Day 12: His Whispers


Read something and write the first thing that pops into your mind.

His Whispers:

He whispered this thing in his sleep and I ground my teeth. I can’t remember what the word was now, thinking back. Angelina or Jasmine, maybe; probably. It had the curl and frill that bitches’ names had. Francine possibly. I didn’t know who she was, but it didn’t matter; we weren’t dating or married or anything really, he and I.

He grinned slow, lazy and rolled onto my side of the bed. His fingers knit in the pillow case under his face. I sat on the chair across from him biting the inside of my cheek, trying not to think. I didn’t want to cry or maybe I just wanted to break that vase over his head—end it all. That particular vase was a gift from him and it sat on my night stand, mocking me. The faint glow from the sun coming through my curtains made the white vase glow orange. Recently picked flowers, jagged and plucked by hand from wherever, casted a long shadow over the dresser. He probably stole it out of someone else’s garden, staggering through decorated lawns to my home. He brought it to impress me. Or maybe to apologize. His green, droopy eyes opened in that idle way it did after he’d been awake a while but didn’t want to get out of bed.

“Come here.” He demanded.

He never asked for anything; he mandated it. I followed along behind him when it was harmless, but yesterday, he got drunk and climbed into my bed. He felt me up under the pajama top that my mother bought me. It had little cartoon pineapples on it.

“How’d you get in?” He smiled and rolled over to give me his back, when I asked. I reached over and tugged on his ear. Instead of jolting he grabbed my arm, “Why are you still here?”

I yanked back, and he didn’t resist. The spot where he’d touched me was warm with sleep. This was probably how he liked to ensnare women. He probably liked to hold—I had to do something with my hands to stop myself from thinking. I looked to the vase and past it, to keep myself from throwing the vase out of the window and screaming at him. I picked up his jeans, crumpled up next to the night stand, then his keys and wallet and I tossed them into the bed. He turned onto his back.

“If you have a hangover y–”

“I don’t have a hangover–”

You can take the medicine in the kitchen as you get out.”

I folded my arms at the foot of the bed, and he looked up at me the way he did when he thought someone would see it his way. He swung his feet off the bed and started to put on his jeans

“You don’t make any sense, Elma.” He was taking his sweet time putting his feet into the pant legs. I already had my back to him. I was picking up the same item and putting it down in another place, pretending to clean, to keep from thinking. Does the candle go on the dresser or in the bathroom?

“He was a loser, wasn’t he? Only a loser would—”

“Fuck off, Jack.” I said over my shoulder, slamming the candle on the dresser, “Give the fucking key to me.” He rolled his eyes, sighed, and made a huge production out of removing the key from the link. He tossed it to me and I flipped it over in my hand

“That’s my key so now we’re even.” I looked at it for a moment. If he wanted to give me this then why—I clamped my eyes closed. This is just what he does: entraps. I threw it across the room to the pile of laundry.

“Why do you ever come around with these stupid stunts to get my attention? You obviously couldn’t care less about me.”

He shrugged his shoulders at first. With hands heavy on his knees, he stood up like an old man might. He turned to me as he tugged his pants up over his grey boxers and buttoned them. I looked at the ground on my right and fiddled with the hem of the pineapple pajama. I could feel him standing close to me. I could stare him down forever, but I knew I shouldn’t.

“Believe it or not I might actually love you.”

And then we both laughed. I looked up at the crinkles at the ends of his eyes instead of at his mouth. He was young somehow with lines like that one his face. Maybe he smiled too much or used his mouth to please too much. Maybe he was too full of shit. I turned out of the room and into the kitchen. He followed. The kitchen was painted blue because he thought orange was too gaudy. I went along with it because it seemed innocent enough at the time. When I see it now—when I dwell too much on things that have been long gone—I remember he shouldn’t get to make decisions in a home that doesn’t belong to him. I poured a glass of juice and put an aspirin next to it.

“Not hung-over.”

“Then get out.”

His lazy eyes were on my back, as I put the juice back into the fridge and the air got heavy with silence.

“May, the Jewish girl.” That was the word. That’s right. I did know her, “She saw me at the party and she was hot believe you me.” I smiled thinking back to when May used to be called Vivian. She had brown hair and was always in the pleated kinds of skirts. See, at the time I had a thing for pleated skirts so we got to second base at one of her friend’s birthday parties, “Goin on and on about some guy so I did what any gentleman would do.” He was talking and as usual I didn’t understand why he ever told me any of these things. I could guess, but I didn’t want to, “I pulled her hair back like this—oh by the way she dyed black.” His step sister, Joanne, had black hair. She pulled it back like that, “Eyebrows and puss too! Just the way I like it—and then I just—”

“Please, Jack. Get out.” I knew a thousand things I could say to him to hurt him, and they crossed my mind, but I didn’t say them, “One of those guys at the police station owes me a favor.” I traced the wood lines on the counter with my finger

“Because you sucked his blue uniformed dick?”

He was mad now. Something about being okay without him made him volatile. I was mad too. Livid, even. Something about him talking about me having sex with other people made me crazy.

“Yes and he fucked like a firefighter. He might have wanted to be a firefighter once, but he’s a cop now.”

That made him smile, but he didn’t put on his shoes. They were neatly placed under the coffee table. I stared at them and counted the ridges on the side.

“You’ve got to admit what this is sooner or later, Elma.”

I stopped talking. He never listened when I—whenever I bring up anyone he would—I focused on counting again. He eventually left. His ego could only endure being ignored for so long. I called the lock smith for my building and they said they’d change them by Tuesday. He likely wouldn’t be back for a week.

I needed a shower. The water slid through my hair and onto my scalp and I tried not to dwell, but there was nothing to distract me. There was only me, naked in there, with the white walls and white tiles. I had counted the tiles before so I knew how many there were. I tried tracing them with the tip of my nose, but it had already started, rough and coughing like. I curled over and slammed my fist on the porcelain, choking and dribbling into the shower head. I hated him so much. So much.

“I think about you all day, Elma.” He whispered into my ear when he climbed into my bed. His arm were strangley warm as they slid over my stomach to grab hold of my chest. I knew it was him. He had broken in before. He rubbed his briefs hard into my back. It woke me up properly. I turned around, head now niched in the crook of his arm. The room was dim and only street lights from way off lit the room through the curtains. He smelled like whiskey and lemon juice. Our breaths were mingling. He always had this way of staring into my eyes without saying anything. He pulled his hand back from under my shirt and just stared at me. He inched in a bit closer.

“If you kiss me, you bastard, you better marry me.” The words came out. I almost took them back, but his eyes searched my lips and then back up to my eyes. He kissed his teeth.

“Don’t be so stingy.” He shook playfully and I rolled my eyes.

“Stop fucking around then.”

“I’ll marry you if you say you love me.” He stopped shaking, speaking suddenly. He was serious now. This was the game we played. Let’s make the other do something they hate.

“I’ll say it if you are honest to me for once.”

“I don’t love you, Elma.” Our noses were touching now.

“Then why are you here?” I knew this, but I needed him to—he was making this so hard on me.

“If you know the answer to your question, why do you need me to say it to marry you to kiss you?” And then he kissed me soft and innocent like a child just learning.

“I want a winter wedding.” I said, taking his arm to wrap it around me.

He called me later, after my shower. I dried my hair and my face, swollen now from crying. I crouched in my chair, biting my cheek. Blood flowed into my mouth. The phone vibrated and I knew it was him calling to say something awful. He would say something that will make me count the drops of water plopping from hair. I answered.

“I’d marry May before I ever marry you.” were the first words out of his mouth.

I laughed to myself. He was right.

“Why don’t you crawl back up into Joanne’s vagina?” And then I hung up and regretted it.

He was back at my place the next week. When he knocked on the door I knew he’d tried his key and that made me feel dark, smile, and count my steps to the door. He looked like he’d gotten into a fight. His once straight cropped, black hair was matted and covered in sweat. His knuckles were bruised or bleeding and his shirt color was stained from yellow to orange. I couldn’t stop myself quickly enough so I looked concerned and he smirked.

“You changed the locks.” He shoved his way inside.

“You knew I would.” I locked the door and turned around and he was right at my back. I jumped, “Jesus, Jack! What is wro—” He took hold of my face and kissed me. My brain ran off the tracks. Why—why—has he finally—One two three pecks and 4 loooong and hard—He was crazy, but I was laughing and pushing him back to look in his eyes properly. I wanted to be sure.

“I’ve decided that we should get married.” He spoke before I could see, turning on his heels away from me. He was pacing the floor like a man waiting for his wife in the hospital and—I hadn’t seen him this excited in a long time.

“What happened to you?” And he stared at me for a moment too long before he continued

“So I slept this man at a bar.” He started, grinning like he had a big secret.

“Bullshit. You did not sleep with a guy. What’s going on?” My arms hung dumbly to my sides and I balled my fists.

“Slaaappped! I slept him.” He drew out the words and then giggled. He rushed up to me and squeezed my tits like some 8 year old with a toy, “It was these. You were so bitter then the—the fight, and I was being wheeled back to the hospital, but then it dawned on me!”


I watched him as he paced away from me, blood dribbling out of the back of his head. Bruises and scuffs all over. I had to realize this silly man had gotten my hopes up. My eyes stung. I picked up my phone and dialed. When I gave them my address he stopped and turned at me

“What is wrong with you, Elma? Can’t you just accept what I’m saying and marry me goddammit?!” He raised his voice to new heights and his face grew wrinkles. I could feel the neighbors dialing the police. I crossed my arms and tried not to—not to in front of him—in front of anyone except this…man, “Henry has been dead for 11 years, Elma. We aren’t young anymore. Why won’t you let me—” I grabbed his shirt in my hand. It was quite the sight: a man, nearly two heads taller than me and a hell of a lot stronger, being pulled down to face me.

“Did you know that 15 years ago Henry had an asthma attack when I asked him when you’d be getting there?” I was angry, heartbroken, “We waited at that restaurant for hours, Jack. I thought I was waiting for you. He thought that you had given me to him!” I was crying. He saw, “Henry and I dated because you forced us like you force everything! I thought I was—I thought you’d be—I was fucking wrong.”

And I let him go. And for a long moment Jack stared at me without saying a single thing. I wasn’t looking at him anymore. I was looking at my palms.

“Don’t even pretend you didn’t love him.” He said it so softly that it didn’t even sound like it came out of him

“I didn’t love him!” I screamed louder than I wanted. And I could hear the neighbors dialing faster. I breathed hard and lowered my voice, “But at least I didn’t hate him.”

We heard the sirens. Lucky for the paramedics, I had taken the fight right out of him.

He stayed at the hospital for a while. They said it wasn’t serious, but I don’t believe them. I’d never seen him like how he was when he was pacing and kissing me in front of my door.  I sat in the chair across from him. The wrinkles were on his face when he didn’t think I could see him. They were gone now.

“I slept with Joanne on the Friday before my parent’s wedding to stop it. They waited forever to tie the knot. I hated the idea of them being together and happy.” I knew this story and he knew I knew it, “Sometimes I think about how shitty a person I must be to do that. They didn’t get married because of me and I was actually proud of that. I think of how scummy I am to be proud of something so awful and now—and now that’s when I think of you. You make me feel scummy, Elma. Every time I see you face. Every single time.” I nodded and took his hand. He grabbed hold tight, and looked away

“About Henry—” He started, “It was us wasn’t it?” His shoulders shook gently


“It was us and you and I shouldn’t be here together, Elma.” I could just catch a glimpse of the wrinkles on his cheeks, “We should be miserable and—”

“Henry was selfish!” I screamed over him, clenching his hand and my eyes, “He did that to hurt us! You said it yourself! He was a—” I was ashamed of the words I said, “And we are—we are getting married this winter.”

He didn’t turn around but he laid down tightly holding my hand. He fell asleep muttering about Angelicas and Vivian’s and I ground my teeth.


Day 10: Probably


Then, write a creative writing post (500-word limit) where you think of an absurd situation and then try to move it toward something meaningful. Consider this story about the talking wolf and how, later, it really became a story about a man who is grieving the loss of his brother and dealing with his own guilt about being a “bad person.” In my opinion, this makes it literary (based on character development and emerging theme) and not “fantasy” (although I have yet to meet a talking wolf).


The banana was already mostly lit, flame occasionally going out, and some wheel-chaired man was waiting for me to finish outside the stall. He’s going to have wait because this thing was getting so soft in my teeth I couldn’t keep it lit. Someone said you could get high if you lit the banana up, and I really needed to be high. My sweaty briefs were rolled up around the ankles, sitting in the mouth of my brown slacks, and my cheek was pressed against the inside door of the big bathroom stalls. My switchblade’s metal engraved my thigh and my palm, lighter in between my index finger and middle.

Aphrodisiacs, drugs, or ruse, if you needed it bad enough you’d do anything they told you. Put apple slices into your ass if it could—oh dear God! I’d never done anything like that before. Waves of hot rolled up my chest and to my face; my knees got weak. I felt muddled and I might’ve been moaning in a pool of my own vomit, but I felt like I could control space and time. My eyes shot open again to light the banana. I had accidentally bit through the skin and was near clenching my teeth. It tasted like crap.

I am convinced of it really. We’d believe anything—which is probably something someone must’ve been really convincing about before. The rest of the banana was on the ground, where I could see the wheel-chaired man’s feet. I bent over, sliding my sweaty face down the stall door, and the apple piece slipped out—God have mercy. Some tears slipped out too. The bit-off side was back in my mouth, and I carefully flicked the bic. When it was smoking I cut myself another slice and—Holy macaroni. My face might’ve boil off and that was exactly what I needed.

They told me that what I did was the right thing, but I’m not so sure anymore. They were knocking on the stall now, and it felt so good against my face. The jangling of keys was soothing. I was finally feeling it, eyes rolling back in my head. The hairs on my body were standing on end. The banging was getting worse, but I felt at peace for once. I could quiet my little boy’s voice. He wanted to stay with me but they told me that I wasn’t fit to take care of a child after all. My lips might have been burning with the banana but as the stall door swung open I was certainly rolling into it. They could make anyone believe anything because people do what they want no matter what. I guess I never really wanted to keep him, then. It didn’t even hurt. Maybe I wasn’t actually sad to watch him kick his way into the car, house burning behind us, handcuffs cold on my wrists. I couldn’t even feel the cold air on my wet back and naked ass, now. (499)

Day 8: Dry



Everything seem like it’s never be dry. I hate it. It added this kind of depressing element to even the happiest moments. Happy birthday but with a wet special entertainment and wet hats, and wet coats, and sneezes, and coats, and apologies for things out of their control.

I couldn’t avoid it though. i guess that’s the inevitable beauty of it. My socks were scrunched up and soggy and slurping up the water it squashed out with every step. Nonsense. They wanted me to stand ‘round the front of the building in this thin coat and guard the front door. Me alone.

Nothing would be coming in this kind of weather. Nothing really did come…at first. Then the back of the building shook and red clouds and smoke pressed out of the side. I was blown on my back looking at the insides of my eyelids.

“Son of a bitch!” I slid into the mud, thin coat ruined and useless.

I tore off the cloth and stood upright. Everyone was screaming and running, and then another explosion. I had my duty to the front, and i had to trust Danny could handle it inside. Danny? I turned back. There was no way he could—


Standing there in the rain, was a man twice my height. He glared at he building, but spoke kindly to me

“It would be in your best interes-”

He took a step back, my bullet carving past the vest and into his shoulder, red blood bubbling, spitting. I then started running back to get to behind the barricade they’d set up for me.

“ENEMY IN FRONT!” I’m hollering and unstrapping a few grenades off of my hip.

blebeleebelehhehehe i fucking hate this



So you have to put your bag somewhere when you get in that tiny stall. They give you a hook, but as you look at it you notice it looks precarious and rusted. You’re having visions of the construction of that stall, sparkling and new, and a man, probably in his late forties, sweating and hammering the nail into that not yet faded blue door. Naturally, it shakes the life right out of him. Heart attack, aneurism, stroke. You can pick anything you want really. It doesn’t really matter. He’s pretty dead.

They–being management– leave his work half done because they have more pressing issues: the man in his late forties is pretty fucking dead and clutching his hammer and the stall in that post mortem body spasm. They sweep the death under the rug and there is that hook, half finished, rusted, and looking back at your for some pity or mercy.

Definitely Not.

Then you glance at the ground and realize that your in a public restroom. And you are pretty sure now that that’s not how post mortem works in a body or anywhere else for that matter. So you’re gonna take your chances on the rusted hook. It squeaks and teeters but for a moment it looks okay and you pull down your pants and squat above the toilet bowl (careful not to touch it with your skin, but fully allow your nether regions to breathe).

You can’t stop glaring at the hook and your bag as if you being able to see it will convince it into staying up there. Gravity seems more convincing though. Okay so you can’t pee because you’re anxious. Even though you’ve resigned to your inability to charm the gravity out of things, you’ve got your 400 dollar laptop in there and its not on warranty. You grab it off the hook and cradle of in your lap and you squat again and like that you can pee.

Step two: Operation Wipe. You maneuver your body so that you can reach the 1 ply toilet paper and try to hoist your backpack into an obviously more dangerous position than on the hook, but its above your head and pride pushes you to things like this. Then you’re free to finish up but your shorts are only being held in place by your legs. If you move now they might fall on the ground. You remind yourself where you are. You are in a germ-a-phobe’s personal pocket of hell that involves fire pokers and clowns. I don’t know why clowns, but definitely them.

So you grab hold of your pants with your freehand and then you realize you can’t quite get ’em on. You tug until you feel like you’re decently dressed. Then when you kick the flusher it juts for a second and your yellow and toilet paper filled bowl stares back at you. You kick it again and already you have created a religion that is only applicable when you need a God to let you flush a toilet and leave a bathroom embarrassment free and social status intact. You pray to him furiously, foot press down on the leaver. The slow flusher continues on its lazy way gurgling like a small boy drowning until eventual it is all gone. At which point you are stumbling out of the bathroom, pants undone and hanging a little low on your ass, clutching your backpack like a terrorist, and hands wet because you washed them as fast as possible be as far as possible from there as fast as possible.

And you bump into your professor outside, and he’s struggling to decide whether or not to pretend he doesn’t see you as you lock eyes from about 2 feet away or to say hello to you and make up an excuse to not go into the bathroom or to ever talk to you again ever. You just walk away. Good on you

It Was Safer in My Head Chapter 1: Pelt

Disclaimer: This was something i wrote 3 years ago that i’m touching up and putting here, as a part of my collection.

“Not a single word. I can’t write one fricken thing.” I fumed, smacking my defenseless bottle off its rightful place on my desk. I screamed, throwing my large forehead into the table, folding my hands on top of my head, “What good am I if I can’t get this done?” I muttered against the table. School was in a week and I needed to write a romantic novel and a romantic play and I haven’t been able to write either.

I sighed. I remember once I was so stressed out about something during school my professor once stopped a lesson to ask me if there was something wrong because I kept sighing. She thought I was depressed. I might have been. Who really knows if they’re depressed? Am I depressed? Is that why I can’t write? That’s not the point. This isn’t the point of anything. I still haven’t written anything.

I threw myself out of my chair and lay on my back, staring up at the ceiling of my room. I sighed again. Phillip, my trusty water bottle who’d just taken a good whollop to the side for the good of the team, stared up at me. I picked him up, holding him to the light.

“I’m sorry Phillip. You’ve always been my wingman in this dark cruel world. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.” I whispered to him. I sat up, un-capped him, and took a few gulps, “If I wrote a love story about you. No one would read it. Sorry. It’s the fact that you can’t speak, Phillip. It’s not a racist thing. It’s—let me finish. Don’t—fine go ahead.” I paused, listening quietly to the inanimate object, “You done now? You gonna listen to me? Okay. You don’t have a voice outside of my head. How could I possibly stage that? Or write that?” I threw him on the ground again, “Don’t talk to me that way.”

I got up and walked back to the empty screen.  Phillip hadn’t been much help and he started to cop an attitude with me. What am I even talking about? He’s a bottle of water. Not even fresh water. I got it from the sink. I just like having him around. My doctor said i shouldn’t encourage  these thought, but i just can’t help it. I just find myself feeling alone sometimes.

“You probably can’t write a love story because you’ve never really been in a relationship Kim.” A voice spoke evenly over all the screaming and fires of my mind.

I turned sharply in my chair

“No.” I turned away from my desk, to the couch in front of my television. He sat there, one leg over the other, in a light cobalt suit, cigarette in his mouth, “You’re not supposed to be here.” I tried to speak calmly.

He grinned. His devious eyes were glowing a bright shade of green in one eye and blue in the other, “Just because you want to forget me doesn’t mean I just… die.” He spoke, the cig held precariously at the edge of his mouth.

“You can’t be here.” I turned around nervously to face my computer screen again.

“Aren’t you going to tell them all about me?” He inquired, switching his right leg over his left.

“Tell who? Why? You’re not real.” I muttered to myself putting the headphones to my computer on my head.

“Alrighty then!” He jumped up from the terrible material of my old, over used couch, “I am Harrington Van Pelt!” He announced tapping his black cane on my shoulder. I could hear him in the ears of my headphones like he was broadcasting through them.

“Jesus…” I pleaded, getting up, and walking to the door. His cane was against it before I could get through. I pressed my head against it, as he leaned over and turned the latch, “He told you that it might be hard at first.” I muttered to myself as he took me by the shoulders and sat me down in my own couch.

“Hello ladies and Gentlemen! How are you all doing tonight?! GOOD?! That’s what I thought!” He bellowed to an audience that was only me and also Phillip because Harry put him down next to me. I just have to make it through, “You’ve probably heard tons about me!” he paused, his face draining of giddy jubilance, “Oh well that isn’t nice, Kimmy. I was your best friend once.”

Just hold on a bit more. Just –you knew that this experiment would have resulted in relapses–He’s not real. You know that. You can’t encourage him. Ignore him.

“Let me walk you through it. Kim Masters is a 23 year old recovering from paranoia schizophrenia. She generated me on her senior year of high school. I was her ideal man.” He took such sick pleasure in his own creation, “Exciting, funny, snippy, and very well dressed. Give a hand to Kimmy!” He then clapped his white gloved hands at me. The room erupted into whoops and applause. I pulled my knees up to my face and laid my forehead on them

“Calm down. Calm down. She’s very shy. Kim was a writer at school with a very “hyperactive imagination.” She was unable to make friends properly and never realizing when she’d made one. She became distant about the important thing but very brash and outlandishly loud about the things that didn’t matter.” There was “awwws” in the room, “aint that sad?”

Remember what Wheeler said. I wasn’t allowed to talk to him. If I acknowledged him then he’d become real again. If he became real again he would never leave. I could feel his gloved hand on my chin as he pulled me to look at him. His face was as beautiful as I remembered. He smiled at me.

I hated this. Why did I have to learn to function off of the medicine? Why was Wheeler experimenting with my doses. Why did it all matter if he got to come back and do what he wanted all over again? I knew this was going to happen. Harry was cunning. He’d wait until my defenses were down and when I wasn’t on any medication. Now… He’s here.

He took a step back from me, a grin on his lips

“That’s why she created me! Harrington Van Pelt!” He bowed as the audience cheered. He held up his hands, catering to the audience as always, “She couldn’t find anyone for herself. Not to toot my own horn but she’ll vouch for me being more than enough.” He winked at me and my heart stopped.

I closed my eyes and put my head down again. He’s doing all of this. I just needed to sit through it. He’d be gone as fast as he’d come.

“Harry became a little too real, though. She started to get a bit confused. She went and got herself admitted into a mental hospital. a little drugs and now she’s a real person again. Forgot all about little ol me. I was the one that made her through the first years of her adult life. Now it’s some drug” He’s paused, thinking up what button to push next, “She still wears those gloves all the time. Freakish it is? Not wanting to touch people with your bare hands?” He was fuming at this point. He sat down in the couch next to me, and gripped my shoulder as he shook me up. Just wait, Kim. Just wait. I tightened the gloves on my hands almost instinctively at his jab.

“You think I deserve this? After so many of your successful books came from me?!” He screamed. I kept my eyes away from him, “You can’t write a single thing now!” He screamed, his beauty spilling off his face and burning up into a gas. I could see it out of the corner of my eyes

“Look at me! Please…. What did you do to me? You took my soul. Kim. Please.” His voice was soft and wobbly like someone on the brink of crying. I felt the tears well up in my chest.

I blinked and he was gone.

“Oh god.” I finally spoke. Tears fell down my face. I got up and opened the door of my room and walked to the bathroom. I sat in the tub, crying.

That happened  the week after I’d stopped taken my anti-psychotics. I saw Wheeler the day after and told him all about it. He recommended that I continue on without it. It was my choice he said, but it sounded more like it wasn’t. He believed that at some point I will be able to restrain Harrington to the point that he would no longer bother me as often. He was right for the most part. A few days past without Harry turning up again.

Approximately a week later I was walking to a bagel shop a block from my apartment. I had my head phones in, eating a raisin cinnamon bagel. I was scribbling in my notebook some ideas, anything really for material on those assignments.  They looked pretty good from this point of view, but they needed to past the two page limit. I had to write at least three pages of each to consider it worthy enough to becoming an actual story. If I cannot past 2 then it usually never works out. Great idea or not.

Harrington was right, i found myself thinking. My best stories had been about his hero adventures, but as a part of my therapy I’d promised to not include Harrington as my central character. I couldn’t write about him and now it’s become a bit difficult.

I got a text message from my roommate, Danielle. I checked it and put it down on the table. She’d had a “titfer” as she put it in her text message, with her boyfriend Ste. I could never understand British couples. wasn’t British couples. It was more couples in general. Was there a deep difference between couples in britain and America? Is this something i should know?

I looked up from my table to signal a waiter to fill my cup with some more tea. Dani had given me the nasty habit of drinking tea all the time. I can’t stand coffee now. Tea is more relaxing I guess, and coffee makes me bounce off the walls. Maybe it wasn’t Dani that got me hooked. Maybe it was me trying to to have a sugar high every time i smelled coffee beans.

That was when a man sat down across from me in my booth. He had large glasses on, a scarf, and a big hat. He was like those women who get beat by their husbands. I frowned, but smirked at the same time. He had better not try to hit on me. I laughed at myself for the thought.  Not that it ever happened to me. Not when Danielle was around at least.

I didn’t pull out my headphones. He pulled off his glasses, the scarf, then hat.



He shouldn’t be able to change clothes. He couldn’t. He– He’s not–Real.

He looked right into my eyes and then began to speak. I didn’t hear a word, but I got up as quickly as I could, watching him as I walked backwards trying to get to the door. My sudden movement made an earphone fall out of my ear.

“Hey. I’m beggin you. I don’t beg a soul.” His voice was different. Deeper. It sounded Foreign. This couldn’t… They said that he couldn’t evolve if I didn’t talk to him. If I didn’t excite him or… “It’s a favor. Just let me get your number. I need someone in the country.” He went on, putting the scarf and hat back on, “I can tell you know who I am by your reaction. Not exactly the reaction I was expecting…. I was more expecting you to beg me to give you an autograph but this is good too…I suppose.”

“No. You’re not real. You’re…you can’t” I started to to feel my face get hot. I could feel it. I hated tearing up in public. I couldn’t let myself do that here

“Hey. Calm down. Of course I’m real. Are you okay?” He asked, getting up from his seat. I shuffled back some more. He couldn’t really be here like this could he? I looked around and the entire store was staring at me. They only stared at  me. There wasn’t anyone there. I was alone.

I turned and ran out of the store. I rushed down the block to my home. It wasn’t until I was at the steps did I realize that I left my cell phone and my notebook. I couldn’t go back now. I walked up the stairs.

Danielle was home again. She’d been with her boyfriend for a week or so. I am guessing by her text that they were at each other’s throats again. I couldn’t really think about that at the moment. I was too confused.

“You home?” She peeked her brow haired and tanned skin out from the living room, “You are not gonna believe what this fucker said to me—Kim?” She walked up to me, realizing my disorientation, and grabbed my shoulder. She’d been with me for the last two years. She knew I was recovering. She was a part of my therapy really. She was the friend I had to make to let go of the imaginary one, “Did you see him again?” I just put my forehead on the crook of her neck and just sobbed a little.

She was real. She was real.


Writing 101, Day Nineteen: Don’t Stop the Rockin’


Today is a free writing day. Write at least four-hundred words, and once you start typing, don’t stop. No self-editing, no trash-talking, and no second guessing: just go. Bonus points if you tackle an idea you’ve been playing with but think is too silly to post about.

Chuck was a normal guy. He just had a few issue just like every other person. He was actually exceptionally normal compared to the people who walked around him. He didn’t like to acknowledge their existence for too long for fear they might influence his behavior– All that brain washing was contagious you know.

Maybe we should talk about something else.

Today was the day Chuck was being force to go to the library by his mother. She was a devious one and knew exactly how to push his buttons. She was probably some sort of machine with wheels and dials designed by the government for this very task, but Chuck never looked directly at her so he couldn’t exactly be sure. Sometimes he’d throw pieces of bread at her feet in hopes that she’d pick it up. If she did, she’d be at the perfect, height, lighting, and angle for Chuck to catch a glimpse of her without being infected…that is if he looked away quickly enough. He was talented in this and wasn’t worried.

“You’re going to the library.” He heard her say. The monster pulled his hearing aids right out, before shouting it. He felt woozy and strange, the sound of the infected world filtering in. He need the sound of different things chopped up and rubbed down into a white noise. He needed that because it was the only way the government couldn’t get into your mind–his mind.

Instead of replying Chuck hissed and scuttled back in the living room, carefully taking three steps at a time up to his room. His mother didn’t follow him, so he froze. She was a wild card. She would do anything to get her way. When she didn’t run after him…it meant the worst. She’d already done something

“What?” He said, halfway making a question. She was grinning. He’s never seen it, but he could almost feel the air chilling right through his denim jacket.

“I’ve licked a sock…an american flag toe sock, and i’ve hidden it in your room.” Her voice crushed through, clearly, and it hurt Chuck all over. He grabbed his body and crouched over. Socks were the bane of human strife, forever looking for a matching pair, and american flags are the source of baseless nationalism in young adults. He couldn’t stand such a thing, “Unless you come over here, take your hearing aids, kiss your mom goodbye, and go the the Library…i will hide more and more purple socks in your room.” and Purple was sooooo very evil.

Chuck shot up six feet in the air, bound down the stairs, and snatched the hearing aids, careful not to touch her skin. She could have malaria…or might be part poison oak. He snuggly put them back in, the sound of jackhammers and rivers, and groaning, and cats taking the clear air away, just the way he liked it. She handed him a back of stick pretzels and opened the door for him.

Naturally he took the pretzels and climbed out of the window, careful not to land in the bushes. Bushes were a sign of evolutionary subservience… He shouldn’t trust his mother for a second. So he had never go through a hoop she made…and she made many hoops.

[to be continued?]