill us in on the horrific things that are going on with Profs. S. in a neat, smooth way. We know enough about this spider by the time we’re reading what’s going on to be genuinely scared. Very nicely done, Ken.
The ending is great, but I sort of wanted more punch. I don’t know what to suggest. Perhaps a scream? Some indication the nurses, doctors realise something? I don’t know. I liked this story enough, I wanted more of it. More to happen before it ended…
Ken
Facing Fears by Kiz Fisher
Ever since I heard the phrase facing your fears, long, long ago, I’ve wondered what does it mean to face a fear. I don’t think of my self as fearful. I’ve been in crisis situations where I’ve felt myself become incredibly calm and do what had to be done.
That’s not a flippant assessment of myself. Changing careers and lifestyle in my 40’s allowed me to be a member of a rural volunteer fire department, become a firefighter and EMT 1A. I became a Corrections and Communications employee in the county Sheriff’s Department and had multiple trainings for self protection and “command presence”. That last one sounds odd but it really means everything.
So command presence is just a matter of reaching deep inside quelling the panic and the “oh crap… what the hell …everything is going sideways” feeling and everything speeds up reaction – decisions – actions – while at the same time your outer demeanor is calm assertive and in control. I don’t know if I’m giving a good picture with these words… but when you’ve got it you know it and I have also witnessed others in that mode and it is pretty impressive.
But fear we’re talking about fear…facing fear… I don’t think command presence will do a whole lot with my biggest fears physically.. I think I fear most Black Widow Spiders and the runner-up Rattlesnakes, mostly because I have an over active immune system and in it’s attempt to protect me from a poisonous bite might just do me in…it’s caused me problems medically more than once in my life. I like spiders and snakes. If there is a spider in my home and I can’t reach it I tell them out loud, “remember the deal is if I can’t see you, you are safe”, and I’m always happy when I return and they have moved …where I don’t know… if they are within my reach I carefully cover them with a glass slide a paper over the opening and release them outside, they’re probably not happy but they have a chance for a better life.
My brother and I played with Garter snakes in our yard. I never feared snakes but as an adult and I became aware of my medical issues with an over-active immune system somehow Rattlesnakes became a focus of fear probably because I was an active hiker and camper and enjoyed trudging through the woods mostly on trails but anytime I was in a field or around tall grass and shrubs I was on total alert and aware, where I live today is rural and snakes abound and I was not overjoyed to find a baby rattler sunning on the edge of my porch one summer morn.
I really don’t think that is my biggest fear…I fear for my sons and their families, I want everyone to live happy lives with all the tools they need to be self supporting able to live and have the life they want. I don’t fear dying I’ve lived a good life, I have a wonderful family I want my sons to know how much I love them and how meaningful they have made my life. I had my sons when I was still young. My fractured childhood did not teach me much about being a parent.
Most of what I observed in the many different chapters of my life demonstrated what not to do. As a result of this I realized as my children grew I was still learning how to be an adult and made many mistakes and wish I’d known better sooner. My whole goal in life was to raise my two sons to help them to do well in school, go to college and they would end up in happy marriages with professional careers. It wasn’t a perfect journey but they excelled and my goal in life was achieved.
I remember at my retirement party from the County. My oldest son, a Veterinary Pathologist made a little speech about me and one of the things he said is, “My Mom is a worrier…” he mentioned things he did that worried me and continued, “she used to say to me when I was a teenager… I hope you have a son who is just like you,”. and added, “the best thing is that I do have that son and even better he likes to spend a lot of time with his Gramma”. My younger son, a Science Teacher, has called me “his rock”, even now when he has retired from his 30 years of teaching, we reassure each other on whatever is unassuring in our lives. When he was a teenager his go to response to an admonishment was “I didn’t try to!.” My constant response was ” Well try not too”. When his son was a teenager we were going somewhere and while loading something into the backseat, and my grandson upon doing something and being called on it said to his father “I didn’t try too,” my son replied as he looked across the seat at me, “well, try Not too.” My heart sang.
I hope when I’m gone and my sons have to deal with all the stuff everyone accumulates over a lifespan and hasn’t made use of the Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning book they don’t feel irritated with me.
I do know what my greatest fear is… losing my sons, if something should happen to one of my sons, if they should pass before me, I don’t think I could bear it, I cannot even begin to imagine how any parent can survive the loss of a child. My daughter-in-laws and three grandsons would suffer too, I know…but I cannot see anything beyond my pain of loss and find it hard to think I could go on… this is my biggest fear and I don’t want to face it.
This is more of a commentary than a story, no qualms, just an observation, expressing a commonly held view by most parents. Not being an actual parent, but, without exposing too much personal history, I think I know exactly what it’s like. Some higher force in the universe chooses our fate for us. All of us.
We like to think that we can cheat our fate by lingering on the platform, waiting for the next train, but that plays right into ‘Fate’s’ hand.
Barring parenthood, I think most people’s greatest fear is death itself. That mysterious, inescapable, eternal oblivion. (I don’t care if that’s grammatically incorrect.)
My story, which is combobulating in my brain as I sit here, may very well ignore the prompt, abuse the prompt, murder the prompt, or all three. That’s my greatest fear, oblivion. Death. I suppose death in one’s sleep is preferable to one described by Kristin, and, now that I think about it, the more time one has to contemplate oblivion, for some that seems to make it easier, for others, much harder.
A quick and painless death is the best that one can hope for, I suppose.
And I also learned about command presence. Maybe I should work on that!
It chimed with me a couple of times: the fear of spiders, and your rule for letting them stay indoors (“remember the deal is if I can’t see you, you are safe”). I do the same if they’re less than half an inch (total span, legs included), and if not, it’s out the window! (using your method). I read somewhere, though, that putting house-spiders out is actually a death sentence for them. But then I’ve asked myself: how do they get into houses in the first place if not over the surrounding ground? The second thing is your fear about your sons passing before you. My brother died, and my mother had to cope with that. She seemed strong on the outside, but I think she must have brooded on it all the time.
I sincerely hope you can have your wish and be spared that.
As the others have commented, this is more of an honest outpouring of your fears than a story as such but it is well within the parameters set by the group. It makes for really interesting reading as it touches upon things that we all know about or actually share. Death is there for all of us, come what may and we don’t get much choice at the end, with one or two notable exceptions such as suicide or the Dignitas Clinic.
My parents developed a fear of dying apart from each other. Didn’t happen for my Dad who died holding Mum’s hand, just after their 70th. wedding anniversary. Mum is now in a Care Home so I can’t say that any of our family will be by her side when her time comes.
I think you have done us all a service in the way you have written this and you really have used the prompt.
Kind regards,
Ken Frape
My handsome 24 yr old lad went ahead to be with Jesus in a car accident, in Kansas City. He was sitting behind without a seat belt, and his friend was drunk, drove fast, accelerated in a culvert.
The phone call from the hospital was like the movies. 2005.
If not for the resurrection, I would’ve been a broken woman. Jesus died even for this. My family drew strength from this truth.
I learnt the value of forgiveness too.
God has gifted me with immense humor ( my version) much joy, and peace!
Your account is touching and you’ve expressed your thoughts in all its vulnerability and honesty.
It doesn’t always have to be a story, does it!
Fear not. Only believe. It changes lives.
We have a lot in common. I can’t stand spiders or snakes and I’ve had several encounters with them both over the years (since I was raised in Florida)! I especially remember the night my mother was poking a “pretty” red, yellow and black snake with her foot, in the backyard, trying to get it to move away. I’ll never forget my father literally falling off the couch when she described it, screaming that it was a coral snake and deadly. Running outside, he wasn’t in the mood to encourage it to move and he killed it.
Losing my children is an ever-constant fear. A fear born when I lost 3 babies prior to birth almost exactly 1 year apart (a little girl and boy/girl twins). I’d already had 2 beautiful children and adopted a third. To lose these babies was just as traumatic as losing one of the others would have been. It’s been 34 years since Ashlee died and 33 years for the twins. I still miss them every day. When I miraculously became pregnant with my rainbow baby, I was terrified the entire pregnancy that I would lose him too. He will be 25 years old next month.
Thanks for sharing your fears. This topic was a true “stretch assignment” – taking us out of our comfort zones and making us face some of what we fear the most. You did good!
Adi
This story develops like a testimony based self-help book, with several takeaways and an honest, neatly told account of a mom’s (and gramma’s) typical fears. And some not so typical ones too. There is a sprinkling of humor making the piece a very appetizing read, despite the somber subject. At first I thought it’s gonna be too self-consciously attached to the prompt, but then it does take a life of its own.
I’d like to point out some errors I came across, that can easily be weeded out:
“your outer demeanor is calm assertive and in control.” > a comma after calm?
“in it’s attempt to protect me from a poisonous bite” > its (ah this must be an autocorrect thingy, mine is trying to play clever too!)
“I never feared snakes but as an adult and I became aware of my medical issues with an over-active immune system somehow Rattlesnakes became a focus of fear…” > I feel there’s some missing connector here, maybe “when” needed after “and” or move “and” from where it is to just before “somehow”? Also rattlesnakes doesn’t need yo be capitalized. And this bumper sentence is too long, I had to stop midway for a breather!
I hope that helps and thanks for sharing your (?) fears with us…
Ken
Well-written and touching story, rooted in experience.
The Fear Factor
Written by Alyssa Daxson
Word count: 1167
The warm, humid summer air rolled through the small, stuffed classroom. The air conditioner set in the side rattled away, desperately trying to pump cool air through.
Students sat at desks, their gazes either trained at the ground, or wandering aimlessly, filled with unspeakable boredom.
The bang of a door brought their attention briefly to a long, lanky man, covered in a white lab coat, as he stepped into the room, a strained smile stretching across his face. “Hello all,” he said, awkwardly waving a hand.
Nothing but silence greeted his words, and the man, known as Dr Gabriel Thornton, cleared his throat nervously. “As you know, I’m a guest speaker from Thornton Labs, over in New York City,” Gabriel continued, striding up front and stopping by a big black chalkboard. “Your teacher, Mr Fredrick, was kind enough to invite me over.”
Again, there was no response, as the students looked on drolly, each and everyone of them in their own little world.
“Well, to start off,” Gabriel said, ignoring the silence, “I’ve got a little experiment I’d like to try.” As he said that, Gabriel reached into his coat, and a pulled out a syringe, full of a purplish liquid. He flicked the needle, watching, entranced as the liquid sloshed around in the tiny glass tube.
“It’s something I call, fear factor,” Gabriel said, glancing up.
The students now were at rapt attention, the sight of the needle and strange liquid drawing them in like a song. Gone were the dull eyes and open mouths, instead the students looked on, eager, and even a bit hesitant.
“What’s the fear factor?” One student, a chubby boy by the name of Roger asked, his beady eyes scrunched up.
Gabriel smiled, his teeth glistening white, and stared silently.
Roger shivered and looked away, the Doctor’s gaze reminding him of a shark.
“Well, everyone is afraid of something, right?” Gabriel said, once Roger’s gaze broke away. There was a silence, before a quiet smattering of yes, and maybes, sounded across the room.
“This needle, and it’s lovely contents make you live your fear,” Gabriel explained, walking down the classroom. He reached the door, and slowly turned the lock, smiling as it clinked into place.
The students shifted nervously, the tension in the air rising considerably.
“So, if I was afraid spiders, then that needle would make me see spiders?” Roger asked, his voice trembling slightly.
Gabriel met his gaze, and nodded slowly. “Although to you, it would probably make you see, and possibly be eaten by spiders,” he paused and shrugged, breaking away from Roger’s terrified gaze. “It all depends on how afraid you are.”
As Gabriel walked up the center, there was a scoff from one student, who stood up, his chin thrust out arrogantly.
“I’m not afraid of anything,” he announced, glaring around the room, daring anyone to challenge him.
“Sit down, you idiot,” a small, thin boy hissed, who was hunched over his desk like a squirrel.
“Quiet Stephen,” the boy standing up snapped, his eyes glaring.
Stephen flinched, and gave the boy one last glare, hunching over his desk again.
Gabriel, observing the exchange, smiled broadly at the boy standing up. “Not afraid, are you?” He asked, tilting his head.
The boy nodded firmly, a cocky smile spreading across his face.
“Well, what’s your name then?” Gabriel asked, his eyes glinting.
“Brady,” the boy said proudly. “After the football player.”
Gabriel nodded absently, his eyes drifting into the distance. “Well, Brady, would you be able to do something for me? Unless you’re too scared…” Gabriel’s voice was low and smooth as he stared at Brady, who shifted nervously, staring to realize the trouble he’d gotten himself into.
“Sure, yeah I’ll do it,” Brady forced out, and hesitantly followed Gabriel up to the front of the class.
Gabriel took out the needle, and gripped Brady’s shoulder tight, the veins in his hands bulging. “Woah, woah, what are you doing?” Brady stuttered, trying to break away.
Gabriel grip tightened, and a devilish grin spread across his face. “My dear boy, I’m showing you what it is to fear,” he snarled, before plunging the needle into Brady’s neck, injecting a small amount of the liquid into his body.
Immediately Brady seized up, and his eyes rolled into the back of his head. He collapsed to the ground, convulsing, a bloodcurdling scream leaving his throat.
“What are you doing?!” Roger yelled, jumping to his short feet. Gabriel turned towards him, and his arm shot forward, grabbing Roger by the neck, and shoving the needle into his jugular vein.
“Exactly what I’m doing to you,” Gabriel growled, as Roger fell to the ground, screeching about spiders, shaking uncontrollably.
The students, barely to comprehend what was going on, sat there in shock, watching as two of their classmates convulsed on the ground, screaming uncontrollably, tears streaming down their faces.
A pounding on the door distracted Gabriel as he stood above the two students, and his gaze hardened as a deep, male voice called from the hallway.
“Dr Gabriel! What is going on?!” The voice yelled. Gabriel didn’t answer, and watched as the door rattled from the impact of somebody hitting it.
One student made a move to get up, his mouth opening to cry for help. Gabriel was by his side in an instant, and seconds later, the student was curled up on the ground, shrieking in terror.
Gabriel’s eyes were alight with a feverish glare, and he gazed around at the terrified students. “Anyone have any questions?!” He yelled, raising his arms high.
There was a stifled sob, and one girl covered her eyes and started to rock back and forth, crying out in a teary voice for her mom.
Gabriel smiled, and slowly moved towards the girl, who screamed, backpedaling into a corner, her eyes trained in the needle, which was poised to strike.
“Noo!” A voice cried, before Stephen launched himself at Gabriel, his small body crashing into Gabriel’s chest.
Gabriel stumbled back, and the needle slipped from his hands, landing on the floor with a clink.
Stephen, laying splayed across Gabriel, desperately grabbed the needle and wrenched Gabriel’s head to the side, and plunging the needle into his vein, pushing the rest of the purple liquid into his body.
Gabriel convulsed for a second, before his eyes found Stephen, and a wicked smile spread across his face.
Stephen scrambled away, his eyes wide with fear. “No… how?” He breathed, his voice quiet and trembling.
Gabriel grabbed Stephen’s shirt collar, and wrenched him to his feet. He shoved Stephen against a wall, and watched as Stephen’s face slowly turned blue, gasping for breath.
“Because my dear boy, after years of back-breaking, grueling scientific work, I made a discovery,” Gabriel said, his voice soft and smooth as he watched Stephen’s eyes flutter shut, the life leaving the small, brave boy’s body. “The only thing to fear is fear itself.”
I’m not sure if fear itself is the only thing to fear – maniacal guest speakers reusing a syringe to stab multiple victims seems something any reasonable student would have a right to be fearful of 🙂
As mentioned, the last line is very clever but is perhaps a bit of a dampener on the carnage that has gone before.
Great read, though.
Everyone else seems to agree, that the ending was a bit of let down, so that very helpful. Next prompt I’ll try to make my ending extra special lol
Great story that is certain to be amongst the best when voting takes place, in my opinion.
i note comments made about your opening sentences and the ending. I have a writer friend ( multiple award winning writer…I hate him!!) and he has always talked to me about my endings. He suggests taking away the final sentence to see if it was really needed. In my case, it often wasn’t needed, as it didn’t add anything. It’s a good thing to consider although I have to disagree with the others in this instance in that I felt that the last line was useful, like a final hand clap or the thump as you close a hardback book at the end of reading it. It’s closure, quite literally.
A really impressive story, right on the prompt.
Kind regards,
Ken Frape
Truth be told, I was very hesitant about my story. Usually, my process when writing books (and I’ve learned this over many mistakes) is always take at least 3-4 days to mull my story over. Cause I will have these crazy, insane ideas that sound good in my head, but on paper (or screen) they sound completely bonkers.
I once, wrote a two book series about a boy and his dragon in an apocalyptic world. The general idea, although cliche was actually decent. But my imagination butchered it, adding all these crazy ideas that didn’t fit.
This story was somewhat the same, with the idea of a doctor, who waltz’s into a classroom and injects students with a serum that makes them live their wildest fear.
Of course, not the tamest idea. I decided to just post this straight from the crazy press, and I’m glad it had gotten pretty good feedback. I was not expecting that lol.
Wow, with a message this size, I think I’m copying you Ken’s….
Lol Alyssa! Mine is still coming. The comment. I see the other two Kens have already given you their bit. I read your story, loved it, and my review will be coming soon to a screen near you. So watch this space!
Ken (M.)
Yep, this line wins the story!!! This was madness and I enjoyed it.
I work very hard to not let a spirit of fear take over my emotions. I now have a fear of reading anymore stories in this thread.
Whose prompt was this? Do we need to take them into a back room and put the fear of something in them? Wow. I have no words.
Your story succeeded in evoking a great deal of fear. UGH. Masterful work. I think I need to take a break.
Thanks for reading it!
As promised here I am, the third Ken to comment, this prompt round. I’m usually the first. You’ve memorized us by now, right? There’s F., there’s C. and your favorite one, M.! Confusing, I know, but life is never simple.
So, as I already said somewhere else in reply to one of your comments to somebody else’s comment, I really loved your story. I read the other commentators’ reviews too. They mostly “attacked“ the ending, and Ken C. had a go at your opening shot. Let me start with that. And with a confession. I have an iCloud folder where I copy and paste anything I read here or elsewhere that I like very much. Something I like the sound of. Some words that just seem so good together. Some expression in a fine twist. In short, anything I wish I had written myself. And the aim of this list of excerpts is to steal from it, whenever I need something.
Ok, that’s off my chest now.
More: those first two paragraphs of yours that Cartisano castigated found themselves in my stolen treasure throve! So I obviously disagree with his assessment. Cartisano and I, for the record, often agree (he won’t admit it, but we do), but when we disagree we do so in a big way, with diametrically opposite views, no less.
Those first two paragraphs really put me in the mood for this story, they set the scene of a bored class in a stiffly hot classroom with hardly any consolation coming from a pathetic air conditioner. This makes Dr. Thornton’s success in grabbing the pupils attention even more noteworthy. Dramatic, even.
Cartisano’s alternative start is great too and conveys a similar feel. But I certainly have no issues with yours. I know his problem. The adjectives. The adverbs. The advice from Hemingway. Mark Twain. Stephen King. But it’s fine by me. And he’s going to say “Ernest. Twain. King… just who’s Miles?” I’m seeing it coming..
About the ending, in theory I like it. It does wrap up the story nicely, a good life lesson too. I never doubted the visiting scientist’s good intentions, despite his interestingly rough ways of handling the kids to get his final point across. My very notable “Horror Film Theory” credits lecturer at University (I studied film-making) often mentioned that well-known quote of fearing fear itself as a leitmotif of the horror genre, so I’m there with you and Dr. Thornton on this one.
The problem with it is that it’s simply too famous and has a bit of a worn out feel because of that. I think that is the real problem the other commentators found with your ending. Anyone unfamiliar with that quote would just say wow. So don’t change it, unless you find something really, but really better. But any other ending, better or not, would need a total reworking of the story leading to it. And you just can’t do that to such a good story.
That was about the beginning and the end. And the middle? A very entertaining read that kept me on the edge of my seat, as I saw one pupil after another fall prey to the fearmonger. Luckily I myself didn’t fall off my seat. The hospitals are busy enough with the coronavirus right now, it’s not a good time to hurt myself.
It’s most satisfying to see the class bully succumb. In real life, as others have hinted at, only a crazed educator would use such unorthodox and potentially dangerous methods to drive his point home. Or one with very good political contacts. But (1) this is a story not reality, and (2) crazy people do exist in this world and one never knows when they might show up. Showing the kids the syringe was, to me, scarier than actually using it. But then the story required some action too. And I think you conveyed it brilliantly. And in nicely woven language too.
A couple of things I’d have liked to see:
– I would have preferred “Dr. Thornton” or simply “Thornton” to “Gabriel“. Referring to the eminent scientist by his first name in the context of a class of pupils somewhat diminishes his authority (and fearsomeness). I don’t know how it is in schools in your area, but at my school we didn’t even use to know of the teachers’/visitors’ given names.
– We don’t get to know what Brady is really afraid of, do we? I want to get inside his head and know what a bully finds fearsome!
Those are the only two things that leave me yearning; otherwise it’s a story that I’d love to keep with me for a long time to come.
Btw, in your comments, you mention writing book after book. Lots of writing projects, apparently. Have you published any? Where else can we read Alyssa Daxson? This talent can’t stay forever in hiding!
Cheers!
Ken
Let’s get this typing party started, and maybe by the end, I’ll have a longer comment. One can only hope tho!
I’m really glad that you liked my beginning! I still quite like Ken C’s ending tho. Maybe you two Ken’s will clash…? Or three? (Should I start chanting fight right now? It seems like the appropriate time)
As for Brady. Yesss I relished his demise. And Like you said, you wanted to see Brady’s fear. Well that was actual idea, that Dr Thornton would grab Brady, and tell the whole class his fear, and then inject him.
Of course, then I would possibly be leaving people wondering how the Dr Thornton knew that. And the explanation would probably be too long.
Fun fact; Brady’s fear was claustrophobia (now you know his fear!)
As for writing my books. I have indeed written a good amount. But I haven’t published any yet. I’m writing a three book series, and one separate book. The three book series is almost done, and then I intend to publish them all at once.
The one separate book I’m writing right now, but I’m only a couple chapters in.
Thanks for reading it!
Cheers back to you!
Alyssa
Ok, so Brady’s weak point is claustrophobia. Indeed, having Dr Thornton finding that out and telling us about it would’ve needed a different chiselling to your story-line, with some more innovative technology involved. Like an app on his phone that shows what the syringe found. Bit far-fetched.
I’m a firm believer in showing rather than telling. So perhaps the injected Brady rolls under tables, panicking in the confined spaces, and yells “get me out, get me out!”
“C for claustrophobia!” concludes an excited Dr Thornton, still fascinated like a little kid by his own invention…
Good to hear you intend to take your writings out of your harddisk on to the bookshelves. Do let us know of your big day, ok?
So you’re looking for a Ken-fight. Appropriate time to start chanting fight, you say? Hmmm, us C., F. and M. don’t usually hold words back, true. Una Poole (Unamoona) gets involved too, sometimes. Quite inexplicably, she’s in the Ken cartel too. Even Liz wants to join. In fact she approximated her name to ours, she’s Kiz now.
But it’s all friendly hair-pulling. Ken Frape would never let himself into a fist fight. He’s British and a former schoolmaster.
Cartisano has his rough edges, but he’s well-meaning too. The tongue is sharp, but in a good way. With a legendary sense of humor. Only once we came to blows.
Like your Dr Thornton, I found Ken Cartisano’s Achilles‘s Heel, the one thing he absolutely can’t stand. That’s cucumbers and robots in the same story. I made that mistake sometime last autumn, October I think it was. I believe you were here with us already, but I’m not sure if you took part in that prompt, “See you, hear you” it was called, something like that, or if you followed the Ken C. vs Ken M. fracas that followed. I still don’t know what his problem is with cucumbers and robots together… Doesn’t one sort of bring up the other to your mind?
I leave you on that one. Start chanting?
Ken
Especially because it had cucumbers and robots. As I recall, I liked it.
Okay, now I’m warming up. Gotta get these pipes working for my chants.
I’ll be back after I drink some water, got to hydrate
Such a lovely, touching story. My parents, when they were both alive, were really terrified of not being together, after 70 years of marriage, when one of them died. This is now happening for so many people with this dreadful virus. My Dad died aged 95 holding my mum’s hand. He had vascular dementia for about 8 years.
There are many different fears and this was such a good prompt. I think the quality of the writing in this group will really draw inspiration from this prompt as you have so clearly demonstrated.
Your story is clearly a very personal one and my heart goes out to you regarding the way your mother has been treated. I hope you are able to achieve a satisfactory resolution and closure.
Keep writing,
Kind regards,
Ken Frape.
This is excellent writing, and an excellent story.
If you don’t like the ending, you have plenty of time to request the story be pulled, rework it and re-post it. I didn’t have any real problems with the ending, it wasn’t as good as the story (which is absolutely fabulous), but my main complaint is with the first two lines. Which is critically important for such a great story.
You wrote:
The warm, humid summer air rolled through the small, stuffed classroom. The air conditioner set in the side rattled away, desperately trying to pump cool air through.
Too many adjectives, and for what? You want to describe a hot, stifling, cramped and uncomfortable environment. I get it. I know what you’re trying to convey, but the words you use pile on the each other and then cancel each other out.
Summer air is usually warm and humid. Rolling air is generally refreshing, and how does warm air roll through a room with air conditioning on? Aren’t the windows closed?
The summer’s heat was stifling in the small, cramped classroom. An ancient, rusty air conditioner made a heroic but futile effort to cool the room.
Capeesh? (Capiche?)
Otherwise, this is an excellent story. A wonderful read. (I hate you.) That’s a compliment coming from me, in case you were wondering.
But I get what you are saying. I capiche!
I guess I’m glad that you hate me lol
Well you certainly should be. I don’t waste hate on just anyone, especially these days. I don’t see any copyright on that comment. Like Phil said, that part when he pulls the syringe out and holds it up in front of the class. That’s classic. This is really a great story, you get a lot of tension, fear and suspense in such a short span of words. It’s great.
It will seem churlish of me in the circumstances, but I have to say that the part about the murder seems to be a different story (albeit a good one, to be developed further).
A difficult read, but it’s good to know that you mother is at peace now and, as you say, she did not die alone.
Well written.
A Short True Story
Them
by Robt. Emmett ©2020
[550 words]
I have always been afraid of them. As a little child, I hated to have to go to bed at night. With fear and trepidation, I would enter my dark bedroom, glance at my bed. I knew they were under there. I would strip off my clothes and slip into my blue, footed jammies, with the poop-chute flap in the back. All the while, never taking my eyes off the dark edge under my bed. Screwing up my courage, I would climb up the foot of my bed, rather than entering my nighttime sanctuary the way ordinary people did. They were under there and would grab me by my ankle.
Over-nighting at my grandparent’s large brownstone home wasn’t any better. They would follow me. There wasn’t a spare bedroom, so I had to sleep on the couch in the dimly lit living room. As I fought sleep, they were there, just outside the bay window, waiting. Their bony fingers were shadows on the wall above where I lay. They waved and waited for me to doze off. I tried hard to stay awake because I knew what would happen if I drifted off. But I did, and they would – poke me – all night long.
In the mornings, I’d tell Grandma about the shadows and what they did. She’d smile and say they were just the branches of the leafless maple on the boulevard. The streetlight back-lit them, and they couldn’t possibly reach through the glass and touch me. I knew better.
As I grew older, I realized it wasn’t them poking me. No, instead, it was the result of the spastic action of my fingers. I’d slept with my arms wrapped around myself. That realization should have solved my fear of them; it didn’t. Occasionally, I’d dream. They would nearly get me. Every night, bedtime was a fear-filled experience. What could I do about my fears of them under my bed, though?
They followed me when I left home and entered college. In my first year, at the beginning of the winter quarter, I made an appointment with the head of the Psychology Department. Surely, he could help me overcome my worries and fears of them. We met, and he agreed to help me. We would meet twice a week. He assured me that by the end of the spring quarter, my fears would be resolved. It would cost me ten dollars a session. Twenty dollars a week, for twenty-five weeks, 500 bucks was totally beyond my budget. The choice was simple, get rid of them or eat for two quarters. Starving to death was not an option.
At the end of the spring quarter, the head of the Psychology Department stopped me in the hallway. He wanted to know why I hadn’t returned for counseling. I explained that rather than talk to him, I’d spent half of what money I had had, drank beer, and discussed my problem with the bartender. For the price of seven, ten-cent glasses of beer and a thirty-cent tip, he’d given me the solution to my problem with them. I was delighted, and all for just a buck. The head of the Psychology Department demanded an explanation. I said, I went back to my dorm room and cut the legs off my bed.
– ℜ –
I asked to have the story pulled as two people who read it didn’t seem to get it. I could’ve waited for a third opinion, but two is enough for me. It must need another re-write, or a flame-thrower, or spiders and a syringe. I don’t know yet. Maybe an iceberg or two. Not to worry. It’ll be back.
Great short story. Whilst you did have lots of additional words allowed, your story is complete and needs no additional wordage.
You describe those fears common to so many children. Unlike most of them, though, you took your fears with you to college and needed to consider expensive counselling.
In the end, this nicely written story comes to a neat and simple solution in cutting off the legs. Alternatively, have you considered sharing your bed with someone? In my college days I just couldn’t wait to get to bed and never felt the need to look underneath the bed but perhaps we should keep the lid firmly on regarding my college experiences.That’s another story!
Well done,
Kind regards,
Ken Frape
Apologies for not having the sense to take note of your title regarding this being a true story.
This makes it an even better tale to tell.
Ken Frape
This story is creepy because it is quite a common fear. I still remember running and jumping onto my bed after turning off the light as a kid. Even now at 39 years of age my bed does not have a frame but sits flush to the floor. Yep, it’s like you were in my brain and i really liked you poking around up there! Good Read!
Thanks for breaking the cycle of unrelenting fear! Loved your story and the solution. If only all problems were that easy to solve! This is a great story. Keep them coming!
I thought the beer itself would solve the problem! It can be a cure for anything, can’t it? The cheaper, less sophisticated the better…
But ok, that’s a fine solution you and your bartender came up with. And it’s a true story, too, as a bonus.
When I read “cut”, I said to myself, “oh no, not the fingers!” I was relieved it was just the legs of the bed, phew!
Just curious, did your fingers happen to quieten down once you believed you solved the issue once and for all? Our minds can play such tricks.
Calling the whatever they are “them” made them even scarier. A bit like King’s “it”. The worst fears are from unknown, unseen enemies. We know of one such monster right now, the world over… at least they gave it a name not so long ago…
Cheers!
Ken
A scary build up leading to an easy peasy solution. Beer wisdom! 🙂
Why were they leaving Florida?
If you don’t know, maybe it needs a re-write. I may ask the Moderators to pull the story and try again. I had a similar reaction from someone else. I thought it was a rather obvious reveal, but, maybe not.
(I saw a really scary short film on-line last week, which your story reminded me of a little. I’d put the link here but I think it mucks up the page, so if you’re interested, go to YouTube and search ‘Shadowed – Short Horror’.)
Iceberg Salad.
By Ken Cartisano
1179 words.
Jim and Jessie were relieved as they crossed the state line into North Carolina. Theirs was the only car on the four-lane highway.
A road sign indicated there was a rest stop just up the road, and Jess had to use the facilities.
It was Jim’s idea to buy a small trailer and load it up with various sundries and non-perishables. ‘Things we may find useful ‘down the road,’ he’d said. But Jess had a more practical position. ‘What if we need to make a quick get-a-way, back up or turn around? We can’t maneuver with a fucking trailer hitched to our car.’
She’d made a good point, but Jim had prevailed. ‘Certain things are available here, now. Let’s get ‘em while we can.’
*******
Neither of them commented as they read the sign that directed ‘cars’ to one side, and ‘trucks and trailers’ to the other side of the parking area. The items they’d purchased and loaded were long gone, along with the trailer. Nearly a dozen roadblocks, barriers, police checkpoints and highway bandits had coerced, pilfered, bargained or stolen most of what they’d brought, until finally, in a desperate deal for freedom at the last roadblock, Jim had offered the trailer as payment for passage through the treacherous backwaters of Northeast Georgia.
They both possessed weapons, and had argued after each confrontation. Converse to their characters, Jess was unwilling to shoot someone, ‘over a can of peas,’ as she put it, but Jim was getting tired of being pushed around, mentally, physically, and financially. But he’d known a cop many years ago, who had confided to him once, that in his twenty-one years on the force, he’d never had to pull his service revolver more than halfway out of its holster.
Jim had decided that he would not brandish his weapon unless he fully intended to use it. He’d never even killed a chicken, let alone a deer or a cow, so the idea of shooting a human being was extremely farfetched, despite the frightening circumstances. These were the kind of things he was thinking as they came to a stop in the deserted rest area.
“I don’t like it,” Jim said. They sat there with the engine idling, looking for some furtive movement or tell-tale sign of miscreants lurking about. Nothing moved. He put the car in park and turned the engine off. They sat there in silence. As the lengthening shadows ushered in the gathering dusk, Jim stated the obvious. “If we wait any longer it’s just gonna get darker.”
“I know.” Jess said. “I gotta go anyway.” They looked at each other. “Sorry…” she said.
He bit his lip. “S’ okay, I’ll cover you.”
She put a hand on his arm. “You think that’s necessary? This ain’t the wild west, ya know.”
“Isn’t it?”
He escorted her into the building, then into the restroom to make sure it was clear, then he worked up the courage to scout the men’s room, dropping to his knees to check under the stalls. All clear. He went back outside to wait.
When Jess re-emerged from the bathroom, Jim was standing outside the glass entrance, watching a group of men, four of them, loitering about their car. They’d materialized out of nowhere, their demeanor clearly menacing.
In a deadpan voice he said, “Which one of you wants to get shot?”
The tallest and cleanest one stepped forward and slipped a badge out of his back pocket, holding it up. It gleamed impressively. “Police,” he said, and approached them with disarming confidence.
“Oh Christ,” Jess muttered. “Just what we need.”
A car went shushing by on the highway with its headlights on. It was already dark. That’s how fast things change.
“We noticed you got Florida tags…” the man said.
“Hold it right there, mister.” Jim said. He pulled his gun from a holster in the small of his back, a double-action nine-millimeter, with a built-in grip safety. It was cocked, loaded and ready to fire.
The man remained calm. “Easy boy, you don’t wanna be a cop-killer, do ya?”
“Jim,” Jess hissed at him. “Jim.”
The three alleged ‘deputies’ had been lounging on their car, Jim and Jess’s car, in a glaringly impolite way. Unprofessional, it seemed to Jim. Jess hadn’t noticed. As the man with the badge cajoled them in a soothing voice, his three associates fanned out around them.
Jim pushed Jess behind him protectively with his free arm, then held the gun with both hands pointed directly at the man’s chest, which was already uncomfortably close. “I said, back, the fuck, off.”
The man stopped and extended his arms out to his sides, palms up. “Aww come on. You’re not gonna shoot all four of us, are ya?”
With fourteen rounds in the clip, it was possible, but only if he acted decisively. If they were cops, Jim decided, they’d have pulled their weapons too. Therefore, they didn’t have any; and they weren’t cops, but there were four of them, he and Jess were surrounded, the glass entrance to the building was no real defensive position. His mind raced. “Jim, please.” Jess pleaded. “Don’t shoot him.” She was ready to surrender. But to whom? And for what?
“If you’re all really cops, show me your badges,” Jim said, without taking his eyes off their front man.
The man’s face went slack, he straightened, and clucked, as if caught with an ace up his sleeve. “He wants to see your badges, men.”
A couple of them laughed, they were bold, their confidence was frightening. The longer Jim delayed, the more difficult his position, and they all knew it, except maybe Jess.
Jim saw a set of headlights coming down the highway. It was nearly past them by the time he realized it. Without thinking, he raised the gun in the air and fired once. The brake lights went on as the vehicle slowed, then the blue flashers went on. It was a Carolina State Trooper. As he veered off the road and into the rest area, the four men raced off into the woods.
Jim put the gun on the ground, stepped back about ten feet as the trooper came out of his car with his weapon drawn.
Once they’d sorted things out, they thanked the trooper for his intervention, but as the trooper began to write up his report, he reminded them of the curfew in place, and in a terse tone said, “I see from your I.D.’s that you’re from Florida. You have some proof of residency in our pretty little state?”
Jess assured him that they did, and showed him their paperwork. Once satisfied that they had a right to be there, he became a bit more sympathetic. “Never been to the sunshine state myself. We’ve had some coastal flooding ourselves in recent months thanks to that goddamned iceberg, but honestly, is it really that bad?”
Jess and Jim shared a grim look. “Around our place? It was about ankle deep when we left,” Jess said, “and the water’s gettin’ higher every day.”
And a kind of hierarchy of fears: the (now routine?) social breakdown, robberies, fear of using a gun/taking life, fear of the unknown dreadful things those guys might be going to do – but they are all eclipsed by the fear that’s being realised with global warming. I think this is a clever story with a lot in it.
Would icebergs cause local flooding, or just generally raise sea levels when the ice melts, btw? I genuinely don’t know. Is there a glacierologist or global warmer in the house?
Apostrophe watch: I.D.’s ? Well, if Phil is taken to task for a rogue comma … 🙂
Great story, I really enjoyed it (this time and the first time too)
Up here (northwest) I usually don’t see flooding, and your story made me happy that I don’t
Another great story. Your writing rarely ( could say never) disappoints me as the reader. I know you took this one down and then reposted it but honestly, it worked for me either way.
I was carried along by the notion of travelling across a first world country that is becoming increasingly hostile ( in the story that is) as tried and trusted rules and agreements break down. Thus, your characters have lost most of the stuff they had when they left Florida having had it coerced, pilfered, bargained or stolen from them. They are scared and constantly looking over their shoulders for danger. Not much of a road trip if enjoyment was the motivation, which it clearly wasn’t.
Then we get to the gun. As a non US person, this aspect of life in the US fascinates and scares me and there is no need to rehash the old arguments about gun ownership. However, I was so pleased that Jim used the gun in the way that he did. A really smart move. Using it without shooting anyone. It just could catch on.
One thing I don’t get is the notion of “having the right to be there.” I assume, if you are an official resident of any US state with papers to prove it, you can travel anywhere across the country? Also the way people in America seem to always notice out of state plates in a way that doesn’t seem to apply in the UK. Perhaps it’s because your states are so big and that the state is on the car plates. It almost feels like people from “out of state” are aliens, somehow different, not to be trusted. Or perhaps I have read too much Jack Reacher stuff…in fact all of them.
You have served me up a great big slice of American life that seems to foretell a terrible environmental disaster. Who can disagree with this?
Kind regards,
Ken Frape.
Regarding your thoughtful comments on my story.
Yes, gun ownership in America is a fact of life. I own several. For recreational purposes.
‘The notion of having the right to be there.’
It is an accepted way of life that travel between states shall not be infringed in any way. Historically speaking, the individual states enjoyed much more autonomy in the past than they do now. There were few federal laws covering criminality across state lines until the early twentieth century due to the advent of the automobile and the ease of obtaining lethal weapons. Outlaws could commit crimes in one state, cross into another and avoid arrest until committing a similar crime in that state.
The classic story, ‘The Grapes Of Wrath’ details the illegal but common practice of stopping American migrants from entering or crossing state lines during the great depression. And very recently, the governor of Florida erected highway checkpoints to identify and coerce travelers from badly infected states to self-quarantine upon arrival at their destination. Short term rentals were prohibited. And still are as far as I know. (Don’t know how you’d visit a state if you weren’t allowed to rent a room.)
As for license plates, this is an observation that I didn’t really notice until you pointed it out. But it’s quite true that license plates are indeed a bit like a banner. A statement of one’s status and identity. It’s pervasive and pernicious. When in the state of North Carolina, our Florida tags bestow certain undesirable traits upon Kim and I that we don’t really possess. Nor do we condone those traits, but our license plates are something like automotive book covers, for good or bad. But Americans, for all of our flaws and coarse behavior, are essentially decent and open-minded. Like most people I’ve met, in every country I’ve been to, as well as foreigners who I’ve met here in the U.S..
I’m no historical expert, and I would not discourage you or anyone else from checking (and even correcting) any misinformation I may have inadvertently given here. Generally speaking, I think the information I’ve given, and the basis of my story is accurate and correct.
And I really appreciate the kind words and detailed observations you’ve made about my story, Ken.
Ken C.
Thanks for filling me in on some of the background to your story. You see, I was intrigued by it and wanted to know more.
I have nothing to add regarding the general honesty and decency of most people except to agree.
I found your information really interesting and useful. The notion of state and out of state plates is particularly stark in that, as you state, people make ( possibly incorrect) assumptions based upon only that piece of information.
There are, of course, registration numbers on cars in the UK that correspond to different areas but that only says where THE CAR was first registered, nothing about the people.
We have ANPR too ( auto number plate recognition) which is a computerised system that registers any and every vehicle as they pass the thousands of police cameras dotted across the country. Thus, any journey can be tracked. This has been used to solve crimes and over the recent Easter week end a number of drivers were fined for making non essential journeys in their cars, in contravention of the lockdown measures in place. I believe the police also used drones to spot the “naughties.”
Interesting times, eh?
Keep safe,
Ken Frape
I suppose I should find something to criticise, but apart from Andy’s ‘I.D.s’, there’s really not much. I’m always conscious of the first words of a story (Andy validly took a swing at mine). A lot of them start ‘Character did/was …’, and here yours does that. “Jim and Jessie were relieved…” Nothing wrong gramatically, but just to tweak it a little, to make it slightly different, it could begin: “As they crossed the state line into North Carolina, Jim and Jessie were feeling relieved; theirs was the only car on the four-lane highway.” (I’m scraping the barrel here.)
Really enjoyable!
Thanks for the advice. You’re being awfully generous, I think. That’s a much better beginning than what I had. It seems kind of amateurish to start a story with the characters first names now that you mention it. I hope I don’t do that too often. (Zounds!)
I had a lot of trouble with this story’s introduction and the ending. The first six or seven lines. And especially the first line, which, as I know I’ve mentioned often enough, is strategically important. Once it got rolling it wasn’t very difficult to write, (needed a lot of clean-up) but the introduction gave me fits. I think the first line was the last thing I changed just before posting it. It was even worse than it is now, if you can believe it. (Oh do believe it.)
If I could change it right now, I would, but this story has already been re-written once.
How about this?
‘The absence of cars on the four-lane highway was a trifle unsettling as they crossed the state line into North Carolina.’
No need to use their names because I introduce the main characters again, get this, in the second and third sentences. (D’oy. What a wizard I be.)
Oh well, you live and learn. (If you live.)
Thanks again, Phil. I’ve changed it on my copy.
The salad’s gone? I can’t believe it. The whole story pivoted on those leafy greens. I must’ve deleted it accidentally, or, in a passive-aggressive swipe at vegetarians. (Cutting my head off to spite the reader.)
Another wonderful tale. Darn it. The Kens were serious about vying for 1st-3rd place I see. I made a decision while reading your story.
I’m rather enjoying working from home and not going out. Your story has convinced me that it is safer to stay in. I’m not near any large bodies of water. I’m sufficient distance away from both the Mississippi and Tennessee rivers. Too landlocked for an iceberg to reach me.
I’m perfectly safe here. Nothing to fear … except tornadoes. There are always tornadoes. Nashville a few weeks ago and East Tennessee this past week.
Hmmm … maybe I’ll rethink that decision.
It sounds like something from these days, your story, curfew and all. Maybe not from right now, but a few months down the road when the lockdown will start getting to people’s heads. But then it turns out to be climate change. We’re seriously a planetful of problems, here on third rock in row in this unfortunate solar system…
I found the story exciting, especially in the way I could myself feel the characters’ nervousness as I read along: the exasperation with being repeatedly messed around with, the fear of what may happen on what seems to be a tense distopian scenario, the fear of having to use violence against fellow human beings, Jess’s concern Jim might lose his mind with a gun in his hand… I felt it all rising inside me as I read on.
The ending does come a bit easy, I must admit. It was a clever way Jim used to lift himself out of his predicament without hurting anyone or getting deeper in shit. But then it sort of falls flat. I know climate change is no joke. We know that the planet is in deep trouble at the end of your story, but Jim and Jess’s more immediate troubles simply evaporate into thin air.
I sort of anticipated something bigger, more painful, more perverse, more ironic or more revealing (about the characters, not the planet) might be happening at the end. Not that it’s a bad ending, but I wanted more. The intense nervousness deflated too quickly for me.
The good news? The Coronavirus seems to be fixing climate change as we speak. Saudi Arabia is not happy, but that’s a minor issue. So it’s not such an unlucky solar system after all. And it’s fine on all the other eight planets. There’s some robotic junk on Mars, but never mind that.
Are we gonna be top three this time, Ken (and Ken)? Competition is tough…
Ken
TEN INCHES
I had an hour to wait for my connection, so I came out of the station, wandered down Castle Street and found a small pub. It was dim inside, sunny out, and it took me a few seconds to get my bearings. When I did, I found a stool at the bar and settled.
The barman came over and I ordered a bourbon, straight; I would’ve got a beer, but I know what train toilets can be like sometimes. When the glass was set in front of me and I’d paid and taken my first sip, I had a look round the room.
It was empty except for me and a man who could have been 40 or 60, two or three stools away at the bar, hunched over what looked like a large whisky.
I paid him no mind and took another sip of my bourbon. The variety of bottles on the shelves behind the bar provided some interest until the man mumbled something. Because I hadn’t been expecting him to speak I didn’t catch it, but when he repeated it, I did.
“Ten inches it was. At least. And black.”
I let out a little involuntary snort.
“What’s so funny?”
I looked to my right; the man was staring at me. He was unshaven, and even in the dim light of the pub I could see that his eyes were red, with grey half-circles under them. I realized I had a smirk on my face and wiped it off instantly.
“I said what’s so funny?!”
“Nothing,” I invented. “I was just thinking about … the first time I tried Tequila.” And I pointed to a bottle of Tequila on a shelf.
“Hmm,” the man huffed, and I thought that was the end of it. Seconds later he was sitting next to me. His aspect was no better than at a distance, and he smelt like he hadn’t washed in weeks.
“I loved her, y’know?”
I’m the kind of person who’s sure not to make eye contact with crazy people on buses because of the danger of being drawn into a conversation. I downed my bourbon in one and made to leave, but the man grabbed me by the sleeve, so firmly that I lost my balance and was forced to get back on the stool or fall.
“Really?” I said, my mind racing to figure out an escape plan.
“And she loved me.”
“Yeah?”
“She did. Let me buy you a drink.” He gestured to the barman to top us up.
“No, actually …” I began to protest.
“Just the one,” he insisted. And by this time the barman was pouring. I settled back on the stool and glanced at my watch, both to check the time and to show the man that I needed to leave soon.
“Dover, it was.” The man ignored my watch gambit and launched into his story, his tone one of doomy resignation. “You ever been to Dover?”
I told him I hadn’t, but he wasn’t really interested in what I had to say, only in getting his story out – that much was clear. He started singing in a cracked voice.
“There’ll be blue birds over, the white cliffs of Dover.”
I glanced at the barman, who rolled his eyes but failed to come to my rescue.
“Y’know that song? We was singin’ it together that day.”
He took a big slug of his whisky and wiped his mouth with a grubby cuff.
“There’s this path, see, runs along the top of the cliffs. Lovely, it is. You’ve got a green slope runnin’ away on one side, then the cliffs themselves droppin’ down, and the sea in the distance.”
I took a large sip of my bourbon and looked again at my watch. I’d need to be leaving in ten minutes or so to get back to the station.
“Course, it was dead choppy that day. Windy, see? And that’s why there weren’t nobody around.”
I started to feel misgivings tickling my stomach. I turned and had a good look at the man’s face. He was staring at me but not seeing me; there was a vacancy in his eyes, like he was watching the scene he was describing and not registering the here-and-now.
“So I says to her – Lucy her name was – I says: ‘Go and stand over there and I’ll take a picture.’ And she giggles and goes and stands near the edge. She was lookin’ so pretty. Here …”
He pulled from his jacket pocket a dog-eared photo and smoothed it on his knee before placing it in front of me. Lucy was young and indeed very pretty, her long dark hair billowing to one side in the wind. And she was standing close to the edge of the cliff. Much too close.
The man took the photo back and gazed at it lovingly for a few second before returning it to his pocket.
“That was jus’ moments before it happened,” he rasped. I could see now that his eyes were glistening. He picked up his drink, the ice rattling in the glass.
“They should have railings up there or summat.” His voice was shaking.
“What happened?” I ventured, knowing full well the answer. I was suddenly engrossed in his story, dreading the inevitable.
“A bit of the cliff crumbled – must’ve been the rain they’d had that week. And down she went.”
I felt my mouth gaping open.
“To the rocks?” I could have kicked myself as soon as I’d said it. Talk about insensitive! But he didn’t seem to notice.
“Nah.”
I gasped with relief. He carried on.
“I ran and looked over the edge, and there she was, a few feet down the side, hangin’ on to a bit of rock with both hands. She was screamin’ like crazy. I started to climb down, careful like, so as not to kick bits of rock on top of her. But that’s when I saw it.”
He took another slug of his whisky, finishing it. He ordered another two drinks with a gesture; I was past protesting.
The pause lengthened and I felt knots in my stomach now. Impatience got the better of me.
“It?”
He turned to me and this time took in my face, his eyes searching for what I realized later was understanding.
“A rat. Black. Must’ve been ten inches long. Or more. Right next to my Lucy’s hands. Had its nest nearby probably. I tried to shoo it away with my foot but it weren’t goin’ nowhere.”
The man turned to face me full on now and grabbed my jacket with both hands.
“I’m bloody terrified of rats, see? Always have been, ever since I was a kid. I … couldn’t. I jus’ couldn’t …”
The truth hit me and some bile rose to my throat. I remembered my train and broke free of his grip. He lowered his head to rest it on the bar, and as I staggered out of the pub, I could hear his sobbing. I can still hear it, 20 years later.
“Oh, Lucy. I’m so sorry. My sweet Lucy.”
I’m doing the ‘Phil made a mistake dance.’ La-la-la-da-da-da-dee- Ouch! I think I strained something. Damn you, Phil. I haven’t done that dance in so long, my dance muscles have atrophied.
Very fine, beautifully written story Phil. You really know how to set the scene. This is one of those stories where there’s no reason to sympathize with the narrator, nor the old drunk. But that doesn’t detract from the story.
I (this is real boring and I should probably delete it, but…) I have worked so many hours on the night shift in so many goddamned donut shops in my life, that I’ve seen more bums, drunks, nuts and weirdos, than most people would in ten or twenty lifetimes. Guys who would come in with paper stuffed in their sweaters to fend off the cold, because they were sleeping on park benches, smelling horrible, barely comprehensible. Hadn’t showered or bathed in God knows how long. I rarely threw them out. As long as they didn’t cause any trouble I’d let them be. (there were very few customers to bother at 3 in the morning.) One place was near a greyhound bus depot, it was like a landing zone for derelicts. Sometimes we’d give them free refills but they had to pay for at least the first cup, otherwise, word would get around that we were an easy mark. (Which, truth be told, we were, thanks to me.) What I didn’t do, is listen to their stories. I never had the time, (I had to make the donuts for the morning rush hour traffic.) and the few occasions when I did, they rarely made as much sense as your character did.
One guy used to drive a cab. “Oh,” people would say, “a yellow cab?”
“No,” he would say, “Pineapple. It was a pineapple cab.”
Usually, when characters sink that low in life, they don’t have enough money to sit in a bar, so they buy booze by the pint and drink it in a nearby park, and even if they did have the coin, they wouldn’t be tolerated in any kind of bar.
Stiil, all things being equal, your description of both characters behavior is very realistic, right on the mark. The way the character initiates the conversation, (gruffly) moves closer, physically grabs the narrator by the arm. In fact, the story is so well told, it sounds very plausible, like something that really happened, and I don’t doubt that you may have incorporated a real life event that adds credibility to the narrative. If not, then you’re an even more accomplished story-teller than I give you credit for. (Sorry to bore you with all that.) That’s my reward for your mistake. Which is…
he gazed at it lovingly for a few second before returning it to his pocket.
A singer might take a breath between lines in a song, but grammatically the comma is incorrect, I’m afraid. We need to maintain standards here, you know …
.
On the other hand, maybe they are ‘Persian flaws’, errors deliberately woven into the fabric to show the artist is but human.
Actually, aside from pulling Phil’s leg, between everyone in these contests there are not usually that many mistakes, are there? Is everyone using Grammarly and paying for professional editing?
” ‘I think there’s another mistake OMG. There shouldn’t be a comma in “There’ll be blue birds over, the white cliffs of Dover.’ ”
Ah, now that’s where I beg to differ.
“A singer might take a breath between lines in a song…”
Exactly! If the man is singing the song, he NEEDS to take a breath there.
On the whole, I don’t feel we need commas in order to breathe …
BTW, I’m willing to bet there’s not a comma in the sheet music either.
Don’t listen to him Phil, he’s desperate. The comma marks the stanza, everybody knows that, especially Andy. And, it’s dialogue, and therefore, the rules of grammar are flexible.
I think you’re picking nits, Andy. Phil might make a mistake in a story once a year, I’ll believe that, but he certainly isn’t going to make TWO mistakes in one story. That’s just preposterous, man.
(pst. I have some commas I’ll sell you. Cheap.)
[Meanwhile, Andy, the official name of the song actually goes one step further than the comma and sticks two bloody great brackets in there: ‘(There’ll Be Bluebirds Over) The White Cliffs of Dover’ ]
Anyway, this one was devoted to commas. I think he bought a job lot from Ken C, enabling Ken to restock on apostrophes. He (the editor, that is) covered my crisp and economical prose head to toe with commas. He even amalgamated short and pithy sentences into longer ones so he could use more commas. Maybe he thought it appeared more academic that way.
If he was a devotee of Phil’s respiratory commas, I suspect he must have been asthmatic, or had to run up several flights of stairs to get to his office leaving him very short of breath. Could be that.
Anyway, I pushed back on the comma overload until rebuked by the coordinator of the project who said ‘He’s doing this to everyone, we have to have consistency. The commas of the many outweigh the Plain English of the one.’ So it goes sometimes.
As a reaction to this, in my own editing I treat commas as I do double entendres. (Every time I see a double entendre, I whip it out …)
However, I feel I have to retreat against the doughty combined forces of Phil and Ken.
So I’ve spent the afternoon on the phone to Faber (the publishers), as I spotted that in all the Faber books of verse they end most lines of poetry *without a comma*. Can you believe that? Left me wondering if all these poets know how to breathe. Could be why there are so few poets left. Most of them expire when they read their stuff out loud, I guess….
What’s all this talk about donuts? I thought you were an innocent nun sent to do penance in a church run by an evil Bishop? Did you make all that shit up? It’s okay if you did, (because this is a fiction site) but, you know, I think now would be a good time to come clean about your true history, and background. If you don’t mind. (I don’t want to seem pushy, if you don’t want to reveal any of your past, that’s okay.) But, I’m really, really intrigued.
Ken C.
the one with the C after his name.
If you wish to avoid appearing pushy, you should probably stop pushing. This is not to say that I don’t find your curiosity, and consternation flattering. What saint wouldn’t? However, I’ve found that people often assign attributes to me based entirely on my profile picture, this is like assuming that some of your best contributors are obviously amoebas.
Surely you realize how silly this is.
If it would satisfy your curiosity, after my ‘exorcism’ I worked in numerous doughnut shoppes, mostly as a server, but I did a few gigs as baker. Do you remember me?
Una
I like your description of the donut shop. You make a valid point that the man in my story wouldn’t normally be allowed in the bar … but I figured he’s not homeless, nor penniless, merely alcoholic and beyond caring about his physical condition. And the barman, not having much trade, might let him stay there if he doesn’t cause too much trouble.
I think I echoed something you wrote recently, actually (with a little bit of Ken F thrown in) – narrator meets man in bar. But then it’s not exactly a unique situation anyway, is it?
(Let’s see if THIS one lands under the other one I’ve just posted …)
And nice irony, perhaps, in the way his fear turns the man into a kind of rat
I like the use of the framework narrative, a story within a story, so we get regular references to the narrator’s reaction to the drunk’s reported story, to guide our own. And very good, natural dialogue too.
On the critique side – I think the opening paragraph is a bit prosaic, so the story kind of drifts in setting a background that could have been dropped in more economically as the story progresses.
Actually, the title of ‘ten inches’ and the reference to a bar put me in mind of the old joke about a guy who goes into a bar and produces a ten-inch tall pianist to play a tiny piano, brilliantly, to everyone’s amazement – the result of a misheard wish granted by a fairy whom the guy had rescued.
I remember the story of the piano player who was ten inches tall ( although it was 12 inches when I heard it. ) I very nearly posted it here but you beat me to it and did so in a very circumspect manner.
I am trying to go through every story carefully this time round and make some sensible comments. I cannot use the excuse that I am too busy.
Kind regards,
Ken Frape.
“I remember the story of the piano player who was ten inches tall ( although it was 12 inches when I heard it. )”
That’s inflation for you.
‘Oh no you dinnint.’
By the by, Persian flaw. This phrase was unknown to me until today, intriguing concept, and just more proof that Persian carpet makers were slightly full of themselves. I used to do a similar thing when hand-lettering signs, although the mistakes were always accidental, (like a small drip, or a smudge in a letter). I would often leave one small, barely noticeable mistake, that was a kind of insignificant signature that helped me remember the sign I had lettered.
But I AM NOT PERSIAN. I refute that scurrilous charge. (In case you were thinking of making it.)
How do you explain this, Andy? Is this some kind of Easter miracle? (notice the small ‘m’ in miracle?)
No, I–I thought not.
Thanks for pointing out that crazed apostrophe you discovered in my story. I’ve been looking all over for that fucking thing. I have a little apostrophe ‘repository’ as it were. ((Okay it’s a jail, all right? It’s a fucking, no actually it’s a holding cell, that’s it. An apostrophetic holding cell.
And I had that apostrophe manacled, and locked (okay it’s more like a dungeon. Okay? I’ll be honest with you.) It was locked and manacled, I went out to have lunch, came back, and it was gone. Like a Houdini apostrophe on steroids. (If you can imagine such a thing. And why not. Why couldn’t you? You appear to know what Persians are thinking when they write Phil’s stories. ((If I understood you correctly, and I have no reason to suspect that I didn’t.)) Okay maybe a couple of reasons, But no more than that.) So we’ll just assume that you’re still with me on this.
Hopefully I’ll remember that plural acronym rule in the future, or resort to my other tactic, and never use an acronym again.
Anyway, long story short, you found it. I’m grateful, profoundly grateful. I couldn’t be more full of grates, than I feel like I am at this moment.
I hope it passes soon, one way or the other. Send it over when you get a spare moment. (The apostrophe, I mean.) And again, thanks for introducing me to Persians, and the ancient practice of covering a mistake with a lie about God’s greatness. That’s the kind of thing that can really come in handy in a crisis of this magnitude.
Ken C.
That’s a good joke (the old ones are the best! 😉 ) … and in fact it’s somewhat related to the reason the narrator snorts …
Bloomin’ comment misplacement!
You like the opening, and I don’t dislike it at all, Phil. You’re in great company with the likes of Dostoevsky who use this kind of structure a lot in short stories. Nonetheless such short stories are considerably longer than we can post here.
The set-up scene is very atmospheric, makes it easy to visualise.
On the other hand, there are 4 paragraphs of set-up, maybe 15% (?) of your word count before getting into the bones of the story, which is the encounter between the narrator and the traumatised drunk. So I was just suggesting (suggesting only, to be sure) that the first of those 4 paragraphs could be trimmed.
Overall, I think it’s a great and well-written story.
Even with the controversial respiratory comma!
After reading all the comments between you, Una and Andy, I’ve concluded that their collective complaints are…. in a word, bullshit.
Una is processing the story according to her own experiences (with bums in donut shops). She makes assumptions about the character and the bar, but especially the character, that she simply has no way of knowing. And, they’re irrelevant to the flow and point of the story.
Andy on the other hand. Well, I had to look up the word ‘prosaic’ to see what it meant. And I was shocked. I won’t even…I’ll spare you the synonyms. Most uncalled for. I felt like the 15% (talk about getting technical) of the story that you ‘wasted’ on atmosphere was well invested. (I could almost smell the stale pipe-smoke.)
I would offer to pistol whip him (Andy) for you, but it’s very hard to travel these days. I also offer a service where I just shoot people with rubber pellets. It’s called ‘riot shot.’ It hurts like hell but causes no permanent damage unless you hit someone in the eye.
Having said all of that. It finally dawned on me that you both knew the definition of ‘prosaic’ without looking it up, you’re both English, he’s pulling your leg, you know it, and your ‘prosaic’ fucking English humor is a complete anomaly to poor, stupid, violent Americans like me.
That’s okay, we’re going to kick this fucking virus’s ass, and we’re going to do it with a moron for a President. (Mark my words, gentlemen.) That’s why you like us. We do the impossible.
With that out of the way, what a great tale with wonderful imagery and dialogue.
Thank you for pointing out a fear I didn’t even know I had. My husband being too much of a ninny to protect me. Ha!
I read your story with the White Cliffs playing in the background. Definitely recommend that.
Looks like everyone’s hunting for the faulty needle in the verbal haystack
For pure nit picking sake, I found this.. “Course, it was dead…. apostrophe kinda missing before C!! Ya?
Another great story – darn it! Give some of us a break. I’m beginning to feel inferior in my writing. LOL. Really, I was taken in by the story and I was ready for the great fall or push or Lucy slipping from his desperate grasp. The appearance of the rat and the man’s fear took me by surprise. What a clever twist. (Do rats climb cliffs? High cliffs? I’ll have to look that one up.)
My children and grandchildren like to “help” me get over my fears by bringing new pets into the house – rat, bearded dragon, snakes, etc. I implement the “out of sight, out of mind” principle and make them keep the critters in their rooms, out of my sight.
This works very well – until one of the critters inevitably escapes from their habitat and roams through the house. At that point, all bets are off. There will one of two endings – they either find the eloping varmint and replace it in its habitat or I kill it (or have it killed). I had a very traumatic experience years ago when my older son’s 4 1/2 foot red rat snake escaped and I was home alone.
Loved the story, dialogue and the twist at the end. Adi
Great story too, Phil. I knew where it was going once Dover came up. Say Dover and it’s either the cliffs or the Chunnel. But there was still the ten-inch black mystery to solve, and the story keeps going at a good pace till the very end. Never a wasted word, or an unnecessary pause.
There is pathos too. Alongside the narrator I was steadily drawn into the man’s sad tale. From the initial sense of disgust towards him, I found myself in great remorse for him by the time he finished his tale.
Stay off the cliffs guys! Too many have been dying taking selfies these past years. Don’t say Phil didn’t warn you.
Ken
PS Nice new profile pic. Taken at a safe place, I hope. More positive looking than the drab old one.
Quite simply, a super story. As others have mentioned, it is ( virtually) flawless and it rattles along as any good story should.
The plausibility of the situation works for me although, unlike Unamoona, it is outside my personal experience but it all hangs together so nicely.
Your dialogue has been praised and rightly too. it is, in my opinion, a real skill as dialogue and direct speech ( i.e. the stuff we put in inverted commas or speech marks) are not one and the same thing in a good story. We overlap and interrupt and leave gaps when we speak whilst when we write it down it can get cleaned up and too exact. But not when you do it. One thing I have tried to do is to record two people having a conversation and then to try and transcribe that into “real” dialogue. Really hard to do, very time consuming.
Great stuff Phil,
Kind regards,
Ken Frape
About the dialogue … I’ve found that imagining the personality/nationality/class, etc. of your character and simply reading the dialogue aloud to yourself usually whittles it down to something approaching natural-sounding.
Roy
Facing Fears
Ilana Leeds
(1200 words including title)
Fear is defined as “an unpleasant emotion caused by the threat of danger, pain or harm”. It goes deeper though, than the threat of the above three elements. We will face them daily in living a life in this world. Pain does not faze many of us as it goes hand in hand with harm. We may try to minimize it, but again it is part of living life to its fullest. Facing danger is a fact of life.
It is the hidden dangers that cause an unpleasant prickling sensation, dry the lips, catch the breath in one’s throat, make one break out in a sweat and set the heart racing. The things one cannot see; that lie hidden within the subconscious from childhood and that bring a reaction which can only be defined as fear – the fight or flight response.
Fear for me has been “abandonment” and “rejection” by the one who is supposed to love you above all else. Fear is never being good enough or loveable enough. Fear of never being worthy enough to earn the affection or love of those around you from the earliest point in your life. The fear is standing on the edge of that metaphorical precipice day after day, tethering and alone. Your arms flail helplessly wind milling as you try to keep your balance. You see the abyss blackness rushing up at you, winding darkly dangerous tentacles reaching for you and you rear back afraid. You find your feet stuck to the ground and you tremble, the sweat trickling down your back and belly. And you cannot control your response or know why it is you feel that way and others in your family do not.
You don’t understand. You want to reach out and steady this revolving world. It moves too fast. You are giddy with it. This fear clutches at your heart.
“Mum”, you say, plaintively, even pathetically. “Mum, what’s wrong?”
She grabs your thick hair and pulls at it, tearing the brush through it. You cry in pain and she slams the brush against the side of your head.
“Stop your whimpering. Stupid child. If you knew what I had to endure.” She rips the brush through the hair again. The knots and tangles are roughly dragged smooth. “You are so lucky. You little bitch. You have a family.” She divides the hair into two sections and then comes the part I have been dreading. She pulls one section up on top of my head and plaits it tightly, so hard I get headaches but I dare not loosen it. My gran does though.
My late brother used to make jokes about how she plaited my hair. He would pantomime our mother pulling my hair so tight that she had to put her foot on the side of my head and tug; plus the whacking with the hairbrush if I moved or complained. She never did put her foot on my head, but it sure felt like it.
While years later I could laugh about it, it was not funny when I was five or six years of age. At around eight years of age, my gran taught me how to plait my hair and thus the daily torture ended. Gran got me to practice on her hair and we practiced until my plaits were good enough to pass muster. I think Mum was glad that I was doing my own hair. Then she had no reason to touch me. I often felt she loathed touching me. I cannot remember one hug of affection from her during my childhood.
The only hugs I remember were from Dad and my gran, two of my uncles Dick and John, my father’s older brothers and my father’s first cousin and aunt in Sydney – my great Aunt Kath and Aunty Brenda.
I had often wondered how someone could hate their own child so. Especially as she had been fostered out as an illegitimate child in Austria in 1921, but that is another story.
When we had been particularly trying the refrain was always the same.
“You bastard of a child. I’m going back to Austria. You and Christopher can stay here. You’re Australian brats. Steve’s like me. He’s Austrian. I’m leaving because of you.” She would use this argument to ensure my father gave me a hiding for my wrongdoings and things I had done to annoy her.
Stephen was my youngest brother. He was number three in the family and he could do no wrong. She often said he was the mistake she was glad she made.
“Your father and I decided we’d have four children before we’d had you two.” She was fond of telling me. Then she would pause, to give full impact to her next words. “You two were such brats; … such a problem we agreed to stop at two. We had a boy and a girl. I couldn’t stand the thought of two more of the same, like you two.” She would pause again. “I was devastated to find out I was pregnant again. Stephen was born. He’s been perfect in every way.” And it was true. Stephen could do no wrong in her eyes anyway.
I however took my beatings in good stead, secure in the knowledge if my father beat me soundly to her satisfaction, our family was in no danger of being divided. That was one of my greatest fears of my childhood and early teens. If she left the family home, it was going to be all my fault.
“If you don’t punish her as she deserves, I’m going back to Austria.” My mother stood there hands on her hips. A frown crossed her lovely face. I hid behind the door trembling yet again. My father looked resigned.
“What did she do this time?”
“She ran off with the boys into the bush. I’d asked her to bring in the washing and iron the handkerchiefs and pillow cases.”
Or
“She didn’t listen. I switched their legs the pair of them. Told them not to chase the chooks. She encouraged him to do it. So he did. She’s the ringleader. She’s got to be taught a lesson.”
So my father would strap me either with a girth strap from the saddle shed or the rod he used to clean the rifles with it. I forgave my father many times. I knew she had forced him to do this. If he did not, I had no doubt that she would make good her promise to leave and take Stephen with her. Then my father would be left with two children to look after, his mother, our gran and the weight of three properties to manage with his older brother Dick.
My fear of ‘impending abandonment” marred the first thirty-five years of my life at least. It was only when I discovered that I was a useful person in my own right and not a nuisance or a total bothersome person who did not even deserve to breathe the same oxygen as other people, that my path to healing my emotional-self began and finally valued myself and saw my life path as worthwhile.
Ilana,
If this is truth, and I have no reason to think that it is, then what you’ve described is a horrible, evil, unbalanced sociopath. That’s what you call a person who would use human beings as ransom. Somebody should have told that poor child the truth when she was so much younger. It’s a shame no one put a rusty shovel to the side of that woman’s ‘lovely’ face when the child was a lot younger.
I wanted her to acknowledge me as a person and that I was her child and I loved her no matter what.
It was my father who I felt most sorry for. He had to continually cater to her whims and hurt two of his children to please her and keep the peace.
After Gran died there was little he could do. I was not allowed home at 17 and a half and was sent to a hostel in Brisbane after I left boarding school. I was sent to boarding school at 11 and a half. Six years.
I have moved on thank goodness and gotten over my feelings of panic and rejection. We all move on…
He was very sensitive and decent person. She was pretty twisted because I believe she was abused both emotionally and sexually in a foster home as a young child which led her to be quite callous and abuse be herself.
My gran was a wonderfully decent human being and she helped me through my Childhood.
I should be ashamed for expressing righteous indignation? Okay. (I wish that were the worst thing I’d ever done.) I agree with your contention concerning the father’s blatant culpability. But don’t see how that would be helpful or instructive at this late date. But an objective jeer at ‘mummy dearest’ was absolutely in order.
It seems to me that the ‘child’ in this story inherited the same enabling tendencies of her father. Which, objectively speaking, is the single best ingredient necessary for horrendous behavior. To paraphrase a famous sentiment. ‘Evil thrives when good men do nothing.’ Ilana’s story epitomizes this axiom, whether she knows it or not.
My father left the country when I was eleven and didn’t return for over fifty years. Why? Because his second wife didn’t want him to, he only came back when she was mentally incompetent. I hardly know him, and despite my affection for him we’re practically estranged. Do I blame her? Yes. Do I forgive him? Not entirely. Do I make an issue out of it. Hardly. But it’s there just the same. That’s just human nature. Imperfect. I don’t feel ashamed about that. Nor do I approve of intentional shaming. (How can we make this guilt as painful as possible.) Ha ha. I appreciate your comments as they gave me a chance to expand on my original comments.
To Ilana directly. Perhaps you should have your son read this story to you, out loud. YOU, were a blameless victim of pathological parenting. I have no hidden agenda, or reason to mislead you on this subject and am merely calling it the way I see it. Your denial is a very common and natural reaction, and your emotions are more important than my detached opinion. Your parents were people, people make mistakes. That’s life.
Don’t sweat it, Kiz, This is what Ilana does, she gets everybody fighting with each other then she eats all the cupcakes in the room. Then when somebody notices she says, “Fuff – fapes? Wha fuff- fapes? Fi fiddent feat fo fuff-fapes! She does this all the time. You gotta watch her.
She does this with a straight face, mind you. So I’d appreciate it if you’d read this with a straight face.
Thank you.
I am in a very tired end of a frustrating day now and you have lightened my day with laughter. One thing I have learnt in my long life is don’t take yourself too seriously. It is better to laugh and the world laughs with you then cry, because not everybody wants to cry, but people always love to laugh.
🙏🍹🤜🤛🏻