Meeting

Composed 7/22/13
Description: I’ve had this story in my head for a few weeks. I’ve never really experimented with flash fiction, so this is my first attempt.  It’s still pretty stylized (can’t take the poet out of the girl). Let me know what you think!

She grabbed a cup of coffee.
She met with her client – a regular. He needed some deposits made. Discreetly.

She sat forward in a black leather chair and worked her magic. She listened to clicks and beeps – the sounds of fairy dust.
The deposit? Done. Gone. Invisible. Jamaica. Grand Cayman. China. Antarctica, for all they knew.
Something went wrong. A crack in the fire. Someone had a shield. Black screen, windows open.
She played with black magic. Found a trail, a line of disturbed ash.
She smiled. Nobody could escape the track of gifted witch.

It was hidden in plain sight. Downtown. An old comic store.
She slipped in. Bell chimes. A young man. He didn’t look up.
She put her hand on the desk. A snake’s smile. Confrontation.
His eyes? Unsurprised. Hers narrowed. Comprehension.
“You did it on purpose. Why?”
“To get your attention.”
He smiled and grabbed his cup of coffee.

A Perfect Night

Composed: 7/14/13
Description: A dream from a few weeks ago.

Utter bliss hardly succeeds in describing the feeling.

I am running, bolting it — my arms straight out, ready for flight. I am screaming in pure ecstasy as I run, like I am on the world’s most gloriously terrifying rollercoaster.

I run through a snow covered forest in the morning light. The slender, icy branches and distant, snowy hills possess the kind of raw beauty reserved for fairytales and Planet Earth specials.

There is music playing – a song I’ve never heard. It probably does not exist. I’m not sure where it is coming from since it seems to fill the air in every direction.

I break from the trees into an endless, white clearing. Suddenly I remember that I am not alone. Another runs with me, several feet away; though, like me, he has been preoccupied with his own bliss and hasn’t recalled my presence until this moment. Not losing a stride, we glance at each other – both smiling, a certain gleam in our eyes. We know that, for both of us, this has been the best moment of our lives.

We join together, laughing, racing in the narrow hallway between an impossibly tall snow-covered wall and a line of snow piled atop large boulders. We laugh, our jaunt finally reaching an end as we jump into the somehow fluffy snow piles. We breathe heavily, but we are not tired.

The scene cuts, but I reemerge not but a few minutes later. There is another with us now – a face well-known. A man in the guise of a hunter of demons and other evil things. He stands a respectable distance away, as if not wanting to intrude.

My face and feelings are grim now. My friend wears an expression of utter severity as well. I point to the hunter as I address my friend.

“If there is evil after us I want him with me.”

My friend seems to soften into resignation as I wake.

Some Advice

Composed around 2009/2010
Description: Another oldie. Different from my usual style; though, I am still entertained by this one…

Never ever use a bathroom with a window. It may just be the last thing you ever do.

Don’t believe me? Ask my uncle. He’s dead.

I mean, when you think about it, what better time is there to kill someone? They’re distracted, vulnerable. And I’ve never known anyone to carry a gun or a Kevlar vest with them to the bathroom.

I dated a girl who took a dagger with her once, but I’ve dated a lot of weird chicks.

Anyway, in my opinion, the guy who started the trend was pretty clever. Besides the vulnerability, there’s also the fact that there is usually only one person in the bathroom at a time. Granted, you‘ll get some frisky newlyweds or old bickering couples, but the point is that at least once a day the target will be alone in the bathroom in a vulnerable situation, lulled into a false sense of security. And if you’re a decent sniper it’s not too hard to find a spot to sit and wait. Or, if poison is more your style, the window probably isn’t locked, and it will be simple to slip in there right before your target hits the restroom and spike their toothpaste or gas the place.

So don’t ever buy a house with a bathroom window. If you’ve already got one, first off, congratulations on surviving this long, and, secondly, take my advice and replace the old window with some bulletproof glass while you’re ahead.

Paranoid? Maybe. But, hey: tell that to my uncle. Putting a window in the bathroom was not a smart idea on his part. Of course, maybe the real moral of this story is don’t have an affair, especially if your wife knows a good hit man.

I really felt bad when Uncle Cameron died, but Aunt Becky paid ten grand in cash.

Divine Intervention

Composed 4/27/12
Description: While much of this is inspired by an actual walk I had on 4/27/12, most of it is made up; this is simply a scenario I
imagined happening while I was walking back from class one day. The scenario stuck with me so much that I wrote it down. This is the result. After about a year after it was written, this piece had the privilege of being published in Anderson University’s 2013 Spring Literary Arts Magazine.

A boy whizzes past me on a bicycle, close enough for me to be justified in a feeling of rage or the utterance of a curse word. I don’t even flinch.

It’s just a normal day, and I’m heading back to the dorm, just like always. People are walking all around me, and I couldn’t now report to you any of their faces, even the color of their hair. I’m lost in my own world, in my thoughts, which are so incomprehensible and muffled that I could not accurately report them to you. The only thing I’m really aware of is the sun, which is shining brightly, and campus, gorgeous on this spring afternoon. However, even this is more of a matter-of-fact observation than an emotional revelation. It’s like someone just told me about that beauty of the day, like I’m not actually here experiencing it.

It’s hard for me to get out of this fog, this numbness of going through the motions. Even though my classes were interesting, even funny, I still can’t break out of this blah-attitude that I seem to be enwrapped in nowadays.

I stop at the crosswalk and let a few cars pass me. When there’s a gap large enough for me to pass through I step into the road and cross. Crossing the street always feels like a gamble to me. No matter how long I stop to look to see if cars are coming, I always accept the possibility that I missed something, that a car’s going to come barreling at me at eighty miles per hour. My heart rate stays constant today though; even that irrational fear isn’t enough to get me motivated today.

I make it across the street without incident, and this is when I notice I’m actually very cold. I can’t help but roll my eyes. That’s Indiana for you – sunny and gorgeous and somehow still thirty-five degrees. I pull my hoodie closer.

I’ve stopped by this point, and I look down the path. I have two options: I can take the shorter path that curves directly alongside the dorms, or I can take the longer path that lines the road. It’s cold enough I choose the long path, which avoids the shade of the trees, so there’s a slim possibility that it will be warmer.

I am cognizant that this is odd immediately. I never take this sidewalk, and I am a notorious creature of habit. Walking this way feels weird to my body, unnatural.

But I go with it. Hey, I could use a little rebellion. And it was warmer this way.

I have to pass two other dorms to get to mine. As I walk pass the first, I start thinking about this fog I’m in. I really want to get out of it, but I don’t know how. I see all these other people who have all these passions; they know exactly what they love, what they want to do with their lives. Those are things I really lack in my life. I just wish God would give me a sign, throw something at me that I was really passionate about.

I feel myself starting to get back into my mind fog as I pass Ricker, the next dorm. And that’s when the building exploded. Continue reading

Dreams

Composed 4/9/11
Description: This was written solely because the boy I was dating at the time wanted me to write something for him. This is the result, and I’m impressed with it, as it was so spur of the moment. It definitely reflects my feelings for him at the time.

Cheek cupped in hand, she stared blankly at that flashing, vertical line, the only black mark visible on the otherwise blindingly white page. Her unoccupied index finger dusted the keypad, sending the cursor to the bottom of the screen, where an attractive blue and orange logo called to her so temptingly. She hesitated, knowing full well that the next few seconds would determine the rest of the evening. Click it, and she might as well forget about being productive. Ignore it, and there was still hope, still a sliver of a chance that inspiration would soon find her.

Her fingertip was startled from the button as a soft buzz and brief glow caught her attention. A mixture of feelings welled up inside her at that moment – surprise, frustration, and a kind of giddiness that she would deny vehemently if confronted. Nevertheless, she did not hesitate to grasp the small device and flip open the top.

A smile was brought to her lips soon after, an eager reply swiftly returned. However, in the downtime of the conversation, she glanced back toward the screen and scowled. Never one for anger, however, her expression melted, and, with a yawn, she was encouraged to fold her arms on the desk and rest her cheek in the homemade pillow.

She woke up hours later, again startled by the persistent buzz of her nearby cell phone. Adrenaline kicked in, and her head jerked upward suddenly. She grasped for the phone, certain a hundred messages, their content increasing in confusion and possibly anger, were waiting for her. However, after she rubbed the sleep from her eyes, she discovered only one message – the one that had woken her.

Let me in.

Her confusion was broken by the loud chime of the doorbell. Continue reading

Arlo

Hachiko

Composed 1/4/11
Description: A little piece I was inspired to write after seeing this picture.

It is in the region of the Egova in which this tale takes place.  There it is said that the spirits once lived, for the deep slopes of the hills and mountains are cut into hundreds of tiny stair steps which lead to grand, smooth plateaus.   The plateaus are said to be where the houses of the spirits rested for thousands of years until these spirits, exasperated with humanity, destroyed their earthen residences and disappeared into the heavens – a world they created in which they could be alone and truly rest in peace.

However, it was rumored that some spirits stayed behind in Egova.  These few had grown so attached to this place that they would not leave; instead they vowed to stay on Earth forever, to watch over and protect the land.  The Great Spirit, who created the heavens and the earth, looked favorably on these few and blessed them with powers similar to his own.  This way they could protect the earth during his absence.

Humans moved into the mountains once the spirits left, building small settlements directly into the ancient stairways.  In these first days, many villagers witnessed ghostly forms strolling in the distance, circling the communities.  Frightened by this, they built shrines for the spirits to show their good intentions.  The visions then stopped.  However, the villagers kept a wide birth from these shrines, arriving only once a year to tend to the shrines and present gifts to the spirits.  Disturbing a spirit’s shrine on any other day was considered bad luck – not only for the individual, but for all the people of the mountain.

Spirit sightings had been rare since those first days.  Only a certain few had witnessed bizarre or extraordinary events, things that could only be explained as the work of a spirit.  Miraculous healings, massive, destructive fires… Both were considered signs of favor or disapproval of the spirits, respectively.

But seeing a tangible form of a spirit was rarely heard off.  What they looked like was only known because of myths, and even they were contradictory.  Some believed they possessed human-like forms, while others claimed they took form as animals.

Nevertheless, as the years passed, villagers continued to pay homage to the shrines; though, stories of spirits were always told in past tense, as if the species had died off long ago… Continue reading

Snapshot

Composed 1-3/2010
Description: This is a piece I wrote for a creative writing class my senior year of high school. I loved that class, and this was by far the favorite thing I wrote for it. This piece was a practice in describing scenery. We were to pick a time period and location, do research on it (including clothing, games of the time, etc.), and describe an accurate “scene” from that time period using the elements we researched. So, while it lacks much of a plot, remember: the point of it was to depict an accurate, vivid atmosphere of the time period/location. It’s something you might see at the beginning of a chapter. It must have made an impression on me, as I would go to join swing club my sophomore year in college and become an avid swing dancer.. and next year I’ll be the president of the swing club!

It seemed appropriate to post it today: the day of my university’s spring swing dance!

This piece had the privilege of being published in the 2010 Spring Edition of Anderson University’s Literary Arts Magazine.

Shadowed by the high walls of the alley they waited, huddled around the door as if to fight off the night’s wintry chill. For many tense minutes they spoke only in muted whispers, but soon an excited murmur rippled through the dense crowd as the guard finally permitted entrance. Both music and light leaked out through the crack of the open door, and, jittery with excitement, each guest shouldered and squeezed his way to the front.

The wooden dance floor teemed with young men and women. Had it not been for the vibrant pinks and blues of the ladies’ dresses, however, all would have faded into the darkness behind veils of gray smoke. Light burst forth, yet, from the stage, where a dribble of sweat sparkled briefly before slipping down the deep brown skin of a trumpet player’s brow. The saxophonist, drummer, and pianist too suffered from the heat of bright lights and a snug stage; though, they continued to pierce the air with the clear, high riffs and syncopated beats thousands had come to love due to the popularity of the radio.

Below the stage, mini rainbows formed as the ladies spun in their colorful skirts. Their parents would have shunned their exposed knees and collarbones, but the young women only laughed as their partners joined them in the Charleston or swung them up into the air in the more daring Lindy hop. The way their bodies smoothly flowed from one position to the other gave one the impression of flying and inspired daydreams of Charles Lindbergh’s recent solo flight over the Atlantic Ocean. Continue reading

Cursed

Composed: 11/21/07
Description: I will periodically interrupt this mass of poetry with a series of (unrelated) short stories that I have written over the years, starting from a very long time ago. I’ve labeled this as being composed roughly November 2007, but in all honestly it is probably much older than that. This is simply the day I posted it on DeviantArt, and it was old then.

So here we are then, with a pre-high school piece. It reveals a lot about me at that time, I think (and not just by how much my writing has changed/improved). Firstly, this piece was inspired by a RPG I used to be a part of, and that basically tells the story of how I got writing; I was a roleplayer-turned-writer. Fortunately, the people who ran the RPs I was a part of had standards, so I actually learned a TON. I honestly would not write nearly as well without their guidance, especially when it came to creating realistic characters. This piece also gives you a clue into WHAT I enjoyed writing about: fantasy. And specifically angels and demons.

This piece is probably the best standalone piece of writing I did during that time period; it was the only one I do not TOTALLY cringe at while reading. So it’s significant by being the only “old” piece of writing that I like and have kept.

Anyway, onto the piece. In this fantasy RP one could choose to audition for one of the seven deadly sins. Meanwhile, my character was a royal who would have been significantly targeted had the RP thrived. I always thought it would be interesting to see how she would react if tested by one.

And alas, this piece was born. (Ezra, whom she mentions, is her guardian angel.)

She slipped the spoon delicately between her fingers before she dipped it into the gooey dessert, meanwhile observing her bowl with faint interest. It was a fine looking conclusion to the meal – a creamy white pudding with thin swirls of deep brown mixed within. On the top of the mixture tiny crumbles of another flavor were sprinkled, probably some kind of caramel as the dark tan color suggested. The smell was pleasing as well; the sweet vanilla mixed with the other two flavors to create a faintly warm but rich scent that made the young woman’s stomach ache in approval. A kind, serene smile on her lips, the young woman nodded to the maid in thanks. She then brought the spoon to her pink lips and let the gooey combination ooze into her mouth.

Ah! It was so delicious! The pudding was the most amazing thing she had ever tasted. Every amount of flavor was perfectly balanced, the texture smooth and pleasing to her tongue, ah… everything so rich, but not overly so… Just marvelous. The young woman let her tongue slip over her lips once the spoonful was swallowed, savoring the amazing taste. The spoon was stuck into the pudding again, this time bringing out more of the dish. The young woman let the sweet taste rush over inside her mouth again, and she quietly moaned in pleasure. The taste sent a shiver down her spine… Oh! She had to have more! Continue reading