Tuesday, August 31, 2010
So people don't have to watch two sites at a time, if you write an R-rated piece you will be expected to write a small entry on the main site with a link to your piece and some indication of the reason for rating - one word is sufficient. Over the next few days old R-rated posts will be moving over to the new site. When completed the main site will be changed from it's mature content warning.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
A real blue, not like the shimmering electric blue we have lived with for the last three years. I look at it and breathe in the fresh air, savouring the taste.
Then I think of his absence and I have to sit down. There is a stout wall behind me, bordering the brown lawn that once was C-Block. People are milling there, staring at the sky and exchanging low whispers. His name is ready on their lips. They speak it in reverence still. Perhaps they haven't worked out that he's gone, they don't know that it is safe to speak their minds. Maybe they really feel that way about him, even after everything he did.
I can't stay here.
I walk away, push through the growing crowds, disappear into the old Biology building. There is an entrance to the tunnels there, disguised as a dangerous electrical maintenance room. I remember the day the bubble went up. My lockpick is not needed today. The door hangs open on one hinge. The tunnels are no longer his secret lair. I push past the rubble, not caring that it could all come crashing down on my head. I only go about fifty metres before it's all caved in. The bomb did its work well enough.
It's sad. I would have like to see his lab. He never did let me in there. He didn't trust anyone with his secrets. Not even the man who took mother's place... There are some things I guess I will never know about my father now.
I leave the tunnels, wander home in a daze. I haven't been here since papa kicked me out - or was it me? Did I sneak out and just never work out how to come back?
The front lawn is dead, just like C-Block. We have been without rain for three years and he wouldn't let us waste the water on things like grass. The front door is gone. Half lies in splinters in the hallway, the other half creaks in the unfamiliar wind as it swings open and shut.
Paintings lie on the floor, surrounded by shattered glass. My mother's photograph is the only thing still untouched, framed above the unused fireplace. Maybe he forgot to take it down? I can't imagine he cared for it. When mother lay dying in hospital, he didn't even come.
The stairs creak, but that is not new. I always heard him coming home from work in the middle of the night, no matter how he tried to tread lightly. He didn't hear me leave. He was arguing with Simon, just like mother, just like all the others who tried to take her place. They couldn't see past his dream-filled eyes and words of hope, his way of making you feel like everything would be alright. They didn't wonder why my little brother cringed when papa raised his hand. No. They were all blind.
My room looks just as I left it. Strange, because I would have thought Simon... No, I suppose Simon slept somewhere else. Papa's room is torn to shreds. Clothing and furniture all scattered without definable pattern. His office too. Recycled paper everywhere - written on both sides in miniscule print. I pick up a sheet but cannot make any sense of the equations. The diagram looks something like the machine he built on top of the University library to project the bubble. On the wall, on the roof, everywhere, there is writing. On a whim, I turn and close the door. He has written on the back too - verses from the bible, only strange. I barely recognize them, despite being forced to recite them as pennance for my wrong-doings. Papa would not hit a girl.
The window looks out on the back yard, paved in one of papa's fits of home maintenance. We all slaved over those stones. It makes me smile to see the crooked lines, here and there. They were probably mine. Papa could not abide disorder. Everything was so clear, so well planned. There was not room in his world for dissention. Perhaps that is why we all flocked to become his sheep, trusting him to lead us through the darkness. Perhaps that is why, now that he is gone, we all feel so lost.
I leave the house behind, knowing I can never go back there. I have said my goodbyes. Still, every street in this small city bears his mark. Buildings, simply by standing, are a testament to his vision. I cross the boundary sooner than I expected. Outside the rim of what was once the bubble, the buildings are rubble, overgrown in only three shorts years. Skeletons still lie where they fell on the cracking streets. I cannot look back, because if I do, I will see him there, hovering far above us with a sad, knowing smile in his eyes. How I hated you. But you forgave me that a long time ago, didn't you?
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Construct a character who is not present, offstage for the entire piece. People may talk about this character; you might choose to examine what this character owns, how he/she lives or use indirect approaches such as letters or documents that attest to the existence of this person. Examine the way we build characters in our minds.
Wordcount: 800 (+/- 10%)
Take the full name (including any middle names) of someone you love. Write down as many words from this name as you can. You can repeat letters from the name as many times as you wish. Treat the letters of this name as the only letters in the alphabet. Once you have come up with a sufficient list of words write a fragment of fiction using them.
Wordcount: 300 (+/- 10%)
Friday, August 27, 2010
All rules about missing out on a challenge if you miss the deadline are scrapped (if there ever were any). We really just want this to be a fun project where people have a go and contribute no matter how crap their work may seem. No judges here, just fun!
So, you fellow members who think you've fallen behind, just pick an exercise at random and post something up. Let's get our momentum going again.
Love you all
Sunday, June 13, 2010
She attracts them. As her stories tear a crater in the Creationism that is essential to most Christians in these times, the rest come (mice to cheese, teeming, toting their tricorne hats). No more Trinities and Creators – those asinine notions. No, she has science.
To some, she is the Antichrist, a test; those who hear her, the Creator smites. To others, it seems she remains sane in an Earth that is misaimed. Heat, rain, attrition, erosion, trash...Entire societies that hear her science treat her as a saint. Her notions are sacrosanct.
She crosses the seas, the oceans to share her stories: China to Romania, Croatia to Samoa...once there was Mass; now the masses come, in amazement, to hear her – some, to hear her accent – most, her notions.
Some in their area name her a terror. “Tame the Antichrist!.” She cares not. Her hair shines as she teases the Christians. “Rotters!”
Then, the tasers, the armaments come to the streets. There are arrests.
She zooms to Santa Monica, comes home – not retired. As soon as there is another chance...”Creationism is errant. I match their missionaries – I can has smart atheist teachers? To roam the American states and teach sciences?” She too roams the states, teaches the sciences and her notions.
Her sense is sooth; she is serene and certain.
Her science-thirst cannot remain in a state of satiation.
Her snazziness has no thesis.
None can harm or tame her.
She is Hannah. The Atheist.
Word count: 243 (The challenge hasn't been posted yet...so this may need to be adjusted accordingly.)
This story is based on the name of one of my dearest friends, who happens to be an atheist (but she doesn't go around trying to convert people!!) Using the letters ACEHIMNORSTZ, I was able to come up with over 300 words before I decided to stop - I didn't end up using most of them! The most interesting thing was seeing how getting a particular idea into your head (e.g. religion and atheism) affects the sorts of words you come up with.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
"There weren't cars or buses. I crawled here with nothing but my ID card in my pocket."
That's what the old man said. He probably wasn't that old, but to you he'd have looked it.
You know, I'm scared even to write this. I'm scared someone will come after me, or maybe him. That's why you'll only ever hear half the story from me.
“I lost some of my family in the big wave. The rest in the bombing. My town’s completely flattened. When you look at a destroyed city, you see the remains – the ruins of a building, or some trees, or a road. But in my town there are trees growing here the middle of a road used to be. I can’t tell where my house was.”
The old man who can smile and ask for some gum after telling you that story – who can freely, trustingly, invite you to visit his house next time you’re in town (‘just ask for the groundskeeper ’) – has far more strength than I ever did.
I was terrified. Barbed wire metres high – security checks and checks and checks. I’d promised to look for my cousin’s friend’s family. All I had were a name and two photos.
I should tell you now that I didn’t find them, so you aren’t disappointed.
I saw a body hanging from a tree. Grey and horrible, and I tried not to look. At the time, I thought about the risk of disease, but I guess one body in a tree wasn’t much in view of the raw sewage and the mound, against the fence on the far side of the camp, in which I’m sure I spotted rags and limbs.
Most of the time I focused on what expression to keep on my face. You shouldn’t look too scared, or they’ll see you’re an easy target. You shouldn’t look too cocky, or they’ll be suspicious. You shouldn’t look too anything in front of people with guns and batons.
Strange - surrounded by people starving and injured and orphaned and scared, you can’t stop thinking about yourself. Whether anyone would notice if they shot you in the head and chucked you on top of that mound by the fence, or if they refused to let you leave and kept you behind the barbed wire forever. You wouldn’t have anyone to take care of you. Do you admire the people in that camp for coping? Do you admire the one who hung him- or-herself from the tree?
But really, most of that thinking comes later because, in there, you’re focused on looking as disinterested and uninteresting as possible. (Maybe it’s different if you have a different skin colour). Maybe it’s just me...(maybe it’s different if you don’t speak the language and can’t hear their words, screaming, crying). What would you do? I’ve run out of adjectives. Superlatives. What would you do when you see or feel or know something superlatives can’t describe?
I can’t take you there. Whether or not I use superlatives isn’t important. This is only going to sound like what you see on tv every day or read in a book.
I wanted to write it down. When I was out from the barbed wire, was past the checkpoints, put my face back on, had the luxury of thinking about humanity and atrocities and that. I thought that if I write it down, people will read about it and they’ll care. Things could be the tiniest bit better.
I’m still scared. Tomorrow I’ll go to work - try not to think about it, like you. How else can I get through the day? Concession: a few minutes every hour worrying that they’ll come after me.
Voluntary apathy? Voluntary ignorance? Selective concern? Concern on tap, only when it’s required - unavoidable? Is that a crime or a right? Or are you just scared too?
Word count: 660
- This story is fictional.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Imagine a person with an idiosyncratic way of seeing the world (for instance, an occasional drug dealer who is prone to seeing danger where there is none; an entomologist who tends to categorize the world dryly, as if seeing it through a microscope etc). Have this character witness a traumatic even that does not directly involve her. Narrate the event from a first-person POV, making sure that the perspective is carefully built around the idiosyncrasies of this personality.
Wordcount: 600 (+/- 10%)
The wooden 'A' on her bedroom door was a little crooked. He reached out to straighten it, out of habit, but then pulled back.
A small pile of dirty washing sat on the chair, awaiting her attention. The thin silver laptop on her desk hummed and he flipped the lid up, hoping to find a clue to her decision. The desktop was dark with inky swirls. Like Sara's artwork, full of questions.
“I can't believe he did that!”
Darren's heart plummeted. Amber was home and not alone. He scanned the room. There was only one window, behind the desk on a security latch. The only one other option was the closet.
The sliding door clicked shut as Amber's rich laugh filled the room.
Darren's breath caught as he recognized the second giggle. His sister Sara. “Yeah, he used to be such a prat, but then we both were as kids.”
The closet door creaked open. Darren flinched. Amber shoved a coat inside as she said, “He isn't such a bad guy... maybe you should try talking to him again.”
The footfalls moved away from the closet again and the bed squeaked some more.
“Oh hon, I'm sorry. You haven't told him yet, have you?”
“No,” Sara squealed. “He can't ever, ever know.”
“How do you plan to keep it a secret?”
Darren felt like he was suffocating on the pong of camphor. He thought only old grandmothers still used camphor in their wardrobes.
“Do we have to talk about this now?” Sara sighed heavily. “I missed you...”
A lump grew in Darren's throat as the bed springs echoed a new flurry of disturbingly familiar sounds. Amber would always moan, just like that, a little groan in the back of her throat, when he kissed her. He was powerless to block them out as the moans grew louder, interspersed with indecipherable whispers. His fist clenched around the hem of Amber's summer dress, head leaned back against the cool smooth wood of the closet.
Darren had no idea how much time passed, filled with creaks and squeaks and groans. His entire body had cramped up, but still, he dared not make any noise. His imagination ran wild with thoughts of the two young woman entwined, fingers tracing skin. His stomach heaved and his dick hardened in turn. Amber had never let him touch her below the waist, claiming she was saving herself for marriage. As for Sara, she lost her voice completely around boys. He thought she was just shy.
Eventually, the sounds crescendoed, then faded to puppy-like whimpers.
“I'm here, hon,” Amber whispered. “It's okay. You're safe.”
Safe? Darren almost jolted at the word. What could Sara possibly be afraid of.
“I get so close,” she sobbed, “but then that face rears up and I freeze. I'm sorry. I just can't do it.”
“Healing takes time... I would know.”
Darren's hand slipped from her summer dress and banged onto his knee, hard. He bit his lip to keep from crying out. They had both been drunk that night and she had looked so beautiful, his Amber. All he wanted was to feel those gorgeous tits, but then one thing led to another. Her dress slid so easily up her thigh. Her knickers were white and so thin. He could feel the heat of her butt through the fabric. God, he had wanted to much to touch her, he couldn't hear her crying for him to stop. Why wouldn't she let him.
His nose still ached from where she had punched him. Darren woke up the next day with the worst hangover and an even worse message on his cellphone. It was over.
Snores made him think he was safe, but then the closet inched open, silently, and Amber looked down at him, wearing only her pink fluffy bathrobe.
“You can come out now.”
Darren winced at the thought, as much as being discovered. It hurt too much to move. Amber grabbed his wrist and helped him to his feet. He stumbled out of the closet and into her waiting arms.
“I'm so sorry,” he murmured into her neck. He wasn't sure if he was apologizing to her, or Sara.
“I know.” Amber patted the back of his head. “I know...”
The scent of her made him want to cry. He glanced up to see his little sister sprawled on his ex-girlfriend's bed, her messy black hair sprawled around her pale face. Cotton sheets discreetly covered her naked body.
“We need each other, Darren,” she sighed. “Maybe one day, she will tell you.”
Monday, April 19, 2010
Write a story in which the narrator is snooping around an ex-boyfriend (or Girlfriend's) apartment because he or she still has a key. They whole story takes place in a closet in the bedroom that the narrator retreats to when said ex comes home with the narrator's best briend. The narrator must endure whatever this couple gets up to. Describe only what the narrator can see and smell inside the closet and what he/she can hear or guess is going on outside. Don't rub salt in the wounds, but rather focus on as much detail as possible of the outside world. You can present the narrators deep anger or sadness without having to describe it.
Wordcount: 500 (+/- 10%)
Sunday, April 18, 2010
It's funny how, when you're little, people think you don't understand anything. They have to tell you what to do. That little duck's mother is chirping at him, telling him to hurry up and do as he's told. It's very naughty to hesitate. My papa says that if I hesitate to follow his commands, it might kill me.
Twittering, the duckling pleads with mama to help him, he can't push himself over the edge. He backs up and tries to take a running jump, but at the edge, he stops. Mama turns around and paddles away, the line of ducklings following, not looking back. That is all the encouragement he needs. He can stand the thought of being left behind. He jumps. A splash, a surprised cheep and he's swimming furiously to catch up. Tough love.
When I close my eyes, I can still see Sonja, my big sister, paying for her disobedience. She has fat tears sticking to her cheeks as she leans over me to kiss my hair, then they drag her away and toss her through the blue wall of safety to the wilderness beyond. She is engulfed by the clouds of ash. A big hole opens up in my heart, but I can't let on, or papa my throw me out with her. I'm perched at the edge of a huge gulf and I'm too scared to jump.
The siren wakes me and I sit up straight away. I'm really good at pulling my boots on, then my jacket. I'm standing outside the door before my mind starts wondering what's wrong this time. The next thing, Simon comes running up the corridor. That's pretty normal, actually. Papa is too busy to come get me in emergencies. Simon scoops me up without saying anything. His face is really white, except for the huge bruise under his right eye. I don't struggle, not me.
We go down the stairs, through all the busy corridors. Everyone is scrambling about. No one notices me and Simon. Out through the mechanical-engineering wing and up the road past the big building people call Erskine. I asked Jack why once. She said some old guy gave the University a lot of money, but Jack makes up answers when she doesn't know them, so maybe she's lying.
There is a motorbike in the stand which looks like it hasn't been used for a very long time. Simon heaves me onto the front and revs it up. I am really surprised that it has any fuel. Things like that are rationed these days. I can't hold back a squeal of joy as we zoom off down the empty streets. I have no idea where we are going, but this is the funnest adventure in a long time.
There is a big supermarket about half way to the edge of the blue bubble. It's always under guard, but it's where papa keeps all the supplies organized. It has more than just food there now. Jack goes shopping for computer bits in the underground carpark, since no one drives these days. Simon grabs me off the bike and goes over to the grate. She's in there, arguing with some dude with floppy brown hair. The guy by the switch stares Simon down. “Whatcha want.”
“I need Jack,” he replies simply, not reacting to the hatred I can see in the man's face.
The guy grimaces and the turns on his heel.
“Oi, Jack,” he yells. “Michael's whore wants to talk to you.”
Jack's head snaps up and her eyes lock onto Simon's face through the grate. Slowly, she crosses the carpark to stand on the other side, but she doesn't open the grate. She looks at me in Simon's arms and says, “Aren't you old enough to walk, kiddo?”
“I need to talk to you,” Simon whispers. He lets me down and I crouch, pulling at my jacket. It's really cold.
Jack folds her arms, but doesn't walk away. In grown up's talk, that means she's listening.
“I need you to take James for a couple of days.”
I stand up at that, looking between Simon and Jack.
“You need me to, or Michael does?” She is pretty pissed off. “You're the one that's practically married to the bastard. I don't intend to be his pawn much longer.”
“Good,” Simon hisses. “Then take the kid with you for God's sake. I don't trust Michael around him anymore.”
“Oh merde.” She shoves her hands in her pockets. “You should come too, Simon. Just walk away.”
“I can't, Jack.” His voice is barely a whisper. He and Jack used to be about to get married but then Simon started working for my dad and Jack threw her ring in the trash compacter. “He depends on me.”
“Fine,” she says, turning her back on him so he can't see how sad she is. “Leave him with me. Sonja and Robbie will be glad to have him back.”
My breath catches. My brother and sister are out there, waiting for me, but I still have to jump. I won't let anyone just drag me over that ledge.
Simon walks away without saying anything and I run after him, crying. “Why are you sending me away. Papa will be so angry.”
Simon turns and kneels in front of me, putting his hands on my shoulders. “I'm sorry James, but it's not right, what your daddy does. I am going to try and make him stop, but if I don't succeed, I need to know you are safe.”
Simon got on the bike again and drove away. He didn't even look back. Tough love. I sat down on the pavement in the cold and cried. There was no choice now. I didn't want to be alone. I couldn't go back and get Simon in trouble. I would go with Jack into the unknown and maybe there would be a family of Collins out there to snuggle up to and make me feel a little bit braver.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
When she finally got to the top, no one was in the office. She was alone with several computers, which should’ve been okay, and several other machines which made no sense to her. But when she turned to the first computer, it had no keyboard and all the monitor showed was a big red dot flashing on a black screen.
She dug her cellphone out of her large canvas bag and called Michael, but it was Simon who answered. "I’m just out of Lincoln – I’ll handle things here," he said. "You've got to work out what to do in Christchurch. It’ll be okay!" He was saying something about power sources but his mobile cut out and there was an engaged tone. Jack knew the missile must’ve hit, and the bubbles weren’t up. The beeping got louder, and Jack wondered if it was the interference from the missile.
She panicked for a moment when she woke up, but figured Simon must’ve messed with her alarm clock again. Jack never had crazy dreams when she woke up to Shaun and Geoff.
“Shit, Simon, I had the most awful dream you were dead,” she mumbled, rolling over, before she realised Simon wasn’t in bed and remembered she’d changed from the radio alarm last night because Shaun and Geoff and Radio New Zealand had probably blown up along with everything else. The bubbles didn’t connect, and most of the Lincoln team didn’t make it, and she hadn’t had parents for seventeen years.
Moaning a little, because it sometimes made her feel better, she extricated herself from the bed and stumbled into the living room, where Simon was sitting on the sofa with his arms around his knees. “You could’ve come to bed,” she said very quietly, so he wouldn’t hear, and perched on the other end of the sofa, watching him carefully. Simon unwound himself and stretched his neck. “I don’t mean to make it difficult – I know you want to help, but it’ll come right by itself.”
“Don’t you want to talk?” she settled back a bit.
“Not yet. Look, we’d better eat all the stuff in the fridge first. I think there’s a bottle of milk left – is that okay for breakfast?”
She ran after him, into the kitchen.
Word count: 440
Write a short story in which an alarm clock going off in the middle of the story plays some kind of crucial role. Half of the story will be dream and half reality.Try to construct a mirror image on either side of this alarm clock sound.
Wordcount: 400 (+/- 10%)
The days went by and my love turned to a quiet obsession. I began to covet the display model. My smile was still wide and my enthusiasm genuine, but I found myself wondering what force of fate had given those doll-like girls such rich and handsome benefactors when I was all alone. My cheeks would heat at the thoughtless swipe of plastic, as if three hundred and seventy five dollars were as inconsequential as a three dollar bagel from Bagelman's across the street.
Weeks turned to months. Our supplies of the butterfly spring sandal dwindled to one pair of black size tens, a blue size eight and my red size seven. The supervisor came to me the morning before my birthday and said, “Emma, we can't hold these for you any longer. They have to go out on display.”
I nodded automatically, then hurried to the staff bathroom, still holding my breath. I stared at my face in the mirror, pale, eyes wide. Breathe, I thought. It's okay. I breathed, then a tear slipped out the corner of my eye. I brushed it away fiercely, hating myself for being so immature. I was twenty-four for God's sake! They were only shoes. Who cared if I had saved three hundred and twelve dollars, including interest? What did it matter if the shoes ended up on the feet of yet another faceless blonde bimbo with a rich sugar daddy? When would I ever wear such stupid impractical shoes anyway?
I dried my eyes and forced myself back out onto the floor. I smiled and nodded at all the right moments, even summoning appropriate enthusiasm when ladies eyed the last butterfly sandals. I couldn't stop the flood of relief, however, when the shop closed and the red ones were still sitting there, at the top of the plastic pyramid.
At home that night, I made myself a hot cup of peppermint tea. My cellphone went off just as I sat down on the couch to watch the news. My hand jerked in surprise and half a cup of scalding water ended up on my jeans.
“Hello?” I half-yelped into the phone as I searched for something to mop up the mess.
“Jassie? I thought you were in the Himalayas. Do they have cell phone reception up there?”
“Oh god, Emma,” she sobbed. “I am in so much shit. The border guys in China caught me with coke in my bags. I swear I was set up, but if I don't pay them a lot of money, I don't know what they're going to do.”
“How much do you need?” I didn't even contemplate the possibility that Jassie was lying. My sister was a crazy thrill seeker, but she would never do anything to put herself or her friends in real danger.
“Two thousand, maybe more...”
“Do they take pay pal?” My joke sounded pathetic, even to me. “Look, I'll send a bank cheque or something. Let me check it out tomorrow morning and I'll have you out of there as soon as I can.”
Morning came and I realized I hadn't slept all night. My cellphone reminded me it was my birthday. I rolled out of bed and called my workmate Karla to tell her what had happened. About half an hour later, I trudged down the road in a zombie-like stupor to catch the eight a.m. bus.
“Two thousand yuan?” the lady behind the counter raised an eyebrow. “And this is to be sent to the China State penitentiary? Very well. That will be three hundred and five dollars including exchange fees.”
I just nodded.
At work that day, the red butterfly shoes seemed to taunt me. I knew I had done the right thing. I was even glad for my long obsession, because it had caused me to save some money, money that may well have saved Jassie's life. When I came back from my fifteen minute afternoon break, the shoes were gone. I figured it was better if I didn't know who had bought them.
My till balanced perfectly at the end of that day, though it had an unusual amount of small change. Seventy five five dollar notes, in fact.
The yell of 'surprise' startled me as I entered the staff room to collect my satchel. So many faces staring eagerly into mine. Birthday streamers and balloons lined the walls. Karla, my best friend, stood in the middle, grinning at me. The crowd parted then, and I could see the box sitting on the coffee table. It was wrapped with lacy red ribbons, but I could still see the angel face I had drawn on the label. Fresh tears came to my eyes as I pulled Karla into a fierce hug.
“It's from all of us,” she whispered.
I could feel their hands on my arms and shoulders. Suddenly I didn't feel so alone.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
This is how a girl wraps her shawl: Draped over her head. One end next to her face. Once end around her neck and flung over the same shoulder.
A girl can't make do without a shawl. Particularly when it's raining, or when she’s walking at night and the boys lounging against a wall on the street might stare at her. When she’s wearing a shawl, they can't tell if she’s a ninety-year old grandma or a sixteen-year old girl.
What she didn't realise was that they can mug a ninety-year old grandma or rape a sixteen-year old girl, and it doesn't make much difference to them either way.
Her shawl was silky and blue on one side, and silky and pale purple on the other, and elegant and rectangular, (without frilly bits, because she insisted) and she bought it at the shop right across town when I gave her the money I'd been saving for weeks as her birthday present.
I knew about the boys lounging against the walls on the streets, because they stared at me too, and called out (though more often they threw rocks and old bottles). But I didn't realise either. I go out to work at six in the morning, and stack things at a warehouse all day. I used to come home just after dark, except when we were short of money and I had to find some. In the meantime she took care of herself, visit the neighbours, make up stories to tell me - and when she got a job at the grocer's she worked some days too. She was always home before me. The oil lamp would be lit, and we'd cook over the small gas stove, or eat some bread if I'd bought any, and laugh about her stories, the grocer, and the other guys at my work.
Except one day, when she wasn't home and I went looking for her, and saw a flash of silky pale purple trampled into the ground.
I saw her after she made her statement. She found her way to the station, after I’d already been there. I was at home, curled up in a corner of the room we shared, when they all knocked on my door and my heart started pounding so hard I didn’t think I could reach to open the door. She came in first, her shawl limp between two fingers in her left hand, and they went away. I wanted to give her food, and comfort, but I didn’t have either.
I didn’t go to work the next day, but I had to buy bread, and when I came back she wasn’t there. It’s my fault, because I didn’t ask her what happened or tell her she was always my sister and that I loved her and all of the other things I should’ve said. I still don’t know what I should’ve said.
I looked for her, but it was a long time before I saw her next.
I’m four years older than my little sister. She doesn’t know some of the things I did to feed her when I was sixteen. I learned how to call out and how to answer when the boys on the street call (and really mean it), so that she wouldn’t ever have to. I wish I’d told her about it though, because maybe that last night, when we each huddled in our corners and I pleaded with her, she saw herself through my eyes without knowing what my eyes saw.
Now she makes me see her through her eyes. Because I’ve seen her on the sidewalks too, with a short skirt and red on her cheeks, and a slinky bit of blue hanging around her hips. I’ve tried to talk to her, but she doesn’t recognise me any more – I know, because she called out to me once or twice.
Word count: 649
Everyone thinks their wedding should've been perfect. I've actually been to a couple that 'ere perfect, so I know they're real.
I even told 'im he could just turn up in nice pants and a shirt. Something that matched. The problem with Johnny is, he's too laid-back, and he took this as meaning blue jeans and a denim jacket.
I'm pretty pissed off at whoever said the bride and groom shouldn't see each other before the wedding. I'm even more pissed off at Johnny. And tha's quite something, because most people say I'm a cheery sorta gal.
I chucked me bouquet at him, ya know. After I walked up the aisle and managed to get me veil outta my face, and saw what my Johnny was wearing. All those daffodils and daisies raining on his head, and him standing there not knowing what he done wrong. Then off I stormed out of the church and nearly fell in the stream, crossing the bridge. Flopped down on the pebbles on the stream bank and stared at the sky.
Me mam came after me, and then Johnny. I threw Ma's hat at 'im and all them canary feathers or whatever she had in there rained on his head too, and serve him right. Then it was his turn to storm off, and mam after him scowling like anything at me - at me, when he's the one that turns up in jeans to 'is own wedding.
Ah, but me poor Johnny's just a sailor lad, and I guess he don't know any better.
So I'm lyin' there staring at the sky, and then at the church where I can see in the stained glass, th' Virgin Mary with her halo is lookin' at me reproachfully. Aw, ok, she's lookin' at Baby Jesus in her arms, but I don't mind admitting I felt kinda bad then. Mebbe the Virgin Mary brought out all my motherly instincts, like, and I felt sorry for 'im and 'is little sister - she was there too, standing on the other side of the bridge in her little baby blue dress lookin' after me and lookin' away when she knew I was lookin' - growing up without a mam. Who's to tell Johnny he oughtn't wear jeans to 'is wedding? Poor thing. If 'nything, this shows jest why 'e needs to be married to a good sens'ble wife.
That's when I ran after him - up to his car that he'd painted royal for the occasion, and jumped in the front seat and ripped me garter off and chucked it at 'im too - well why not, after I'd chucked flowers an' feathers? An' that's how we scandalised the whole church.
I don' think the Virgin Mary gives a toss though, or she wouldn'a thought of it.
Word count: 481
I'm not sure what the colours contribute to the story - the original idea was that blue was more laid back and calm, while yellow was cheerful and exciteable. I think I gave up on that in favour of getting something written :P
“Pol and his fellow Coca-Cola Canians have an accommodation problem.
Pol lives on a Coca-Cola can. A very, very large Coca-Cola can, which orbits around a star, much in the same way as our own planet Earth.
Unfortunately, a key industry in Pol's home planet involves drilling through the soft metal of the planet's crust to obtain and export the ever-popular fizzy drink. The redistribution of the Coca-Cola is resulting in a gradual loss of mass, a slowing of planetary rotation - and, eventually, the planet begins to drift away from its sun, cooling and becoming uninhabitable.
Follow Pol and his companions on their journey as they leave their solar system in a search for a new home.”
Can-can is an unusual exploration of outer space, with a hint of a late 20th- early 21st century environmental or social message hidden somewhere. The relatively understated acting and special effects, and the educational tone adopted, are particularly notable. Sadly, this film missed its own boat – released at a time when 3D movies and melodramatic science fiction were more popular than ever, Can-can was passed over by critics and moviegoers alike.
Much of the science in this film has now been disproven, and whatever environmental or social messages it hints at (far too vaguely, in this critic’s opinion) are of course far from topical now. However, Can-can’s failure is a valuable lesson – released a decade earlier, it could have been very successful, if not recognised as a classic.
While there is little use, or market, for such a film in the present day, Can-can should be included, as a counterbalance, in any study of 1990s – 2020s films, in order to better understand the mentality of filmgoers of the day.
Along came a little train and broke Piggy’s nose.
“The news is going to start,” snaps the young man, throwing his cellphone down and fumbling for the remote.
Oh! said Piggy, That’s not fair!
“Oh, let her watch!” His wife turns from the stove and sighs as the toddler on the couch began to cry.
Well, said the little train, I Don’t Care.
The man puts an arm around his daughter, who ignores him, and watches the cartoon pig bending over again.
Piggy on a railway, picking up stones
“Just this one, and then Dad has to watch the news.”
Along came a little train and broke Piggy’s nose.
“This is a cartoon for children, and it has pigs getting their noses bloodied by evil trains?” he grumbles.
Oh! said Piggy, That’s not fair! - “It’s a cartoon for children that you brought from Singapore, and she likes it. Don’t ask me!”
Well, said the little train, I Don’t Care.
Without waiting for the train to disappear from the screen, he stops the DVD player and switches channels.
show has been a particular success this year, with over seventy dogs participating.
“It’s almost six-thirty, we’ve probably missed it,” he says, standing and stretching, turning to see what his wife’s up to in the kitchen. Then he hurriedly returns to his place.
results have caused widespread rioting in the capital. All flights in and out of the country have been cancelled. Travellers are asked
“Dinner’s ready! Come on, honey, shall we get into the high chair?”
The man grabs his wife’s wrist as she goes to pick up the child. “Wait a minute. Watch this.” They’re showing some fancy looking building.
High Commission. The travel advisory risk level is extreme.
“What’s happened?” she asks, sitting next to him, pulling their daughter closer. Now there are images of smoke and screaming people.
Fighting in the west of the country has also intensified, with bomb blasts in two towns causing an estimated one hundred deaths, and unverified reports of civilians being shot at checkpoints. The UN has
The woman jumps up, hugging the toddler tightly, and snatches the cordless phone from its cradle. “What’s the card number?”
“I don’t know, don’t worry about it, just call,” says the man, dialling a number on his cellphone. “Hey, have you seen the news?”
She dials too, puts on speaker phone so she can hear over the volume of the television. A loud, empty beeping noise is followed by a woman’s voice. Sorry, this connection is not presently available. Please try again later.
Beeeep, beeeep, beeeep, beeeep, beeeep. Sorry, this connection is not presently available. Please try again later.
“I expect everyone’s trying to get through now. Let’s have dinner, and then you can try again.” He pats her on the shoulder and goes to the kitchen, opening and closing the dishes, finding cutlery. She stares at the phone for a few more seconds, then reaches for the remote and turns off the television.
The toddler starts crying again.
“It’s time to eat,” the mother coaxes her, but she shakes her head violently and snatches the remote. She kicks when her mother tries to pick her up.
“Let her watch her DVD then,” says the man, piling up his plate. The woman frowns, and watches while the child presses several different buttons, eventually finding the one she wants. A small cartoon mouse appears next to a towering grandfather clock.
Hickory dickory dock,
Monday, April 12, 2010
You switch on the lights for him and he opens the pantry cupboards first. Then the fridge. The fan’s going in the living room, where you were sleeping, but the kitchen has the uncomfortable heat of a rotten melon. It’s almost nice to let your sweat cool, but he doesn’t look at the fridge for more than a few seconds before moving on – the bathroom, the wardrobes. You’ve given up being embarrassed about underwear when he checks the drawers, although it’d be nice if your husband were home, because you don’t speak the language of the soldier, which is just as curly as yours but in a different way, and your English is as boxy and gap-toothed as his. Your sister is still standing in a corner of the living room in her quiet cotton nightdress – she’s not brave enough to follow him around but you know you’re lucky they haven’t kicked you out, that you can make sure he doesn’t steal anything. You’re lucky that the other three are standing outside the front door and not herding you into a corner with their screaming guns and army fatigues.
Looking more closely, you can tell the soldier is sweating too – little wonder, in that outfit. He didn’t take his boots off, and he doesn’t when he gets to the room where your fragrant statues of Gods and sticks of incense live next to the computer, though that would have been a bit much to hope for.
Looking more closely, you can tell he’s old enough to be out of school, which makes an improvement on the last time. His cap’s falling off a bit, and his hair is greasy like a priest’s.
You wonder if he’ll blare into next door with his little troupe and wake up the grandma with two legs and the grandpa with one leg. (He has a walking frame, though, and that makes up for a missing leg as far as all the kids in the apartment block are concerned).
Your sister wonders if he saw her underwear, and is terrified at the thought. She takes her ID card back without meeting his eyes, and she’s cocooned in her shawl, wrapped twice around her torso and her arms crossed over her breasts just in case. You never bothered telling her that her nightdress is see-through in the light, and edge in front of her before she (or the soldier) notices.
You see him out with an acrid look, one foot holding the door open, baby in your left arm and right palm open for your ID card. He studies it again, very, very closely, and then studies your face. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick.
The soldier flings your ID card into your hand and takes his groundshaking, door-banging crocodiles next door.
If you lean back far enough when you’re dancing, you can see the beautiful colours on the temple ceiling. When you straighten up, you can glimpse the image of God, there behind his gates. There out of the corner of your eye, and thakka thim, and there right in front of you - as your plait swings around and a bit of jasmine falls out of your hair, and a little round bead off your heavy anklet - and thakkida and there again. There’s a whiff of camphor burning, slightly rotten fruit, cows, bananas, sweat, wet soil and flowers.
Oh no, it’s not much of a life for a girl like you, if you want to live in a house and have a bit of land and children and a husband. All I want is my God.
I heard a story once.
It was about a young priest, young like me.
He was born to a not particularly well-off farming family, the fourth child among three sons and two daughters. He worked on the farm and looked after his little sister. He loved his family, and he loved his country, but he far more loved his God.
He may have become a priest anyway, because he was the third son and there wasn’t much other use for him. Perhaps for this reason, or perhaps because he loved his God even before he was a priest, he never thought twice about his vocation.
Well, that’s not entirely true. He prayed about it once when he was unsure, when he was fifteen. This didn’t cause earthquakes or apparitions – it didn’t cause candles to light up or even to go out – so he decided to go ahead and become a priest anyway. After that he never thought twice about his vocation. He went to a seminary and, when he was twenty-three, he became a priest. By then, both of his brothers were married. The first had one child; the second had two.
He wore a black coat and a little white square in his collar. On Sundays, and quite often on other days too, he stood up and talked to people
He made an excellent priest. He stood by his God and his people, but he never condemned someone else who stood by their religion or their people. This is, perhaps, what I admire most about him.
One day he was killed by some people who didn’t believe in people (and they probably didn’t believe in God either).
I forget what his name was, so that’s not much of a story, is it?
When I was fifteen, I went to live in the temple. I married my God. We girls didn’t stand up and talk to people on Sundays or on other days, at least not very often, but we danced.
You see a lot of things when you’re a statue on the wall. I know things beyond the temple, and dancing. I know things beyond the images behind the gates being thrown into the wells, and beyond the temple dancers being called prostitutes and thrown out into the streets. I know my God, and I know the priest with the little white square in his collar, who also knew his God.
This piece of writing is meant with the utmost respect to the photos, their subjects, and the photographers.
The first photograph is from www.kamat.com/kalranga/art/sculptures/19071.htm. I am not sure whether the woman in the sculpture is a devadasi, as I have described her.
I'd also like to refer you to this article about Father Jerzy, the subject of the second photograph (who 'the priest' is loosely based on): http://stjeromeparish.ca/fr_jerzy.asp.
*hugs and grins all round*
- Love Ani
Thursday, April 8, 2010
The dark patches of shadow have retreated and the dusty street is lit up. The carver shifts on her green plastic chair and moves closer to the dirty plaster wall, out of the sun. In one hand is a damp grey rag; in the other, a square piece of wood. The shopfront across the street is dangling wood and coconut-shell cutlery, wooden statues, and little wooden pencil holders or key holders or sets of hooks meant for holding something (no one knows what) or sets of holes meant for holding something (no one knows what), with images of palm trees and boats, and thick, gleaming varnish. It is nearly identical to the shopfronts on either side of it. In fact, if one were to wander down the street (the only street that is apparent in this village) it would be clear that all of the shopfronts are nearly identical - apart from one which sells everything else; that is, packages of biscuits and fizzy drink, jandals, bulbs - even though no one has electric lights, batteries, matchboxes, plastic toy cars, metal boxes, figurines of gods (and that's just the front of the shop). Fruit and vegetable stalls have sprung up this morning just outside of the village.
The carver has made a knot across the front of her skirt, so it hangs just above her knees. The soles of her bare feet rub indulgently against the soft, pale grey dirt on the ground. Tiny dark wood chips are scattered where her chair was before. The wood in her hand is a proud but warm brown, the brown in a cuckoo's feathers. Out of the wood comes a bird with tiny carved feathers- not a cuckoo - a bird with alluring, womanly eyes; elegantly curved tail; a beak like parted lips from which emerge swirls (water, or flame, or ribbon).
Sunrise has revealed a strong blue sky and a warm day. It's still early - there's no one else about on the wooden walkway as a girl in boots, tartan blanket under arm, strolls beside the wide river, gazing into water that doesn't seem to be flowing, but must be because the ducks are moving fast and they aren't paddling. Trees droop into the leaden water, and around the boardwalk is a little forest of ferns and vines.
She stops at an embayment where the walkway juts out close to the river. Angular letters are scratched into the weathered handrail, forming names or initials or swearwords. There are trees next to her: one tree with small white flowers and small green leaves. Another tree with bigger purple flowers and no leaves. A third tree with no flowers and shiny, dark green leaves the size of her hand. The spiralled head of a fern is growing through a gap between the boards. There are fantails and sparrows flitting amongst the trees. Across the river is a paddock on a hill, with horses and grass and a faint smell of manure. There is a vague rumble of a jetboat which doesn't appear. The girl runs her foot between two nails, back and forth, switches the blanket to her other arm.
A flowing brown bird with swirls in its mouth swims through the air in the distance.
Word count: 543
Saturday, February 27, 2010
It is a medium-sized acrylic lacy shawl with strings coming loose. Pale blue. A plastic doll with curly, bright gold hair, is inside it. Together, they are on the an old-fashioned quilted bedspread, white cotton with orange and brown leaves and cotton frills on the edges and dark brown legs poking out the bottom. On the scratched wood dresser which has four drawers, black plastic and silver metal handles, is a tube of crimson lipstick, curved at the top with a plastic lid, the inside of which has red smears. A pale pink compact with the paint rubbed off and vaguely visible writing; an orange brush with a black ridged handle, ridges following the square cross-section.
A woman holds the brush, its ends frayed, studies her face. The mirror on the left, on top of one drawer, – tall and rectangular - has stains on it, white-fuzzy stains, bits of plasticine, a pair of colourful shiny birds with squished faces on a yellow plastic perch, and a paper cutout of a too-big head attached to a minute neck attached to a skirt attached to skinny legs attached to fat shoes, coloured in with felt-tip scribbles. The mirror on the right, on top of three drawers, is round and rotates on a brass rod when she pushes it.
The woman puts down the brush, sits on the bed. Moves the shawl, finds a thick black textbook lying open. “Case study. John is a 23 year old...” It goes onto the pile between the dresser and the bed, after the yellow highlighter is flicked out of the way. There’s another bookshelf on the other side of the bed, full of novels and poetry. Two shelves, dresser-height but coloured darker. One of the white-painted wardrobe doors at the foot of the bed is held open by a tiny baby rubber duck. There is a girl, in amongst the clothes, stroking a pale green satin-and-lace nightgown.
Word count: 321
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Use a particular and fairly vivid piece of clothing to tell a story: a sweater worn by two sisters who sleep with the same man while wearing it, or a loud sports jacket someone buys at a Goodwill store before realizing the jacket has three bullet holes in the back... What does clothing say about us? How does it select us, as opposed to being selected by us? Who tells us to buy this or that thing (other than salespeople)? What is the most alluring piece of clothing you've ever seen or worn and why? Why do some people seem to fit their clothes and others not? What do clothes hide? What do they reveal?
Wordcount: 600 (+/- 10%)
“But Jimmy will be home by himself otherwise.”
“Mom! I’m going to Australia so you’re going to have to figure that one out for yourself in future.”
Her eyes went all sparkly, like she might start crying.
One, two, three ruby roses on her necklace. Don’t think about making mum cry. They looked expensive, probably a loan from work since she definitely didn’t earn enough to buy something like that. Just turn around and walk away, she’ll be okay. Mum looked amazing in her slinky scarlet gown and ruby slippers. She probably would have been the prettiest one at the company Christmas party. Well it wasn’t my fault she couldn’t go any more. I had already warned her three weeks ago that I was going to be spending Christmas with Dad and Grandma in Aussie. She could have arranged a babysitter for James, but instead she did what she always did, pretend that the things she didn’t like weren’t happening at all.
I left her standing all mute and gummed up in the lounge and retreated upstairs to my room. Sitting on the edge of my underwater bedspread, I wondered if I would miss her when I moved to Australia more permanently next year. That was another thing she was pretending wouldn’t happen. I hauled my aqua Barbie suitcase out from under all the junk in my wardrobe and made a face, promising myself a new suitcase as soon as I got a descent summer job. It was just embarrassing, trundling this thing behind me through the Sydney Airport every time I wanted to visit dad. I think it was mum’s punishment for my betrayal, every time I went over there.
I pushed that thought aside. Focus on packing. There couldn’t be that much to take. Christmas was in the middle of summer in Australia and people wore as little as possible. I chucked in my navy swim-team one-piece, hoping dad might shout me a new, flashier bikini as a Christmas present, but wanting to be prepared just in case. A couple of pairs of blue and white boardies and a t-shirt advertising diet Pepsi and I was pretty much set in the clothing department. I remembered my phone charger and toothbrush, but I didn’t need much more than that. Grandma’s philosophy around my visits was to come with an empty suitcase and go home with a full one and that suited me just fine.
I trundled the bag out into the corridor, tensing again as soon as I left my room. Crossing from my soothing steel-gray carpet into the fiery red of the hallway was like giving away any illusion of having my own space. I was in her world from here to the front door. I just hoped the taxi wasn’t late.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Write an exercise in which you repeatedly use two different primary colors. Describe these colors without naming them too often - and try to find effective synonyms for the colors without being too obvious about this disguise. Repetition of anything alien to the human elements of a story is bound to influence the way the story sinks into the readers mind. How would red and yellow, appearing over and over again in drapes, carpets, clothes, hand-made ashtrays, or toilet bowls, affect you as a reader? If you know anything about the meaning or symbolism of colors, choose your pair of hues well to play off emotions against each other (red for anger; blue for passivity). Apply this exercise to a situation with which you're already frustrated.
Wordcount: 500 (+/- 10%)
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Years blur like the hazy desert mirage and soon the Rika orphan is a young woman, Emmy (Sienna Guillory), struggling to survive in the bustling slums of the House Capitol, Varna. When she learns of her tragic past from a craggy old man claiming to be her uncle (Jeremy Irons), she gives up everything to follow him into the desert in search of revenge for a stolen childhood and a mother she never knew.
Beyond the barren sands of the desert, she goes undercover, allowing her uncle to ‘sell’ her to the royal harem for a handful of blood rubies. Now all that is left is to find out what happened to her mother, without falling foul of either of the volatile Princes of the Desert. Unfortunately, her beauty and stubbornness has made her the subject of their latest competition. Her attempts to escape them lead her to making a wrong turn and coming face to face with the Queen, a meeting just as shocking for Emmy as it is for the other woman…
A gripping fantasy film directed by Natasha Arthy (Fighter, Mirakel), Queen of the Desert is a dark and powerful tribute to the bonds between mother and daughter and the things we will do for the ones we love.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Write a very short synopsis of an imaginary film, as if writing for one of those video anthologies - perhaps 10,000 Films in a Nutshell. Concentrate of images as much as you can in this summary of a plot or an interesting combination of images and time.
Word count: 300 (+/- 10%)
An Example (David Thomson's summarizing of Howard Hawk's career)
Men and women skirmish in Hawk's films on the understanding that an embrace is only a prelude to withdrawal and disillusion. The dazzling battles of word, innuendo, glance, and gesture - between [Cary] Grant and Hepburn, Grant and Jean Athur, Grant and Rosalind Russell, John Barrymore and Carole Lombard, Bogart and Bacall, [John] Wayne and Angie Dickinson... are Utopian procrastinations to avert the paraphernalia of released love that can only expend itself. In other words, Hawks is at his best in moments when nothing happens beyond people arguing about what might happen or has happened. Bogart and Bacall in The Big Sleep are not only characters tangled in a tortuous thriller but a constant audience to the film, commenting on its passage.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
“Where the hell have you been, Dylan?” James said. “Do you know what time it is?”
Dylan looked at his bare wrist and said, “Nope.”
Charlie was curled up, asleep on the couch and the television was still blaring in the corner.
James folded his arms, leaning back against the archway between the dining room and the lounge, just staring at his younger brother. Dylan was a mess. His school uniform was torn and grimy and half of the buttons were missing. James could smell the smoke as Dylan stormed past him towards the stairs.
“Hold it,” he growled.
“Fuck off, James. It’s none of your business.” Dylan stopped but he didn’t turn around.
"J’taime amour," a silky smooth voice purred from the television set. Distracted for a moment, James glanced at the screen to see a young French woman whispering in the ear of a much older business man inside a smoky club.
“Dad left me in charge, so yeah, it is my business,” James said, trying to ignore the way the woman on the television set reminded him of Danielle.
Dylan did turn around then, his eyes stormy as he said, “Believe me, you don’t want to know.”
He glanced at the television just as the older man walked out of the bar, leaving the young woman by herself.
“Look,” James said. “I know I’m not dad, and you don’t have to tell me anything, but you are scaring me Dylan… I don’t want you to be the latest dead kid on the news.”
Dylan snorted. “I can look after myself.”
James tried to consciously relax the tension in his shoulders. The French woman disappeared into the bathroom, her mascara staining her cheeks. If Danielle cried, she would look a hundred times worse. Goth chicks always wore way too much black eyeliner.
Dylan noticed. He was always the more observant one.
“You were a bastard today,” he said softly. All traces of his normal anger were gone as he sat down on the couch, shifting Charlie so that the kid’s head was on his lap. “It’s funny, I thought maybe you had changed.”
James sat on the other couch, staring at the television. Toothpaste and coca-cola competed with Viagra and the Ab-buster 2000, but all he saw was the look on Danielle’s face as he told her she had overestimated the strength of his affection for her. He had been trying to be chivalrous. That was what he told himself. No point letting the poor girl fantasize that there was any chance… Perhaps he didn’t have to do it in front of so many people… but it was just the truth.
“You really were just messing with her, eh.” Dylan shook his head. The French woman dialled someone on her cell phone but no one picked up. She slammed the phone shut and splashed her face with water.
James clenched and unclenched his fists. This was none of Dylan’s business. “What does it matter? If I screw up my relationships, you can laugh. It’s not like you are doing any better.”
“It’s not just you you’re hurting though, is it?”
“What do you care? You hate her.”
“I never said that.”
James blinked, trying to remember why he was so sure that his brother had hated the Goth girl in his class.
“I said she hates me,” Dylan clarified. “Until today, I hadn’t bothered having an opinion.”
The French woman put on some more lipstick, puffed up her hair and pasted on a vindictive smile. She opened her shirt a few buttons and hiked up her mini skirt until the bottoms of her stocking suspenders were visible. Out in the bar, she sidled up to one man after another on the dance floor, searching for someone who would take the bait.
James made a face, unimpressed with her sluttish behaviour. Dylan leaned over Charlie and grabbed the remote, turning off the television. James glanced at him, surprised. Dylan extricated himself carefully and then lifted Charlie into his arms, heading for the stairs. James followed like a lost puppy. When had Dylan, the troubled teen delinquent, turned into the mature one in this family?
Once Charlie was tucked up in bed, Dylan said, “There is a reason why Goths are a minority group.”
“Huh?” James followed him down the hall. “Did you see Dee tonight? Is that why you were out so late?”
Dylan walked into his room and shut the door in James’ face. James just stood there, stunned, trying to process his brother’s words. Minority group. Goths. Suicide. SHIT. He turned the handle, but Dylan had locked the door.
“Is she okay?” he hissed, not wanting to wake Charlie up with a yell.
Dylan didn’t answer. James turned away and began to pace the hall. Surely someone would have told him if Danielle had gone and done something stupid. Angelica would have… No, Angelica only thought about herself and Kitten didn’t speak at all, so she was hardly going to use a telephone. There was nothing for it. He would have to call her.
James pulled out his cell phone and then realized he had deleted Danielle’s number. Idiot. He tried the phone book, but they weren’t listed. Of course not. Their mother was the Head of Security at the Bank of America, she wasn’t going to have a listed number. It was three a.m., but James knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep without knowing that Dee was okay. He raced down the stairs, two at a time, and hauled his Tiger motorcycle out of the garage and then glanced up to see Dylan watching him from the second story with a smirk. Damn him. He knew just how to push James’ buttons. Danielle was probably fine. For all James knew, she and Dylan had cooked up this story to make him feel guilty. Despite that, he knew he had to check on her.