You arrived all wrapped up,
a special birthday present.
He did all his research,
Tried to ask my opinion, but I wasn’t listening.
“Surprise me,” I said.
I remember that birthday,
Everyone came, dressed up to the nines.
I felt so loved,
but not more than when he stood up and said,
“She may be weird, but she’s mine.”
You had a perfect memory,
dates and names and numbers I was always forgetting.
You woke me up in the morning,
and your little screen reminded me to smile.
He spent so much time,
picking you out of all the choices.
In the end, he bought one of you too…
That night I was foolish,
Past midnight, watching scary movies
Curled up in the cinema seat,
Texting - “Wo ai ni” … I love you
“Wan an” … Good night
I can’t believe I left you behind.
I’m so sorry.
I miss you.
Thank you for being such a good, reliable phone.
(P.S. If you do find your way back home, I promise I’ll give you lots of cuddles and always keep you safe!)
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Friday, February 12, 2010
Challenge 18
TV
Write a short interior scene during which a TV is on. Let the words and images on the screen interact interestingly with the activity going on in the room. Your characters can be watching the TV, or it can be background noise. Choose your TV show carefully to reflect an interesting aspect of the human situation you're also describing. You might do some research, taking notes with the TV on. Think about the kind of people who have a TV on all the time and don't seem to know about the mute button. Maybe you could play with the notion of TV reality interfering with your characters' reality.
Wordcount: 500 (+/- 10%)
Write a short interior scene during which a TV is on. Let the words and images on the screen interact interestingly with the activity going on in the room. Your characters can be watching the TV, or it can be background noise. Choose your TV show carefully to reflect an interesting aspect of the human situation you're also describing. You might do some research, taking notes with the TV on. Think about the kind of people who have a TV on all the time and don't seem to know about the mute button. Maybe you could play with the notion of TV reality interfering with your characters' reality.
Wordcount: 500 (+/- 10%)
Thursday, February 11, 2010
7 - Family Consciousness: The Flat
We looked up at the façade of the building, and Jinna spoke for all of us.
“Ugh.”
There wasn’t much else to say. It was grey and cold and concrete, and the idea that we were to live here… I coughed, the infection in my chest a lingering reminder of why we had had no choice.
Momma smiled bravely. She could see exactly how much of a struggle it would be to adjust, but that was not the point – never the point, with Momma. She knew we would manage, and manage with grace, if she had to fight every hour of every day to make it happen.
“Come on, let’s go inside.” There was a slight brittleness to her voice, but otherwise no one who didn’t know her would have known she was sad about this at all.
Jinna, despite her sulk, led the way. It was obvious she planned to swipe the biggest bedroom, but as it turned out she didn’t manage it. None of the bedrooms were big. All the same size, tiny concrete oblongs with cold grey walls and cold grey ceilings and tiny oblong windows with double glazing that was painted shut. If there had been heating, the rooms would have been warm enough to stifle a person. As it was, the glass seemed to shut out the light of the sun as well as its warmth. Jinna looked around and thought about complaining again. There was no point but at thirteen that didn’t usually stop her. Instead she heaved a sigh, and started planning her escape. She ran away with clock regularity, and even if we hadn’t have moved to this hole, she would have been making maps and finding hidey holes anyway. I made a mental note to keep an eye out for her, and saw her making a mental note to keep out of my way as much as possible.
Momma went to work at once, and soon rugs and mats were laid over the tile floors and the chill rising through the soles of our shoes became a little more bearable. Tommy fell and bruised his knee, the role of little brothers one he fell into quite naturally, and the time we spent fixing him up and offering the cheap, too-sweet candy, and cuddling and kissing better made us feel like a family again.
Momma’s face fell when tummies started to rumble. She had seen the kitchen before – we had not. She knew what was coming.
A look passed between us, and without a word I followed her out into the dank hallway. It took a moment to realise that all the bedroom doors had locks, and that we would share the kitchen and the bathroom with others. Momma saw the horror in my face at the idea, but there was no use either of us saying anything.
The kitchen was clean, and there were no cockroaches that we could see. That was the best thing we were able to say about it, and that was said without words. Swiftly we cut the dry rye bread and hard, sour cheese, and found a few mismatched plates. I piled up six, unthinking, and then put two back before Momma saw. I wasn’t quick enough, and the tears pooled in her eyes for a few seconds.
There was no time for sentiment with two hungry children to feed. We strode back down the corridor and plastered smiles on our faces. Jinna saw straight through our insincerity, but she appreciated the effort all the same. Tommy barely even saw the fake smiles. When there was food available he had no eyes for anything else, and we three girls had learned to be grateful for it during this eventful week.
Momma and I took the smallest plates so that our meagre portions would look the same size as Jinna and Tommy’s. I pretended not to see when Momma gave Tommy half her cheese, and she pretended not to see when I gave Jinna an extra slice of bread.
Voices rattled in the corridor, guttural words we didn’t understand and didn’t want to. They made Momma jump, and put a shiver down my spine. Jinna wanted to go out and see, try and speak to the folks who were making such a racket, but she stilled when I glared at her. Momma quietly walked over to the door of the tiny room we had crammed into and turned the key in the lock. My shoulders untensed from their position up by my ears.
Momma swallowed and braced herself to spout the propaganda we all needed to hear to get through the day.
“When Daddy comes back from the front, we’ll find somewhere nicer.”
No one said anything. None of us believed he would ever return. But none of us would ever say it out loud, for then it might be true.
“Ugh.”
There wasn’t much else to say. It was grey and cold and concrete, and the idea that we were to live here… I coughed, the infection in my chest a lingering reminder of why we had had no choice.
Momma smiled bravely. She could see exactly how much of a struggle it would be to adjust, but that was not the point – never the point, with Momma. She knew we would manage, and manage with grace, if she had to fight every hour of every day to make it happen.
“Come on, let’s go inside.” There was a slight brittleness to her voice, but otherwise no one who didn’t know her would have known she was sad about this at all.
Jinna, despite her sulk, led the way. It was obvious she planned to swipe the biggest bedroom, but as it turned out she didn’t manage it. None of the bedrooms were big. All the same size, tiny concrete oblongs with cold grey walls and cold grey ceilings and tiny oblong windows with double glazing that was painted shut. If there had been heating, the rooms would have been warm enough to stifle a person. As it was, the glass seemed to shut out the light of the sun as well as its warmth. Jinna looked around and thought about complaining again. There was no point but at thirteen that didn’t usually stop her. Instead she heaved a sigh, and started planning her escape. She ran away with clock regularity, and even if we hadn’t have moved to this hole, she would have been making maps and finding hidey holes anyway. I made a mental note to keep an eye out for her, and saw her making a mental note to keep out of my way as much as possible.
Momma went to work at once, and soon rugs and mats were laid over the tile floors and the chill rising through the soles of our shoes became a little more bearable. Tommy fell and bruised his knee, the role of little brothers one he fell into quite naturally, and the time we spent fixing him up and offering the cheap, too-sweet candy, and cuddling and kissing better made us feel like a family again.
Momma’s face fell when tummies started to rumble. She had seen the kitchen before – we had not. She knew what was coming.
A look passed between us, and without a word I followed her out into the dank hallway. It took a moment to realise that all the bedroom doors had locks, and that we would share the kitchen and the bathroom with others. Momma saw the horror in my face at the idea, but there was no use either of us saying anything.
The kitchen was clean, and there were no cockroaches that we could see. That was the best thing we were able to say about it, and that was said without words. Swiftly we cut the dry rye bread and hard, sour cheese, and found a few mismatched plates. I piled up six, unthinking, and then put two back before Momma saw. I wasn’t quick enough, and the tears pooled in her eyes for a few seconds.
There was no time for sentiment with two hungry children to feed. We strode back down the corridor and plastered smiles on our faces. Jinna saw straight through our insincerity, but she appreciated the effort all the same. Tommy barely even saw the fake smiles. When there was food available he had no eyes for anything else, and we three girls had learned to be grateful for it during this eventful week.
Momma and I took the smallest plates so that our meagre portions would look the same size as Jinna and Tommy’s. I pretended not to see when Momma gave Tommy half her cheese, and she pretended not to see when I gave Jinna an extra slice of bread.
Voices rattled in the corridor, guttural words we didn’t understand and didn’t want to. They made Momma jump, and put a shiver down my spine. Jinna wanted to go out and see, try and speak to the folks who were making such a racket, but she stilled when I glared at her. Momma quietly walked over to the door of the tiny room we had crammed into and turned the key in the lock. My shoulders untensed from their position up by my ears.
Momma swallowed and braced herself to spout the propaganda we all needed to hear to get through the day.
“When Daddy comes back from the front, we’ll find somewhere nicer.”
No one said anything. None of us believed he would ever return. But none of us would ever say it out loud, for then it might be true.
Challenge 10: Ink blots
OOC: It's too long and possibly not what is meant by the challenge but here it is.
I like living here. You meet so many people when you live in a hotel. “Kitten, you're going to need to hop out from under the desk sweety.” says the receptionist, Mandy. Mandy doesn't actually mind me being under the desk, but that is a code to say that my dad is looking for me. Daddy owns the hotel, but he's still nice to the people who work here. “Ok.” I say as I go look for Daddy. He's always in one place when he's looking for me. Mostly because he mentions to one or two people who work here on his way. They tell other people who work here and then one will know where I am and will tell me. It doesn't waste his time 'cause he can do his work there anyway.
“Ah, Katherine.” says Father.
“Hello Father.” I say.
“You remember Mrs Danvers?” he says as I notice that there is a woman in the office with him.
“Hello Mrs Danvers.” I say politely.
“Mrs Danvers has a few questions to ask you.” says Father. “You can use the room just through that door.” says Father to Mrs Danvers indicating the Conference room that is occasionally my play room. “Katherine you are to answer Mrs Danvers questions, don't leave anything out.” says Father. I don't think he likes Mrs Danvers. That sentence is one we use as a code to say 'make everything as difficult as possible for this person. I don't think I have heard Father use that phrase before... I look at him, he is trying to smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes. I may only be six but I know when someone is trying to pretend.
“Yes Father.” I say.
“Well then, come along girl.” says Mrs Danvers.
“My name is Katherine.” I say. “Not 'girl'.” I add. Mrs Danvers does not look pleased.
“Just follow her Katherine.” says Father.
“Yes Father.” I reply following the evil lady to the conference room.
In the conference room I sit down on a chair across the table from the evil lady. She looks a little annoyed but does not protest.
“Well girl.” Begins the evil lady, looking in her bag for something.
“Yes lady?” I ask, she looks even more irritated but I see her contain it.
“What do you see on this card?” she asks holding up a card. She looks a bit smug now. On the card is an 'ink blot' I know what it is because Mandy had a prject for her course on them. She had to show them to people and I did it for her at one point. I look through the 'ink blot' like Mandy told me to.
“A Dragon.” I say. The evil lady looks surprised and a little annoyed again. She pulls out another card.
“And this one?” she asks. I look through it again.
“A unicorn.” I reply. The evil lady looks even more annoyed.
“Last one. What is on this card?” she asks, I can see her wanting me to get this one wrong, I think she picked a really hard card to be sure, she looks almost smug, so I look carefully.
“A Zodiac?” I ask, I'm not sure what a Zodiac is but the card seemed to tell me that was what it was supposed to be. The evil lady almost seems to pale when I give that answer.
“How did you know that?” she demands. I don't think she meant to ask that she seems a bit annoyed at herself for having asked it. But Father said to answer her questions, so...
“The card told me that was what it was.” I tell her.
“The card told you...” repeats the evil lady seeming stunned.
“Can I go now?” I ask.
“Yes... Tell your Father that Maveric blood breeds true.” she says as I am almost out the door.
“Katherine!” says Father happily as I exit. Suddenly I am caught up in a big hug.
“The evil lady says to say that Maveric blood breeds true.” I tell him. I knew I was magical.
I like living here. You meet so many people when you live in a hotel. “Kitten, you're going to need to hop out from under the desk sweety.” says the receptionist, Mandy. Mandy doesn't actually mind me being under the desk, but that is a code to say that my dad is looking for me. Daddy owns the hotel, but he's still nice to the people who work here. “Ok.” I say as I go look for Daddy. He's always in one place when he's looking for me. Mostly because he mentions to one or two people who work here on his way. They tell other people who work here and then one will know where I am and will tell me. It doesn't waste his time 'cause he can do his work there anyway.
“Ah, Katherine.” says Father.
“Hello Father.” I say.
“You remember Mrs Danvers?” he says as I notice that there is a woman in the office with him.
“Hello Mrs Danvers.” I say politely.
“Mrs Danvers has a few questions to ask you.” says Father. “You can use the room just through that door.” says Father to Mrs Danvers indicating the Conference room that is occasionally my play room. “Katherine you are to answer Mrs Danvers questions, don't leave anything out.” says Father. I don't think he likes Mrs Danvers. That sentence is one we use as a code to say 'make everything as difficult as possible for this person. I don't think I have heard Father use that phrase before... I look at him, he is trying to smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes. I may only be six but I know when someone is trying to pretend.
“Yes Father.” I say.
“Well then, come along girl.” says Mrs Danvers.
“My name is Katherine.” I say. “Not 'girl'.” I add. Mrs Danvers does not look pleased.
“Just follow her Katherine.” says Father.
“Yes Father.” I reply following the evil lady to the conference room.
In the conference room I sit down on a chair across the table from the evil lady. She looks a little annoyed but does not protest.
“Well girl.” Begins the evil lady, looking in her bag for something.
“Yes lady?” I ask, she looks even more irritated but I see her contain it.
“What do you see on this card?” she asks holding up a card. She looks a bit smug now. On the card is an 'ink blot' I know what it is because Mandy had a prject for her course on them. She had to show them to people and I did it for her at one point. I look through the 'ink blot' like Mandy told me to.
“A Dragon.” I say. The evil lady looks surprised and a little annoyed again. She pulls out another card.
“And this one?” she asks. I look through it again.
“A unicorn.” I reply. The evil lady looks even more annoyed.
“Last one. What is on this card?” she asks, I can see her wanting me to get this one wrong, I think she picked a really hard card to be sure, she looks almost smug, so I look carefully.
“A Zodiac?” I ask, I'm not sure what a Zodiac is but the card seemed to tell me that was what it was supposed to be. The evil lady almost seems to pale when I give that answer.
“How did you know that?” she demands. I don't think she meant to ask that she seems a bit annoyed at herself for having asked it. But Father said to answer her questions, so...
“The card told me that was what it was.” I tell her.
“The card told you...” repeats the evil lady seeming stunned.
“Can I go now?” I ask.
“Yes... Tell your Father that Maveric blood breeds true.” she says as I am almost out the door.
“Katherine!” says Father happily as I exit. Suddenly I am caught up in a big hug.
“The evil lady says to say that Maveric blood breeds true.” I tell him. I knew I was magical.
5 - Journalism: The DCI's Diary
Diary 2010 Week To View
If found please return to DCI Swallow
25th January
The subject continues to keep to his usual routine. It’s difficult to tell whether he has any awareness of us – although we endeavour to be discrete, the rumour mill will work against us if neighbours become aware of our presence. Given the size of the flat and the thinness of the walls this seems inevitable, but we have several cover stories and counter-rumours to turn to if necessary.
Jones continues to insist that we refrain from mentioning the subject’s name or those of any of his associates even in our written communication. I’m monitoring that situation, too – Jones appears to have a strong case of paranoia where the subject is concerned, but this is understandable in light of his previous postings in the breakaway republics. The subjects links to the republics remain unproven, and all evidence points towards his being a local small time drug dealer who is trying to get a reputation as something more.
Sneyder, the police psychologist assigned to our unit, assures me that she thinks Jones is stable, and there is no doubt that he is an able officer, but all the same it troubles me that he attributes a good deal of power and influence to one petty criminal.
As the subject is well known and this case well documented, I have acquiesced to his wish that we refer only obliquely to the subject. In the long run it will not harm our case.
10th February
Jones’ behaviour continues to concern me. He has taken to muttering words which rhyme with the subject’s name, and were it not for his excellent work deciphering the coded messages we have picked up from our friend on the other side of the street I would request he be taken off the case. Unfortunately he is one of the few code breakers we have available, and as such is indispensible to us here.
After two weeks’ observation the subject still appears to have no intelligence of our presence. The messages we have intercepted have largely been of no consequence, but some of them have given us new leads to follow up. At the end of this month we should certainly have enough to move onto the next stage of the investigation, and I have no doubt that the records we are keeping will help lead to a conviction.
18th February
After some unusual activity from the subject, we have requested back up, which should be with us in a few days. Our suspicions grow that he has finally realised he is under surveillance, and although he will not make a move before the High Tide festival, which he will need as cover to launder the cash we believe is stored in his flat, we are concerned about our safety after that time.
Fortunately this unpleasant development has allowed us to shoot several dozen high resolution pictures of the subject and his associates with firearms which are certainly not legally owned, and can only add to the strength of our case.
25th February
The increased security has certainly given us all some measure of peace of mind, although I fear Jones will need transferring to another unit before the festival is finished. The strain of waiting for a possible attack has lead to increased paranoia, and his increased use of his asthma inhaler particularly concerns me. I am certain that his dependence on the drug is far beyond what is normal even in severe asthmatics, and he would not have been allowed to serve on this team if his health had been judged lacking.
I confess it will be a relief to leave this wretched flat and get back to the office to analyse the information we have collected.
29th February
Jones is dead. The flat is surrounded and we don’t know exactly what is happening outside. It looks like Jones was correct after all. If this record is retrieved, then let our deaths count for something; whoever is assigned to this case in future must be warned that the subject possesses powers that defy description and that the only chance to defeat him is
The diary extract reproduced above was recovered in early March when survivors and bodies were pulled from a destroyed building which was an apparent victim of a terrorist attack.
Mysteriously, police records give no reference to the case, or the officers involved, and even the unusual surname Sneyder gave us no link to any known police force either nationally or on Interpol.
The body from which the diary was retrieved was unrecognisable, having been badly burned in the fire, and no matches were found of any of the victims of the explosion in the dental records currently available to us. Only a small portion of the diary was unharmed, and tests reveal that the security lock had been breached several times before the time of the explosion, although the DCI makes no record of any attempt to break into it.
No other written material, recording equipment, or similar items and devices were recovered at the scene.
We respectfully suggest that the information contained in this report stays confidential until such a time as the subject is identified and neutralised.
- Bacon County Federal Coroner’s Office.
If found please return to DCI Swallow
25th January
The subject continues to keep to his usual routine. It’s difficult to tell whether he has any awareness of us – although we endeavour to be discrete, the rumour mill will work against us if neighbours become aware of our presence. Given the size of the flat and the thinness of the walls this seems inevitable, but we have several cover stories and counter-rumours to turn to if necessary.
Jones continues to insist that we refrain from mentioning the subject’s name or those of any of his associates even in our written communication. I’m monitoring that situation, too – Jones appears to have a strong case of paranoia where the subject is concerned, but this is understandable in light of his previous postings in the breakaway republics. The subjects links to the republics remain unproven, and all evidence points towards his being a local small time drug dealer who is trying to get a reputation as something more.
Sneyder, the police psychologist assigned to our unit, assures me that she thinks Jones is stable, and there is no doubt that he is an able officer, but all the same it troubles me that he attributes a good deal of power and influence to one petty criminal.
As the subject is well known and this case well documented, I have acquiesced to his wish that we refer only obliquely to the subject. In the long run it will not harm our case.
10th February
Jones’ behaviour continues to concern me. He has taken to muttering words which rhyme with the subject’s name, and were it not for his excellent work deciphering the coded messages we have picked up from our friend on the other side of the street I would request he be taken off the case. Unfortunately he is one of the few code breakers we have available, and as such is indispensible to us here.
After two weeks’ observation the subject still appears to have no intelligence of our presence. The messages we have intercepted have largely been of no consequence, but some of them have given us new leads to follow up. At the end of this month we should certainly have enough to move onto the next stage of the investigation, and I have no doubt that the records we are keeping will help lead to a conviction.
18th February
After some unusual activity from the subject, we have requested back up, which should be with us in a few days. Our suspicions grow that he has finally realised he is under surveillance, and although he will not make a move before the High Tide festival, which he will need as cover to launder the cash we believe is stored in his flat, we are concerned about our safety after that time.
Fortunately this unpleasant development has allowed us to shoot several dozen high resolution pictures of the subject and his associates with firearms which are certainly not legally owned, and can only add to the strength of our case.
25th February
The increased security has certainly given us all some measure of peace of mind, although I fear Jones will need transferring to another unit before the festival is finished. The strain of waiting for a possible attack has lead to increased paranoia, and his increased use of his asthma inhaler particularly concerns me. I am certain that his dependence on the drug is far beyond what is normal even in severe asthmatics, and he would not have been allowed to serve on this team if his health had been judged lacking.
I confess it will be a relief to leave this wretched flat and get back to the office to analyse the information we have collected.
29th February
Jones is dead. The flat is surrounded and we don’t know exactly what is happening outside. It looks like Jones was correct after all. If this record is retrieved, then let our deaths count for something; whoever is assigned to this case in future must be warned that the subject possesses powers that defy description and that the only chance to defeat him is
The diary extract reproduced above was recovered in early March when survivors and bodies were pulled from a destroyed building which was an apparent victim of a terrorist attack.
Mysteriously, police records give no reference to the case, or the officers involved, and even the unusual surname Sneyder gave us no link to any known police force either nationally or on Interpol.
The body from which the diary was retrieved was unrecognisable, having been badly burned in the fire, and no matches were found of any of the victims of the explosion in the dental records currently available to us. Only a small portion of the diary was unharmed, and tests reveal that the security lock had been breached several times before the time of the explosion, although the DCI makes no record of any attempt to break into it.
No other written material, recording equipment, or similar items and devices were recovered at the scene.
We respectfully suggest that the information contained in this report stays confidential until such a time as the subject is identified and neutralised.
- Bacon County Federal Coroner’s Office.
Challenge 17: Moving in
It was strange to think, as we pulled up outside the Howard mansion, that I was actually going to live here. I clambered out of mom’s Ferrari and waded through the heat, hoping the place would have air conditioning. A butler hurried down the stairs to greet us, but I insisted on hauling my own luggage out of the trunk. My little sister Kitty needed more help with her bags anyway.
“Danielle?” There he was, standing in the doorway of his very own palace. Prince Charming himself – James Howard. His voice tasted like chocolate and strawberries. I squinted up at him, an awkward half-grin on my lips.
“What are you doing here?” a second voice said.
My smile fell. Dylan had just joined his older brother and I could almost smell his scorn. Barbara, my mom, tackled the stairs with a bag in each hand. By the top, Dylan looked like a frozen crème puff, sweating in the knowledge he was about to be eaten.
“Not a chance,” he said desperately. “They are definitely not moving in!”
My mom lifted her massive sunglasses and gave the bastard her best ‘I’m going to be your new mother,’ smile. Arthur emerged then and gave mom a massive hug. They actually kissed in front of all of us… Ew!
Mom and Arthur had suddenly sprung their engagement on us all about a week ago and now here we were, saving money in this recession by moving out of our four bedroom house right next to school and shifting into a bloody 10 bedroom mansion in the middle of nowhere. Great.
When I finally made it inside, I was taken aback by how clean and shiny everything was. This place even smelled white. As a dedicated Goth, I officially considered myself to be in hell.
James’ fingers whispered over my hand, making my heart wobble excitedly. Oh, this was so wrong. James took my bag and I didn’t even think of stopping him.
“Come on,” he said, winking. “I’ll show you your room.”
Gods above, I almost melted on the spot. I followed him, doll-like, up the wide colonial staircase and away down a corridor.
“I made sure you got the darkest room in the tallest tower,” he said with a delectable, syrupy laugh. “If you ever open your curtains, you’ve got a great view of the estate.”
He put my bag down on the bed, the duvet cushioning the impact. I didn’t even hear the clink of my crystals crashing into each other, but then I had packed them inside five oversized socks each. I crossed over to the window and peered outside, breathless with the awareness of him, still there, sitting on the edge of my bed.
“So ah…” I said, not brave enough to look around. “Where is your room?”
“On the other side of the house,” he said, a slight tang of regret in his voice. “My dad’s not a complete idiot.”
I did glance at him then. His smile was a sunbeam, breaking through all my shadowy walls.
“I’m here now,” was all he needed to say. In the next moment, he was standing and I was wrapped up in his arms, losing myself in the aria of his kisses. How could I have been so lucky? He should never have even noticed me, hiding in the shadows everywhere I went. How could I be so unlucky? Sure, now we were living together, which was great, except that in three months, when mom and Arthur married, what we were doing was going to be so very illegal.
Wordcount: 607
This is a continuation of New York Girls (my challenge 7), and is part of a story Nightfire and I are developing which has been code named 'The Brady Bunch'
“Danielle?” There he was, standing in the doorway of his very own palace. Prince Charming himself – James Howard. His voice tasted like chocolate and strawberries. I squinted up at him, an awkward half-grin on my lips.
“What are you doing here?” a second voice said.
My smile fell. Dylan had just joined his older brother and I could almost smell his scorn. Barbara, my mom, tackled the stairs with a bag in each hand. By the top, Dylan looked like a frozen crème puff, sweating in the knowledge he was about to be eaten.
“Not a chance,” he said desperately. “They are definitely not moving in!”
My mom lifted her massive sunglasses and gave the bastard her best ‘I’m going to be your new mother,’ smile. Arthur emerged then and gave mom a massive hug. They actually kissed in front of all of us… Ew!
Mom and Arthur had suddenly sprung their engagement on us all about a week ago and now here we were, saving money in this recession by moving out of our four bedroom house right next to school and shifting into a bloody 10 bedroom mansion in the middle of nowhere. Great.
When I finally made it inside, I was taken aback by how clean and shiny everything was. This place even smelled white. As a dedicated Goth, I officially considered myself to be in hell.
James’ fingers whispered over my hand, making my heart wobble excitedly. Oh, this was so wrong. James took my bag and I didn’t even think of stopping him.
“Come on,” he said, winking. “I’ll show you your room.”
Gods above, I almost melted on the spot. I followed him, doll-like, up the wide colonial staircase and away down a corridor.
“I made sure you got the darkest room in the tallest tower,” he said with a delectable, syrupy laugh. “If you ever open your curtains, you’ve got a great view of the estate.”
He put my bag down on the bed, the duvet cushioning the impact. I didn’t even hear the clink of my crystals crashing into each other, but then I had packed them inside five oversized socks each. I crossed over to the window and peered outside, breathless with the awareness of him, still there, sitting on the edge of my bed.
“So ah…” I said, not brave enough to look around. “Where is your room?”
“On the other side of the house,” he said, a slight tang of regret in his voice. “My dad’s not a complete idiot.”
I did glance at him then. His smile was a sunbeam, breaking through all my shadowy walls.
“I’m here now,” was all he needed to say. In the next moment, he was standing and I was wrapped up in his arms, losing myself in the aria of his kisses. How could I have been so lucky? He should never have even noticed me, hiding in the shadows everywhere I went. How could I be so unlucky? Sure, now we were living together, which was great, except that in three months, when mom and Arthur married, what we were doing was going to be so very illegal.
Wordcount: 607
This is a continuation of New York Girls (my challenge 7), and is part of a story Nightfire and I are developing which has been code named 'The Brady Bunch'
Challenge 17
Synesthesia
Use synesthesia in a short scene - surreptitiously, without drawing too much attention to it - to convey to your reader an important understanding of some ineffable sensory experience. Use sight, sound, touch, taste, and smell.
Synesthesia is a description of "One kind of sensation in terms of another" (A Glossary of Literary Terms by M. H. Abrams). An example from Bruno Schulz reads "Adela would plunge the rooms into semidarkness by drawing down the linen blinds. All colors immediately fell an octave lower..."
Wordcount: 600 (+/- 10%)
Use synesthesia in a short scene - surreptitiously, without drawing too much attention to it - to convey to your reader an important understanding of some ineffable sensory experience. Use sight, sound, touch, taste, and smell.
Synesthesia is a description of "One kind of sensation in terms of another" (A Glossary of Literary Terms by M. H. Abrams). An example from Bruno Schulz reads "Adela would plunge the rooms into semidarkness by drawing down the linen blinds. All colors immediately fell an octave lower..."
Wordcount: 600 (+/- 10%)
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