Are You Ready?

"Alright, we're finally here. [pause] Are you ready?"

"Pfft, of course I'm ready, I was bo-"

"Don't Say It."

"What?"

"You were going to say 'born ready,' weren't you."

"[ . . . ]"

"Just- shut up, okay? You know my nerves have been on edge ever since, well, y'know . . ."

". . . I'm sorry."

"Whatever, it's not a big deal. Let's just get to shutting this portal before the demons get through."

"Alrighty. Just point the tome at them and then raise the staff."

[pause]

". . . Nothing's happening."

"Oh."

"Nothing Is Happening."

"[ . . . ]"

"I thought you read the ancient manuscripts."

"I did . . . Though it might've said you were supposed to point the staff at them and then raise the tome . . ."

"What do you mean, are you not sure?!"

"I'm pretty sure."

"Just pretty sure?"

". . . Yeah."

"I THOUGHT You read the Ancient Manuscripts. YOU Were Supposed to Read The Ancient Manuscripts. THAT'S ALL YOU WER-"

"I read the SparkNotes!"

"You What?"

"SparkNotes! Today's Most Popular Study Guides!"

[pause]

"I hate you."

T H E E N D

Return to the Workshop

The hinges shrieked in protest, but the door ignored its cries and swung inward regardless. Whatever air was moved by the half-hearted push was like a hurricane to the dust coating the room, and miniature sandstorms raged across the hardwood floor. Steps that would have been more fitting in a child of nine or ten months were taken by feet many times that age; joints rusty with disuse creaked and moved the aged body forward.

Watery eyes scanned the room and its disheveled contents. He imagined he could feel the dust molecules gently landing on his pupils, creating a thin layer of mud from eyelid to eyelid. Perhaps this mud would cure him of his blindness, tears of regret and the dust of creation instead of the dust of the road the spit of a saviour.

Bony hands shook as if afraid before settling on a piece that had laid untouched for far too long. They gingerly raised the artifact upwards, brought the forgotten creating close to blinking eyes.

The thick coat of dust was stirred by the wheezing breaths, and the slow monotonous inhale and exhale became a series of hacking coughs. For a brief moment time stood still, and he took this moment to entertain the thought that perhaps he was dying, that neglecting his work had finally done him in. Then time began once again and on the ground were gobs of whatever he had hacked up in his lungs, and clutched in his hands was his invention, mostly free of dust.

He brought it to eye level once more and gazed upon it, fingers tracing its contours and edges, remembering when he had first laid hands on it. It felt good in his hands, and he knew that all around the room were similar projects, left to sit in the dark and the dust. Standing up a little straighter, he let out a deep sigh at the work in his hands.

This needs a lot of editing, he thought, fingers dancing just above the keyboard, disappointedly gazing at the screen.

Ten Word Tale (expanded)

It honestly wasn't her fault; her bus had pulled up to the station fifteen minutes late only to pull around the corner into the largest traffic jam the city had seen in decades. Almost an hour later (and only four blocks forward) she had stepped off the bus and walked home. It never occurred to her to call him, or that he might still be waiting. No one waits for over an hour, and she could always apologize next time she saw him.

He swung his legs back and forth on the cool cement bench. It was getting dark, and already children were pulling on their parents' arms for just five more minutes, and couples were walking hand-in-hand back to warm apartments. Pursing his lips he breathed out and watched as his breath swam cloudy through the air. I won't check what time it is, he said, I can wait a little longer.

The sun rose slowly, bringing with it a new day and the possibility of her arrival. The soles of his shoes had long been scuffed away, and the elbows of his jackets were worn from continued stretching. Autumn had passed and winter had trailed slowly behind, leaving spring to take the stage for a few months. It was early, and the morning brisk and cool. The boy sighed, and slowly released his breath through pursed lips, watched the sunlit air and saw nothing.

Ten Word Tale

Boy sat waiting. The girl never arrived. He still sits.

Writing Exercise Two

How will I know who I am? Conversely, how will you ever know who you are? I've found that the only way I can find my identity anymore is through you. As I write, with you sitting across the room in the red easy chair, I envision your lips are the gates. You stifle a yawn, and as you do my imagination sprints and I'm suddenly inside. There are two dark, winged figures, but who are they? They cry out that they cannot land, and I suppose the two of us have never really been grounded, have we. Safe from lightning bolts or vulnerable to their split-second descent. As your mouth closes, and you raise delicate fingers to your lips out of propriety, I find myself knowing more than I once did.

Writing Exercise One

She sat in the alley, knees tucked up against her chest; her hands were hiding something in her blue plaid skirt. She thought it was kind of dirty, but then again, that was more than fitting for a criminal such as herself. Why had she done it, why had she given into the temptation? Her fingers were getting sweaty, clutching the incriminating evidence. She knew that her hands were stained, and that she needed to scrub and scour at her palms as soon as she got rid of the item caught in her vice-like grip.

Every foot that touched the sidewalk by the alley threw her heart up into her throat. She was just far enough back so that the tips of her little black shoes could be seen past a garbage can, and if you were watching closely enough you could see them fidgeting. In her mind she imagined heavy footfalls coming her way, angry hands flinging her cover into the street, grabbing her by the collar and shaking her. In her mind she pictured bloodshot eyes and frothing at the mouth and words so loud and livid that she was deafened. She shivered and pressed herself further back against the brick wall.

There wasn't any way she could enjoy what she had believed to be her prize, her trophy. She cursed her slender, nimble fingers and the way people overlooked her childish countenance. Her toes clenching and unclenching, she mourned the way her feet had carried her out of there, nearly walking smack dab into a suited man who loomed over her, staring down quizzically. His gaze should have been filled with disgust, his eyes had probably seen right through her façade, seen what she had done.

Uncomfortability

Is it just me or is it uncomfortable in here? I'm sitting here on a stool, swinging my legs back and forth like Canadian stand-up comedian Jon Dore as he transitions from his joke on date-rape drugs into his bit about Hitler. My voice is shot and every time I try to sing my part my ears snag onto other people's voices and I lose it, my own voice fading away to nothing.

Oh, and my voice isn't lost due to singing or talking or what have you; I lost my voice due to being hideously sick. I periodically sniff loudly and cough a couple (two or three) of times into my sweatshirt. My head feels a little hazy, and I shake it back and forth violently as if by doing so I can fling thin threads of cloudy thoughts out my ears.

Physical ailments aside, I feel constantly surrounded by strangers. These people have clearly worked together before, and they show it. At the very least they're all on the same wavelength humour-wise, right? I try to sight-read my parts while simultaneously sorting out social dynamics, figuring out who I'd want to talk to, if the time ever comes to use our vocal chords for conversation and not pour le chant. I also wonder about how I'm supposed to memorize lyrics and lines while continuing to learn French vocabulary.

In a way, I'm feeling extremely in sync right now. Sniff, cough cough cough. My legs swing back and forth in time, and I look from face to face back and forth, back and forth. The soft buzz behind my eyes, inside my head, is like a softly shaken tambourine. In the distance, high up on the wall, the clock ticks in time with me, bringing me ever closer to my exit, stage left.

Damsel On the Tracks

She supposed it was like a race. There she was, alone on the racetrack, and through the darkness she could hear footfalls coming her way. She wasn't in her track clothes, having gone straight to the athletic field as soon as the last bell had gone. But then again, she usually wasn't sitting on the tartan, and she usually wasn't tied up.

In a silly sort of way she wished that what ties her wrists behind her were actual rope. Partly because the material that bound her was much too soft to make this a stereotypical kidnapping, and partly because she had really like the sweater that had been torn to make her bindings. The sun had set maybe an hour ago, and she began to wonder how long she'd been sitting there.

What had first sounded like heavy running steps slowed and quieted to a calculated walk. There were maybe four or five people approaching, and she had no idea who they were. Clearing her throat she managed to somehow croak out, "This isn't funny you guys." A sixth sense told her that this definitely wasn't a joke, even though she tried to ignore it.

A warm sensation began to trickle down the back of her ear. She tried to rub it against her shoulder, but did little to alleviate the feeling. It was like one of her cartilage piercings had just been freshly pierced, but she knew she had gotten that done years ago, at thirteen. Another phantom wound began to bleed its intangible blood on her knee, then at her lips.

For most of her life she had experienced this sensation. Old wounds would feel like they were bleeding, but the skin would always appear whole and untouched. At times the flow of blood down the back of her ear would reach her neck, and begin down the rest of her body. She had always managed to ignore it, since it didn't hurt and often faded away. In this case, however, the feeling intensified, and it felt like every cut and scrape she had gotten since birth had opened up.

The steps had almost slowed to a dead stop, but she knew that whatever it was stood right behind her. She felt like she was covered in blood, but her clothing remained dry and unstained. Cold breath wafted across the back of her neck, and her hair stood on end. Who has cold breath? What has cold breath?

Apologies.

I'm sorry for being a miserable excuse for a human being and not updating this on Thursday, two days ago. All of that day I was moving in to my res, and ever since then I've been the most distracted I have ever been.

Please forgive me, and expect something special (I don't know what it is yet) next Thursday.

Preface

Hello there. Welcome to "these are stories." Up to this point in my life all of my blogs have had some form of introductory post, so I thought it only fitting (in keeping on with tradition) to do likewise here. So without further ado, and all that, move on to the next paragraph.

To start with what makes the most sense, it's fairly obvious to pretty much everyone here that "these are stories" is a very simple play off of my other blog's title, "these are words." Originally I had wanted it to be a reference to my first blog, "angel's asylum". Names flitted like through my head like "hierophant's haven" and "barachiel's bedlam," but I eventually thought they were stupid. I guess in doing this I chose what would 1) be the least amount of work and 2) would link my two blogs together in a solid way.

If any of you were readers of my first blog you'll probably remember that it was a pretty dark and dreary place setting-wise, in light of it being a very stark black and white. With this blog I decided to simply take the colour scheme I had in place for "these are words" and invert them. I think that blue works on a great many more levels than black does, and I also just like it better in general.

In terms of actual content, the bulk of what's posted here will be prose. Very short stories, scenes, and something I like to call "episodic fiction" should all be popping up fairly consistently. Quite possibly (though I am not promising anything) I may be struck by that one muse, Erato, and feel like writing poetry; when that happens I guess there will be poetry on here.

The "tags," or "labels" on what's posted here will also make a great deal more sense than the ones on the other blog. Labels like "prose" and "half-fiction" will help categorize posts, and will allow for you to more easily sort through what you might want to read.

Oh, and this blog will be updated every Thursday. I almost forgot to mention that and how horrible would it have been if I hadn't, and then you hadn't read directly underneath the title where it says "updates every thursday." It would have been an unmitigated disaster.

Just to be fair to all the people (okay, basically everyone reading this) who were juggled from my old blog to this one, I'm actually going to finish this "preface" with the last piece I posted on "angel's asylum." It's poetry, too, and probably the last you'll see for months and months (on this blog).

i cannot go on.
July 28, 2008

through the heat i trudge.
look at me, i'm raining;
watering this dry, dry ground.
with every step my strength is taken
drawn into the dust
which flies away; free.

i cannot go on.

my pursuer never stops-
not to blink, or sleep, or breathe.
arms outstretched, he moans and moans,
not for my death,
but that i am still escaping,
still running.

i cannot go on.

i will be consumed,
pieces of myself taken from me,
pulled with dull teeth-
drawn into that simple mouth.
my skin tingles,
waiting.

i cannot go on.

better to be eaten.
better to be torn to pieces,
to gorge this monster,
slowing it down, then to arise-
the unforgiven, the damned,
walking that shuffle-step.

i cannot go on.