Jacob’s Escape: Driving with Sadie

Yet another story I started a while ago. I’m still trying to figure out the rest of the plot for Tongue of Fire, but I should probably just start writing and see what happens. Oh well, we’ll see. Anyway, here’s a vaguely scifi story intro. Now that it’s posted, we’ll see if anything comes of it.

     The air conditioning was busted. This normally wouldn’t bug Jacob so much, except for the fact that it was July, and he had just crossed the state line into Arizona. Rolling the windows all the way down, he muttered to his car, “Why do you always konk out when I need you the most?”
     “Oh, I’m sorry,” the car’s feminine voice replied. “I’ll just get rid of the rest of the gas twice as fast to make you a little more comfortable. I’m sure the police would be very grateful if I did that.”
     “You know what?” Jason fully intended to defend himself, but no reasoning came to mind. He sighed in defeat. “You win again, Sadie. Just…just hurry up a little.”
     Sadie replied, “You’re the one with his foot on the gas, Jacob.” Nevertheless she sped up, soaring down the interstate like it was the Indy 500. But for Jacob it was a lot more than that; it was his great escape.
     “Crossing the state line probably wasn’t the best idea, huh?” Jacob considered aloud.
     “Most likely,” Sadie answered him, “but it was better than staying in Las Vegas, now wasn’t it?”
     “Vegas is nasty,” Jacob shivered at the thought of the hideous city.
     Nothing could change the past, and Jacob was driving toward what he hoped would be a new future with the only thing in the world he needed, and that was Sadie. They’d been together since 2020. The ’13 Chevy pickup might have been rusting for years, but she was classic, if not more than a little sassy. She was usually smarter than Jacob, and because of this just what he needed in times of trouble. And those were often. Like right now, for example.
     “Jacob, I hate to tell you this, but I feel other cars behind me,” he heard Sadie say, and what she said took him out of the vague memories that had appeared in the landscape before him.
     “Really? How fast are they going?” He peered into Sadie’s rearview mirror and saw nothing. Whatever was following them had to be a long way back, but that didn’t make Jacob feel any better. “If they catch us…”
     “What am I, a speedometer? Just keep your foot on the pedal and we’ll be perfectly fine.”
     There was a pause as Jacob focused on the road and the yellow and white lines disappearing out of view. And yet they were always still there ahead of him, reminding him that he could never come to the end of the road.
     Finally Jacob muttered under his breath, “You’re kind of a speedometer.”
     “Jacob!” Sadie’s voice turned harsh.
     “Sorry.” Another pause, but Jacob got tired of the silence. “Are they still behind us?”
     “Yes they are, Jacob.” Sadie’s voice was slow and patient, as if she were talking to a toddler. This was the only way Sadie could ever irritate Jacob, but he never told her that. You never want to get your car angry, Jacob had learned; especially when you’re being chased. A car will never be punished for getting caught.
     So Jacob let the miles and sunlight pass by almost silently. He turned on the radio at one point, but Sadie changed the station to music she liked better, so he kept the volume low.
     Finally, just as the sun was about to touch the horizon, Sadie spoke again. “Maybe we should rest, Jacob. Get us a motel. As long as you park me in the back, they won’t find us.”
     “Yeah, yeah…” Jacob let out a sigh, which halfway through turned into a yawn. “I guess I could use some Zs.”
     “Uh-huh,” Sadie said, and the two of them got off the interstate at the next exit and found the closest motel. There was a parking lot, but Jacob was too paranoid to leave Sadie out in the open, so he looped around the back and left Sadie behind the building. He rolled up the windows and climbed out of the truck.

Also, happy Thanksgiving!

Lonely Soldier: A Story to Tell

Here’s another one I wrote months ago and never continued. I have only vague ideas on what his story would actually be, so we’ll see if something happens with it.

     How lonely, the life of a soldier. A man could be recruited, trained and sent to the front line without ever gaining a friend. And if by chance any comrades were found in the barracks or trenches, they still could not be counted as a friend on the battlefield. They would get lost in the mayhem, or be killed, or become cowardly and desert without ever taking friendship into consideration.
     The war was over, but the lesson that he had been forced to learn still filled James Daugney’s mind as fully as it had in the sand and the mud that day, long ago.
     Sighing, James blew a puff of smoke into the air and placed the cigarette back between his lips. The smoke soothed him after a day’s work at the plant, and distracted him from the hot, stuffy air that had fallen into the evening and his apartment. As did the glass of fine French wine in the soft grip of his fingertips. How many times had he done this; how many nights had he spent sitting before his open window, a drink and cigarette his only companions? He tried to think back, but the memories had become as hazy as the smoke that drifted in front of his face.
     At her last visit his mother had pestered him with the notion that he needed to find a hobby. Visit some pubs, or spend a night at the movies, or even find a girl; anything to keep him from staying in all the time. James had ignored her thus far, yet tonight her suggestions were pulling at his thoughts more forcibly than ever.
     “A hobby, eh?” he muttered aloud, picking the cigarette out of his mouth and twirling it between his index finger and thumb. He noticed his foot was involuntarily tapping where it was crossed over his leg and rested on the windowsill, a sure sign that he was becoming restless. Perhaps mother was right, just this once. But he would never admit that to her.
     But then James happened upon another thought. What pastime could possibly entertain him for more than a few minutes? James had always been one to bore easily; this had been problematic in the ranks. He often found himself tinkering with his rifle or something else equally dangerous, and he could never sit still in the barracks. Curious, he spat out a fresh supply of cigarette smoke and took a long look around his apartment. Everything common to be found in a drawing room was there—a couch and a chair, which sat unused in the corner. The telephone hung to the wall, and the wireless rested on the mantelpiece, silent. A fan buzzed on across from the furniture, but it wasn’t doing a very good job cooling the room. There was the bookshelf stacked high and low with volumes on the other side of the room, but reading didn’t appeal to him. When it came to stories, he preferred to tell them.
     And with that thought, he finally came upon the desk nearest him. A typewriter was mounted on top of it. Stories…yes, James did in fact have a story he could tell. It would not be a very easy one to write, but it would distract him from the sweat beading on his forehead, and perhaps give him a chance to stop dwelling on the memories. So without much effort he stood and wandered his way to the writing desk, stopping to snuff out his cigarette on the way, and then sat in the chair placed before the desk.
     There was nothing else on the desk but dust and a short stack of clean white paper. James never wrote letters, much to his family’s dismay, and the condition of the desk proved that.
     “Maybe I can get some use out of you yet,” James told the typewriter, and stretched his fingers. He picked a piece of paper from the top of the stack and guided it into the typewriter, crinkling the edges before he managed to slip it in. And then, after taking a moment to clear the dust off of the desk, he leaned his chin on his arm, staring at the blank paper, half-expecting the pictures in his mind to appear in print.
     When his foot began tapping again he checked the clock on the wall. He had been sitting in this spot for nearly ten minutes.
     “Whoops,” James scolded himself and stretched his fingers again, the sound of the cracking knuckles almost as good a relaxer as his smokes. He got up and pulled another one from the quickly dwindling pack, taking a long gulp of the stuff once it was lit. He sat down again, sticking the cigarette in between his teeth. After watching the white eternity of the paper for a few more minutes, James began to tell his story.

Tongue of Fire

Two stories on the same night? WHAT IS THE WORLD COMING TO?!?! Ahem. Anyway, I wrote this back in March, and just rediscovered it tonight. And I love it. So I plan to write more in it…or at least, we can sure hope. Here you go!

     The sound of a crackling fire awoke Damien. The teenage boy had always been a light sleeper, but the miniscule pop of an erupting spark didn’t seem like a very good wake-up call, even to him. It was still dark; the only light came from the moon, which was nothing more than a hazy apparition through the drawn curtains.
     Once awake, Damien could never get back to sleep, and since his mind was already traveling beyond the comfort of his bedroom, he climbed out of bed and went to the hallway.
     His big wooden door creaked when he peeked outside, as big wooden doors often do. Without the door in the way he could hear, in addition to the spitting fire, someone’s voice, speaking just above a whisper. At first Damien couldn’t tell who it was, but as he looked across the hallway he knew it had to be Talon, his older brother—his bedroom door had been left open, something that never happened during the nighttime hours. Talon always closed and locked his door when he slept.
     So Damien crept into the hallway, wishing he had a better sense of hearing. If he could listen in to conversations from afar, he would; he always loved hearing bits of information that adults always said he was too young to hear. Perhaps that made him an eavesdropper, but so long as he wasn’t hurting anyone, he saw nothing wrong with that.
     The room at the end of the hallway, the family kitchen, was all aglow, the walls flickering golden from the light of the fire. Damien stuck half of his head into the room, and what he saw confused him.
     His guess had been right; it was his brother Talon there. He was sitting in front of the open fireplace. He must be getting warm, Damien thought to himself, since the skies had been promising snow recently. But there was something not quite right about the scene before his eyes.
     Talon’s head, covered in dark curls, was moving as he spoke. Damien could make out his words now, and he heard him say very quietly, “How can you be sure about this?”
     Damien took a step into the room and opened his mouth to ask his brother what he was doing, but at that moment another voice entered the room. It was older than Talon’s, a presence Damien felt should be unwelcome in the household. It quite frightened him, in fact.
     It said, “Every spy I’ve planted has told me as much. Just be ready, friend. If not then, soon.”
     Was the voice coming from the fire? Damien wondered. It couldn’t be; it was only a fire. There must be someone else in the room, and Damien looked over every nook and cranny of the kitchen. Unless this man was a master of disguise, there was no one else there, not even in the shadows.
     Talon made Damien jump when he spoke again; Damien had quite forgotten about him in his search for the voice without source. “Good then. Fare well.”
     The voice came again, and this time Damien stared at the fire. “And you.” And that was all. The fire continued to flicker, and Talon moved to stand. Perplexed, Damien took a quick step backward, not wanting to be caught.
     His action was not a smooth one, however, and he tripped over a loose floorboard and fell on his back, gasping for breath. For a moment he found himself staring at the ceiling, and then above him he saw Talon, staring down. His eyes were not filled with their usual calmness; worry was staring back at Damien. “What are you doing?” Talon demanded as he took Damien’s hand and pulled him to stand. His voice was rushed, as if he was afraid to speak out loud.
     Damien knew he was in trouble; if Talon had been innocent, there would be no need for such an attitude. Trying to explain, he gasped out, “I—I tripped.” As he said this he stole a glance at the fireplace. The flames appeared dimmer now that Talon had moved away from them, but Damien wasn’t sure why that mattered. And yet, his mind was telling him that it did.
     “Tripped doing what?” Talon reached to grab Damien’s shoulder. “Did you, uh…”
     “Hear that?” Damien said, tearing himself away and walking toward the fireplace. “Yes, I did. Who were you talking to?”
     “No one,” Talon answered immediately.
     Damien nearly interrupted Talon’s response with his own. “Yourself, then?”
     Talon arched his eyebrows and let out a breath full of exasperation. “You’re imagining things again, little brother. Go back to sleep.”
     “I did not imagine that!” Damien exclaimed. He thought his argument was strong; he had heard a voice conversing with his brother, of that he was sure. But before he could explain what he had observed, Talon raised a finger to his lips.
     “Hush, it’s the middle of the night! Do you want to wake everyone in the house, including father?!”
     “If it’ll get you to explain what you were doing, then yes!” Damien continued to shout.
     “Alright!” Talon said, raising a hand in surrender. His voice slowed and evened out. “Who you heard was an associate of mine, from the military. A friend, you could say, from the front.”
     “You haven’t been to war in a year! Why would he be here now, at this time of night?”
     Talon gave Damien a look of utter frustration. Damien had seen that look a thousand times before, but there had never been this much seriousness mixed in with it. It made Talon seem older, more of an adult than Damien felt comfortable with him being. It reminded him of father. He sighed and stepped forward. “He is…worried, Damien, that another attack is coming. You wouldn’t remember the first one, you were too young then…”
     Memory is a tricky thing at any age, but in childhood it seems to work against a person. It can take away events, or create ones that never really happened, or change the existing ones slightly so an agreement on them can never be reached later on in life. But in this case, Talon was wrong. Damien remembered the first attack very clearly. It was, in fact, Damien’s first memory, the only one he remembered from the first five years of his life. And even the thought of it chilled him.
     Talon continued. “And he is making sure we in the force are all aware of it. In case we have to return to the war.”
     The war was a horrible thing to Damien. He had learned about it from his father and his schoolteachers, and of course, from the stories Talon had brought home last year. His brother had only been in the military for one year, but the amount of death he’d seen was still shocking to hear about. Damien considered this. Talon’s story made sense…except for one thing.
     “So why were you talking to the fire? And where was he?” Damien demanded the answers with his tone of voice.
     “We just got here from the tavern, where we met, and I was cold, so I made the fire,” Talon explained. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully, as if he was afraid a secret would find its way off of his tongue. “He was outside the door. Leaving.”
     “Oh.” Damien hadn’t thought of that before. And it made sense. He let a bashful smile paint itself on his lips, and apologized. “I’m sorry, I thought…”
     “Don’t worry, little brother,” Talon said, ruffling the mop of Damien’s hair, “it’s late. You’re tired. Go back to sleep, now, eh? Tomorrow’s a big day, isn’t it?”
     Damien had forgotten that the following day was, in fact, a very important one. It would be the last day of his secondary school training, and after a short break he would begin working in his chosen trade! Along with all the other people in his class, tomorrow would be the day he would officially be assigned his master for the next few years. But, before he would begin work, the winter holidays would begin! The thoughts brought Damien a renewed sense of excitement, and he nodded a response to Talon. “Do you think I’ll get to work with the blacksmith?”
     Talon laughed. “I still don’t understand why you want to work in such a stuffy place. You’d be a great soldier, you know.”
     Damien had heard that sentiment from several people; but warfare didn’t appeal to him. He was reminded for the second time tonight of all of Talon’s stories. “We’ll see,” he said, and quickly walked back down the hallway. “Good night,” he said on his way.
     He stopped again before leaving the room and examined his brother’s face carefully. Then he said, “I don’t want you to join the war again. I wish it would just end.”
     This time it was Talon’s turn to say, “We’ll see.” He gave Damien a grin full of mischief. The last time he’d seen that smile was years ago, when they used to play pranks on all the stuffy rich people at holiday parties. It made Damien wish that the two of them could be young again, and their greatest worry would be getting caught in the midst of a practical joke. But that couldn’t be, not any more, not since Talon was of age and Damien was about to enter a trade. So he gave his older brother a nod and turned away.
     He reached his door and took one more glance into the kitchen. It all made sense now, but Damien wasn’t sure he wanted any more of Talon’s soldier friends coming by at nighttime any more. But he would have to talk to father about it, and only if it happened again.
     Sighing tiredly, he walked back into his bedroom. Before he closed the door, he noticed Talon’s bedroom door, left ajar. Had he really been to the tavern?
     Of course he had, Damien scolded himself. Stop making things up. He heard those words much too often, but maybe now he should start listening to them. He lay back down in his bed and pulled the covers tight around his neck. In the quiet of the night he heard the fire hissing like a snake, and drifted gently back to sleep.

Death’s Diary: Suicide

So, this just sort of happened. I’m not sure how I feel about it, so I’m posting it on here for all the world to see and judge. Haha. Let me know what you think. I might try some other kinds of death later too…

…that sounds funny. Anyway…

06/14/05: Suicide

     Today was a slow day. I was going about my business, as usual—as usual as this spastic occupation can be, at least. In any case, I didn’t introduce myself much. Perhaps I was feeling shy, which happens to everyone at some point. The way it happens with me is in the sneaking, lingering feeling of inadequacy. Yes, inadequacy preys even on me. It will make me think that my ways are not good enough, as if I am slacking off.
     People still die, but they don’t die with that stylish flair you used to have, it says to me.
     I’ll feel as if I may as well let the humans take control of their own time; they attempt that enough as it is. What difference would it make if someone gets killed in an alleyway, when I was simply going to grab them up somewhere else anyway? Why not let the souls float wherever the proverbial wind takes them; why bother putting them where the good Lord assigns me to?
     It was the silent yet harsh string of these thoughts needling its clever way through my mind this afternoon as I wandered my way down a park in New York’s world-famous Central Park, often finding myself leaning over a bridge, staring into the seemingly endless blue water. A light breeze drifted through the trees above, and it soothed me. It cooled my face and, in a way, calmed my mind.
     So how imagine how many feet in the air I jumped when a gunshot rang out.  Just look at me; it’s 2005, and I’m still having to get used to the sound of a shooting gun. You would think that wartime would have numbed me to those ugly weapons, wouldn’t you? Yet I can never quite expect it. It’s just too quick.
     Nonetheless, before I knew it the view of the clear sky and rushing water slipped away, and I was pulled into a quiet, cold room, a soul lying in my arms. That’s when I knew this was a suicide.
     My first intuition was to listen to the little voice in my head that was muttering something about feeling offended. How dare this person skip out on me? Didn’t he know it wasn’t his time yet?
     This is how I always first feel with suicide cases—people seem to be trusting me less and less. I can handle taking souls at the right time; why don’t they ever care about my schedule?
     Yet, as usual, these feelings began to dissolve into the back of my mind as I took in the small world around me. A bedroom lay still in front of us, the soul and I. The bed was made, with cotton sheets of blue—deep, ocean blue, with matching pillows lined up neatly at the head. Next to that was a dresser, each drawer closed (I guessed that the clothes inside were all organized). I took in the rest of the room in half a second: more furniture, all cleaned, and a desk. All that was on the desk was one single piece of paper, and I’m sure you know what it said.
     And then there was the bloody thing lying on the floor. This obviously distracted me from the cleanliness of the rest of the room, since blood was splattered on the bed sheets and the wall just behind them. The tortured expression on the boy’s face was only half-there.
     The gun explained that.
     The wicked device lay next to the body’s head, smirking up at me. I heard it laughing. “Ha!” it shouted. “I beat you to him—I win this one!”
     Today’s count: Gun one, Death zero.
     I turned my attention away from the weapon and found myself staring at the blood-splattered bed sheets. But it wasn’t the blood that held my eyes—it was the blueness around the blood.
     How soothing a shade. It was like the water below the bridge I had just been standing on. It made me wonder how miserable this boy could have really been, with such a beautiful color of bed to help him through the hard times. Humans never think of the simple solutions to their problems, but I think it would help a great deal if a person would spend even a short amount of time lying in the middle of such a nice, calming color as this blue. But nobody ever tries that.
     And it was clear that this boy never tried either. He couldn’t be any older than sixteen—what did he know of life that made him hate it so much? Life may sometimes feel mischievous and play around with humans at times, but he is never cruel.
     Oftentimes Life and I are able to meet before I take someone away. We’ve had many a decent chat, and he is usually quite a pleasant being. People like this boy simply ignore what he’s doing for them behind their backs.
     But Life wasn’t here now. He had left a while ago. He hadn’t been welcome in this boy’s presence long before this moment.
     I heard something coming from the hallway outside the bedroom. Voices, loud and worried. Those of mother and father, and they penetrated the closed door and seemed to already be aware of what had happened, even though the rest of their bodies didn’t yet know.
     I suddenly felt very ashamed to be here, holding this soul. I couldn’t give these dear parents even an ounce of false hope that their son was still in the room with them. How impolite would that be? They had to know he was gone.
     I turned away, and as I moved, the soul in my arms said something. I looked down, and he didn’t look calm like he probably thought he would feel by now. He said frantically, “I’m sorry—I didn’t know how—I’m sorry, I—”
     “Shh,” I interrupted, trying to sound soothing. I was never any good at comfort, or perhaps people were never good at taking my comfort seriously—who wanted to be comforted by Death? “Rest,” I tried again.
     He didn’t seem to want to rest. He shouted and began to wail and cry. “Wait! No, I didn’t want this!” This was understandable, but aggravating, especially when he struggled to get out of my arms and back into the body. This was impossible, though; he was too big a soul to fit back into the hole he had made in his head.
     The knob on the door was turning, so I couldn’t let him stay, as dearly as I wished he could. It was just too late.
     So, gathering the crying boy back up in my arms, I turned, stole one last glance at the perfect blue on the bed, and left.

Springfield Halloween: The Party Scene

Huzzah! The first Springfield story I’ve posted. I’ve written another, but it’s still being fixed. Anyhoo, for those of you new to Springfield, it’s a town full of superheroes and villains and assorted powered and unpowered people. And some other friends and I have come up with all the characters, one of which you’re about to get to know very well (and for that I’m very sorry.) This is Lyle, originally of Bel Air, California, a senior at Springfield High, captain of the swim team, with the power of breathing underwater. He’s planning on throwing a super-scary Halloween party while the rest of the town goes about their strange ways, but we’ll see how that goes…

     Ah, Halloween. For Lyle Macintyre it was the greatest of all holidays. Why? It was simple. His annual super-scary Halloween bash. He had invited the entire cool population of Springfield High—which, granted, was a lot smaller than the entire cool population of his former Bel Air high school. Nonetheless, he had planned on going all out on the party this year, and tonight, as he walked through his completely decked out house for one final check before the guests showed up, he knew that he had followed through with that.
     Every nook and cranny of the house was covered in something creepy. Cobwebs hung in the doorways and windows, severed heads and body parts littered the floor, and jack-o-lanterns sat on tables and counters, their menacing smiles flickering from the candles inside them. He’d even gotten a few of those mechanized candy bowls with skeleton hands that grab you as you reach in. A playlist mixed with creepy sound effects and Halloween-themed songs boomed from the sound system. Now all that was missing were the guests.
     The guests were going to be the most exciting part of the night for Lyle. He had made sure to invite every hot girl in the high school; even some freshmen, which was a social risk, but one Lyle knew he could overcome.
     Lyle walked by a mirror in the hallway and had to double-take before he remembered he was in costume. He thought he looked pretty sick tonight (more literally than usual); he’d chosen to dress up as the Creature from the Black Lagoon. Not only because it fit with his power (he thought he was pretty clever to think of that all on his own), but also because the Creature knew how to pick up the hotties. Seriously, he’d learned something from that movie.
     He thought all this as he looked into the mirror and the Creature stared back at him. All he was actually wearing was one of his swimsuits; the rest of him was covered in fake seaweed and algae. And he meant covered, as in head to toe. He had fake claws on his hands and feet and had even swung for some vampire fangs. His hair was dyed green, and his face had on some green makeup, normally used for witches and stuff like that. He was truly a monster tonight.
     Just then, the doorbell rang. Lyle caught one more look at himself, gave his reflection a smug wink, and walked to the door. He wondered who his first “victim” of the night would be as he turned the knob and pulled open the door.
     At first he saw no one. He was momentarily confused, until he looked down and saw not a girl, but a little boy, probably around four, standing on the doorstep. He was dressed like a cowboy and held out a pumpkin-shaped candy holder.
     There was an awkward silence until a voice came from down the walkway. Lyle looked out and saw the boy’s parents standing on the sidewalk. The kid’s mom said, “What do you say, honey?”
     The little one turned and looked at his mom, and then a light seemed to turn on in his head. “Oh yeah,” he muttered and looked back up at Lyle. “Twick or tweat!”
     Lyle thought that if any of the girls he’d invited would have been here right now, they would have gone, “Awww!” The girls he’d invited were the kind to do that. They did it all the time at school when they talked about jewelry or clothes or whatever. And then Lyle remembered the present moment and said, “Right…just a second.” And he closed the door and ran into his kitchen. He’d completely forgotten about trick-or-treaters! How could he forget that? He’d have to sacrifice some of the candy he was going to scare the girls with. He grabbed the skeleton-hand bowl and went back to the door.
     When he opened it again, the kid was just turning away to leave. Maybe slamming the door in his face hadn’t been the best idea…Oh well. He said, “Hey kid.” The boy turned back around, and Lyle held out the bowl. “Here you go.”
     The kid smiled extra wide and reached into the bowl. Little did he know what was coming. When he got too close to the candy, the plastic skeleton arm lurched down and grabbed the kid’s hand, and the accompanying sound effect played. The kid screamed and pulled his arm away, then turned and ran all the way back to his parents. Lyle watched all this, stuck between shock and bursting out laughing, until the boy’s parents glared at him as they walked away, comforting their crying son.
     Lyle watched after them awkwardly, then closed the door. “Okay, no more trick-or-treaters tonight,” he decided to himself and went to put the candy back.
     Twenty minutes later, the party had officially started, but nobody had showed up. Had he given out the wrong address on the invites? Sadly, it wouldn’t have been the first time. But he was sure he gave it right this time; he had made sure to double check.
     Relief sank into him when the doorbell rang, finally. Fashionably late must be the style here, he thought to himself as he opened the door.
     Excited for the party to start, he shouted out, “Come on in and let’s pump! It! Up!” before he realized there were a small group of children standing in front of him this time. There was a Frankenstein’s Monster, a mummy, an angel, and…something Lyle could only guess was a marshmallow that blew up.
     “Um, sir?” the exploded marshmallow said. “We’re not allowed to come in. Our parents said not to.”
     “Or pump it up,” the mummy said matter-of-factly.
     “Uh…hang on, kids,” Lyle said, his shoulders sagging underneath the algae. As he went to get the candy bowl, this time leaving the door open, he began to wonder if his reign of popularity wasn’t as influential as he thought it was. He returned to the door and held out the bowl, not caring whether or not the kids got scared by the skeleton.
      But these kids were older, and as the angel reached for it, the mummy warned her, “Watch out, I have one of those at home. It’ll grab you.”
     “Really?” the angel asked and reached in. As the hand moved down, she laughed. “Cool!”
     Lyle watched as the kids all got their candy. As the marshmallow got his, Lyle’s curiosity got the better of him and he asked, “Hey kid, what’re you supposed to be?”
     The marshmallow looked up to him and said resentfully, “I’m a sheep!”
     “Oh. Sorry,” Lyle said. As they left, most of the children said thank you. The sheep did not.
     Lyle closed the door and banged his head against it. Was this a sign? Was nobody coming to his party? Had he convinced his mother to go out on a date tonight so he could throw this party behind her back for nothing? Was he becoming, heaven forbid, uncool? Talk about a Halloween nightmare.
     He was about to spiral further into the abyss of loserdom when the bell rang again. Desperate this time, he opened the door as fast as he could.
     At first he was excited when he saw a teenager standing outside. But the feeling faded when he realized it was one of the high school kids he didn’t invite. As if Lyle’s thoughts of losers had beckoned him here, Seth mercury stood on the porch, wearing a huge purple robe and a matching hat. They had stars on them. Lyle was so busy coming up with insults in his mind that he barely noticed the little dinosaur standing next to Seth. But he did see something short out of the corner of his eye, and he held out the candy bowl in the vague direction of the little kid.
     Seth looked a little stunned when he saw Lyle. “Oh, this is your house? I didn’t know that…”
     In response Lyle arched an eyebrow at Seth and flashed his best condescending smirk.
     “Nice dress,” he said.
     Seth shifted awkwardly, but the little kid made his presence known as he shouted up to Lyle, “It’s NOT a dress, it’s a robe! A dinosaur wizard’s robe!”
     Lyle looked down and met the eyes of the little boy. He was dressed up like a T-Rex or something. “Right. Have some candy, kid.”
     “My name is Timothy,” said Timothy. “Not kid.”
     Lyle ignored him and continued holding out the candy bowl. Timothy seemed very picky about which candy he wanted. Lyle looked back up at Seth, who was staring intently at him. “What?” Lyle demanded, spitting out the word.
     “So…” said Seth. “What are you, a mermaid?”
     Lyle stared at the dregs of the high school, unimpressed. He responded flatly, “No.”
     “Merman?”
     “No.”
     “Oh.”
     And then it got quiet. The only sound was that of Timothy rummaging through the candy bowl, completely ignoring the skeleton hand repeatedly attacking his own. Lyle looked back down to find that the boy had been taking not just one, but several pieces and sneaking them into his candy bucket.
     “Hey!” Lyle said, pulling back the bowl. A few more pieces fell out on the way, and Timothy picked them up in a flash and put them up in his bucket too.
     “Well,” Timothy justified himself, “I took a piece, but you kept holding it out. I thought you wanted me to take more.”
     “Whatever, kid, enjoy,” Lyle answered, staring back at Seth, his eyes penetrating the weirdo’s until he looked away. Which didn’t take long.
     “Come on, Timothy, let’s check out the other houses,” said Seth, turning away to leave. Timothy reluctantly followed him, taking a moment to glare up at Lyle before he did so. Lyle watched the two walking away, and then picked up a piece of candy out of the bowl and tossed it in his hand. And then he looked at Seth the dinosaur wizard and chucked the piece of candy at the back of his hand.
     The reason he never played baseball came back to him as the candy missed his head completely. It did, however, hit the very tip of his wizard’s hat and make it fall to the ground. Seth glanced back at him with a pathetic look, but Lyle never saw the little one move as Timothy picked up the piece of candy and threw it right back at him. It hit Lyle square in the forehead and got stuck in his seaweed.
     Before he could see Seth’s reaction, Lyle slammed the door shut and pulled the candy out of his costume, staring at it bitterly. He’d pretend that didn’t happen, and deny any rumors that Seth happened to bring up on Monday.
     The doorbell rang again. Lyle stared at the door. It was that kid, coming back for more. That kid was trouble, he knew it. He was probably going to use all that candy he took as ammo. But Lyle had a whole freaking bowl full of ammo! He was gonna lay that kid down. And Seth too, if he was there too.
     Smirking to himself, he pulled the door open and pelted the kid with as many candies as he could hold in one handful.
     “Take that, suckas!”
     There was one problem. Seth and Timothy were long gone, and the person he pelted was one of the freshmen beauties he had invited. He realized this too late, and the girl got hit by a handful of chocolates and fun-size pouches.
     She screamed. And not the good kind of scream Lyle had been looking forward to hearing all night. The kind of scream telling him that she was pissed. Sadly, Lyle knew this kind of scream better than would admit. “I was gonna take pity and come to your party, you jerk!” she shouted.
     “What do you mean, take pity?” Lyle asked, more concerned about this than the girl’s yelling.
     “Everyone’s walking around town. Most people are at the coffeeshop and the boutique doing all the contests and all that stuff. Everybody I talked to said they’d rather do the town thing, and I felt bad, so I was gonna come see how you were doing. But now I’m leaving. Bye!” And she turned to leave.
      Lyle had listened to all this with utter disbelief. No one wanted to party at his place? They all preferred hanging around with the freaks and closeted superheroes that Springfield had to offer?! He called after the girl, flustered. “Baby, come back! We’ll have a party all to ourselves!”
     “No way!” she shouted back, turning around halfway to the sidewalk. “And you look like pond scum!” And just like that, she was gone.
     Lyle leaned against the doorway, his social world crashing down around him. Great. Something else he would have to deny on Monday. What would he say when his friends at lunch asked him how the party was. “What party?” Yeah, good try Lyle, they would say. And they would laugh.
     Letting out a sulky huff, Lyle slammed the door shut and began to take down the decorations. He hated Halloween.

If you’d like to read more Springfield stories (and probably better written ones!) check out The Art of Observation  and For the Love of Truth. Also, if you’re curious about Springfield, you can look the world and the characters here.

What Not To Wear: Halloween Edition

So Halloween is this weekend. For many that will mean trick-or-treating, eating unhealthy amounts of candy, watching scary movie upon scary movie (or perhaps that’s just me)…and dressing up in fun costumes! But just because a costume is fun doesn’t it’s good. It doesn’t even mean it’s fun for anyone else. I’ve done some Google searching and have compiled a list of what I think are some of the stupidest Halloween costumes. It’s not really in any order, but we’re going to count down so that it looks more important than it really is. (Note: Some of these have links that will take you to the corresponding pictures. How it works: Click link. Open window. Laugh.)

15. A dartboard. That’s just asking for trouble.

14. A toilet. Going for a royal flush, are we? Yeah, I know, terrible pun…but it’s a terrible costume. I’m justified.

13. God. First of all, how? Second…why?!

12. An ice cream cone. Unless you want to be licked all night…

11. Santa Claus. Wrong holiday, buddy. (Note: also applies to the Easter Bunny. If anything, be the Great Pumpkin.)

10. Cheese. I’m not going to even dare to look for a picture of this.

9. Any couple costume such as a plug and socket, lock and key, or anything else that’s automatic innuendo.

8. Pluto. Not Mickey’s dog…the planet. It’s probably better that you avoid planets altogether…one of them would take us back to #9. You can probably guess which.

7. A baby. Unless you’re actually a baby, you can’t pull it off.

6. A cigarette. Especially a half-smoked one like that.

5. A baked baked potato. You’ll get why I said ‘baked’ twice once you see the picture…

4. A lawn gnome. Although, wouldn’t it be fun to hide on someone’s lawn, then scare the crap out of trick-or-treaters passing by? …Yeah, probably not. I’d rather get candy than stand in someone’s yard all night too.

3. (We’re now down to people!) A suicide bomber. I think this one takes cultural acceptance a bit too far…

2. Obama. (Note: Especially if you’re white.)

1. Hitler. You won’t be getting ANY candy if you choose this one.

I hope this list has helped you narrow down your costume choices this year. Although, if you were already considering one of these, you have more to worry about than my opinion. That being said…happy Halloween!

Pears and Such

Dana: I want food still…
Kitty: Fatty.
Dana: …I’m eating a pear.
Kitty: A fat pear.
Dana: You’re a fat pear!
Kitty: You’re just jealous.
Dana: …You win this one, sister.

Theatre Thoughts: Opening Night

There’s the sudden realization that tonight’s the night.

Silence will be laughter and applause (or at least, we can sure hope so.)

Something hops in my stomach. A little happy bug, trying to escapes the confines of my belly and jump onto the stage, shouting in its loudest voice, “Hey, look what I can do!” That’s why it’s dancing around my insides – it wants to show the world that it can dance.

A nervous yawn – bad breath is leaving, although when it leaves my mouth it whispers, “You won’t be any good. They’ll hate you.” I don’t like this negativity – that’s why I yawned it away. Go away, bad thoughts, there’s no room for you in here tonight.

Anticipation is the best and worst feeling there is. It pulls you forward, pushes you back, then pushes you forward and pulls you back again. Finally you have to simply leave it behind (preferrably before you cross through the stage door) and welcome your audience.

Yes, an actor must be welcoming to his audience, no matter the character. A stage is a home (hence the term “house”), the actors are the family, the audience the houseguests. It’s an invitation to dinner, in a way, as if we were saying, “Welcome! We’ve prepared something special tonight. Come, sit, feast on our talent.”

…Perhaps it’s more of a restaurant than a home meal, though, since the audience is usually expected to pay for it.

I’ve gotten ahead of myself. I’m sorry – ADD seems to come on the day before the show…it’s the nerves and aforementioned anticipation getting to me. And since I can’t focus much more on this (or the class I’m writing this in) I’ll let you go. What I’ve said so far can really be summed up in a few final words…

Happy opening night!

Note: I wrote this on the opening night for my latest show (The Wizard of Oz), but never had a chance to type it up until tonight. It’s not that long, it’s really not that deep, it’s just where my mind went. That night I realized so many more things I could have written on; putting on makeup, doing mic checks, peeking into the audience before the show. But I very well couldn’t write about them after the show, now could I? Maybe next time. In any case, this show was great. I got a chance to be on a set crew for part of it, and see what chorus parts are like. They’re just as enjoyable (if not more, in some ways) as lead roles. At least in this show they were! Okay, I’ll start rambling and let you go for real now. Good day.

Wonders of the World: Pants on the Street

Welcome, friends. Be warned, this post might be strange, shocking, and perhaps highly unsanitary. Yesterday morning, I was driving to school, singing along with the music as usual, nothing out of the ordinary. And then I saw something I can honestly say I’ve never seen before.

Lying there on the divider was a pair of blue jeans.

At first this didn’t connect in my mind; it’s rather often you can find shoes or sandals on the road. But then my mind made the distiction between shoes and pants: shoes are mostly optional, pants are…not nearly as optional.

So this made me wonder: what was an article of clothing, one generally considered necessary, doing abandoned on the road? A shoe is understandable; it’s easy enough to lose – some people in the passenger seat (and hopefully nobody in the driver’s seat) have a habit of sticking their feet out the window on car rides. Whether it’s to air out their feet or to show off their new pedicure, I don’t know. But that’s not the point. The point is that shoes are most likely to fly off and be lost on the road.

What seems least likely to fly off someone in a car is a pair of pants. And yet, that’s what I saw. So now the question becomes: how? Here are my theories, in no certain order (and some of these do not involve sitting in car, which might also explain some things).

Theory #1: Someone was trying to change clothes while driving. Of course, someone who would attempt this should not be considered smart enough to drive in the first place.

Theory #2: Somebody recently lost a ton of weight and thus wanted to be rid of their fat pants. I couldn’t tell if these were in fact fat pants, but the visual of a newly thin person running over their “former selves” is something I can greatly appreciate.

Theory #3: Some young hooligan in today’s “cool” style (read: pants around the knees) was jaywalking, as hooligans do, and obviously tripped, since his feet were lost somewhere inside those circus tents he calls pant legs. Getting up, the pants finally succumbed to gravity and fell all the way off, and aforementioned hooligan didn’t have time to grab them before traffic came, and was forced to leave the pants behind.

Please remember, these are simply suggestions of the given scenario. Perhaps we’ll never know. If you, however, have another theory, or if you yourself have ever lost your pants somewhere on the road, please leave a comment and share your experience. Mysteries are meant to be solved, and if a pair of pants lying in the road isn’t a mystery, then I don’t know what is.

There is Such a Thing as a Stupid Question

Hi! It’s me. I know, you all thought I didn’t exist any more. Well, I do, I’ve simply been actually living my life; good for me, right? Anyway, I don’t have a story piece yet (although I started one today – in class…shame on me!) So hopefully that will be posted soon. What I wanted to share today was a little silliness…I’m bored tonight, and I’ve been trying to find the stupidest questions I can find on Yahoo Answers – if anyone doesn’t know, it’s a website where people will post questions and let the people all over the world answer them. With a site like this, there’s destined to be some ridiculous questions. Some of these make me laugh, some of these make me sad about the human race…most of them do both. I’ll leave in the spelling and grammar mistakes as well. These are in no particular order.

1. “What are some tips on Making a strong mermaid spell?” (So…she wants to be a mermaid? Good luck with that.)

2. “In Britain, they call the trunk of a car the boot. How do they say ‘junk in the trunk”? Junk in the boot doesn’t rhyme.”

3. “Horoscope went wrong?!?” (…NO! I’m shocked!)

4. “What should i do if i want a sex change but don’t have enough money for all of it?” (…Ouch.)

5. “What’s at the end of the rainbow?” (Leprauchans. Seriously.)

6. “Do You Fear Kindergartners?”

7. “Hi. For some reason, my time machine either gets stuck or will get an error. I am trying to back up b4 upgradi?” (I’m not even sure what they’re asking, but the fact that they’re asking about their time machine is enough for me.)

8. “I walk weird can some one help me?”

9. “are there any black people in anchorage?”

10. “ok im kinda worryed here since my g/f got pregnant and all she isnt been havein her period do u think the baby is drinkin the blood???” (Vampire baby. Bleh!)

11. “Where are there school? is a point to it?”

12. “Are there any special girls left?” (Nope, not a single one.)

13. “Will you please please turn me into a vampire? and give me all the detail about the real vampire of today? how do i get turned? will i be beautiful? I really want to be one im 16 tho now and wanted to wait till i was about 19-21 if i can wait that long please turn me?”

14. “Does it go dark at night where your from?”

And my personal favorite…
15. “I made Jesus-shaped pancakes, but I burnt them. Am I going to hell?”