Thursday, January 17, 2013

Orders Not Carried Out, But Followed Through

(This was an odd dream I had a few nights back. )


I opened my eyes and the first sense that swept over me was a distinct urge of responsibility. There were five cats in total, each with a very feline personality, calm and excessively pampered. Of course they would be under the roof of the sexiest Daddy Warbucks the world has ever seen.

The adrenaline rush must've been calming down. I was perplexed by my inability to retrieve the memory of the actions that brought me through the intricate security obstacle course that must've been stolen from Iron Man's blueprints. Even during the early stages of a potentially city-wide crisis, no one would merely let me waltz through the front door of Johnny Depp's mansion.

I heard my name. The intercom system. The comfortable feeling of familiarity replaced what was once the star-struck fangirl thrill that met the face and voice of the great Quentin Tarantino. From Headquarters, Mr. Tarantino acted as my mission operator and dispatcher; not surprisingly, he was awesome as it.

"You need to get out of there. They're coming for you. I've disabled all of the alarms. You're clear to transport, but only if you leave now!" The monitor switched feeds; what was once Mr. Tarantino's face had become the outer gates of the mansion, where the large, ferocious gorilla-like creatures snarled and howled. "Get out now!" Tarantino repeated, cuing me to turn towards my mission: to lead Mr. Depp's pet cats, one by one, out the door to the safehouse down the street, using only the power of gentle influence. The long-haired Persian-- (No collar? I'll call her Fluffy.)-- had already begun expressing her full intention of ignoring me with a superfluous grooming ritual.

As I began my well-versed singsong calls and beckoning gestures, the back of my mind bitterly wondered what had happened to the other two agents assigned to this mission. My aggravation grew as I imagined my two long-term comrades sitting around a few cups of steaming cappuccinos chatting it up with the friendly and brilliant film-director side of the otherwise dispatching dichotomy. While this side thought helped relieve some of the stress of the situation, Princess Fluffy could sense my distraction and felt no need to pay me any attention. I needed to regain control; my sweeping gestures became perfectly-timed and persuasive, and my "Here kitty, kitty, kitty"s were on fire. The fur ball followed, albeit with no sense of urgency whatsoever. Slowly but surely, we made our way outside through the secret side exit. I heard the ape-creatures yowling and whooping in the distance, on the other side of the mansion. Fluffy and I would make it to the safehouse (in her unhurried time) and, upon approaching the shack at last, I began to feel a sense of dread... One down, four to go... Saving the neighborhood one cat at a time...

Tuesday, December 25, 2012

Tuesday.

(This short story, written December 11th, is based on nonfictional events and dedicated to a fellow named Scott.)

The gray lasted from the dawn to dusk, the fog drenching the spirits of the city, stretching the lines at the cafes and bakeries. And on a mundane Tuesday, the people worked, the children learned, the yuppies overpaid, the cheerleaders underate, and the Bobs of the city took their cigar breaks at precisely 10:10am. It was this very day when she was deeply, soulfully inspired to finally organize a basket of laundry ready for the machines downstairs, the machines which only moved when contacted with precisely 24 quarters. It was early afternoon when a showered, energetic, impassioned she suddenly found herself driven to a concrete wall manifesting itself in... five measly quarters. Twas not the day for laundry. Maybe it wasn't the day for doing anything. The universe was speaking, and with no other voices in her head on this quiet Tuesday afternoon, she had no choice but to listen.

She zipped her boots over her jeans and contemplated her journey of the day. Her heart twittered at the promise of a brisk walk, while her ankles-- normally the unqualified warriors of the forty-hour week-- shuddered silently. "I promise you nice things," she whispered to herself as encouragement, and sure enough, as she re-entered the world, she successfully walked past her parked sedan, onward to a journey on-foot. Little did she know that only disappointment would befall her in the next hour and a half, with the discovery of a closed party store and a distinct lack of Christmas-themed costumes in any other neighborhood store. Maybe it was another sign, most likely from the Jewish side of her ancestors.

Upon returning to her car, she slumped in the seat, the air sliding out of her lungs. She stared ahead at the gray of the pavement meeting the unchanged sky. It was literally an uphill battle to find purpose to this particular Tuesday. She wouldn't let herself give up. Perhaps it was as little as a freshly-baked croissant, or perhaps her long-lost best friend would be awaiting her at the peak of the highway. Maybe there was a song that needed to be heard on the radio, an inspiring message to be delivered personally to her. Or perhaps the shower, the make-up, the fresh pair of socks... perhaps none of it was worth this Tuesday. Three cups of coffee pumped her blood at an abnormal rate. The engine turned, smoothed, and led her up the hill.

Somehow, the Divine forces delivered she to the (second-)nearest party store she knew, and she stood on minute #10, her eyes tasting the pictorial variations on a traditional Santa Claus costume. Her darkly-lined hazel eyes narrowed, piercing each image scrupulously, using her logic and imagination to eliminate some of the choices. Upon choosing a favorite, it was then the price that caused pause. The deep, philosophical debate of tradition and the question "what exactly IS Santa Claus" kept her beautiful mind occupied for far too long as the early evening grew dimmer. At last, her decision was merely to wait, accepting a minor success in finding options. Temporarily, she denied herself the stress of counting the little time before the arrival of Saturday night, and marched to a victory dinner of beef stew and sourdough. At last, the day could be considered a good day off.

Friday, October 12, 2012

Good Morning

Meredith didn't awaken until her eyes opened, a sharp, dry breath being sucked into her lungs. Without thinking, without feeling, she went through the motions: cancelling the alarm clock, starting the coffee, opening the curtains, getting ready for work... Work. Like a hangover, it overtook her, until her teeth clenched like her eyes, as an anvil pulled down on her heart. The taste of coffee felt strangely familiar when coupled with ibuprofen. Nine hours later, she stood in her doorway, trying her best to settle the calamity that crowded her head. The tall living room windows filled the room with a suffocating amount of darkness. The door had to be shut, curtains drawn, coat and bag put away. The taste of wine tasted strangely familiar when coupled with ibuprofen. She sat, exhaled, and stared at her modest flat-screen, not bothering to turn it on. Her second glass of wine was mercifully lowering the volume of the noise in her mind. She was beginning to forget, to dream. As she became a little too comfortable, she decided to turn in.

Meredith awoke. She turned off her alarm. Coffee. Daylight. Work. ... Work. The mere seemed to hit her harder by the day. Was this her life? To earn a living, to stay alive, to accomplish nothing significant, and to be motivated by the dullest survival? There wasn't time- not today. Work. The taste of coffee was lost, and the ibuprofen was familiar. Nine hours later, she shuddered with hate. Who had she become-- this passionless husk without dream, without soul? Door, curtains, wine, ibuprofriend. The numbness settled into her as she sank into her couch and watched nothing. Nostalgia and ideas brought her a temporary dose of serenity. She touched her skin, her arm, her hands, the closest she'd felt to love. Closing in on what could have the potential to be a smile, she diagnosed the feeling as fatigue, and turned in.

Meredith's eyes opened, and she breathed. In her morning routine, the coffee pot scorched her skin, and fell to the floor, shattering. Stunned, she stood paralyzed, trying to recall the memory of turning the appliance off the previous morning. Annoyed and confused, she took a careless step to the sink, her bare foot taking in the hot, sharp consequences. She gave a short cry, immediately tending to her foot wound, her hand still throbbing with a swelling burn. The complications of the morning caused her to be fifteen minutes late for work, which translated to coming home two hours later than usual to make up for it. She stared into her dark living room, into vivid blackness, and took her frustration to the curtains, which buckled and fell under the excessive force. The night watched her scoff off her wine bottle and reach into the lowest, deepest cupboard to a bottle of vodka, which still went down smoothly with her ibuprofen. She stood in the room, refusing to get comfortable in front of the naked windows, her wounds still throbbing from the morning. She couldn't still her thoughts. Sleep was a nightmare.

Meredith hadn't bothered to set an alarm, since she hadn't truly slept. She'd spent the night thinking about work. Her body had become a weight, and she refused to stand. She obsessed about that which she abhorred to the point where she no longer considered freedom an option. Coffee wasn't an option. She stood, at last, and took her morning inhale. She felt... awake. She took her coat and bag to work. Work. She stood outside the office building. She could feel the soft pulse in her wrist hitting the back of her watch, which, if met face-to-face, would communicate the excessively early hour. And then... life happened. The scent of a pretentious dark roast drafted a path for Meredith across the street at an unfamiliar cafe. Recognizing this as an option she could merely refuse, that day, Meredith's high heels tentatively turned and clicked forward. She stepped into a place of vibrant music, warm scents, local art, and a speckling of diverse early-bird patrons. Although the vocalization of her order was meek, it triggered a coworker to approach her for the first time outside of work, to wish her a good morning. And, for the first time in a long time, it was.

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

Life's Little Circus

Today would be her midnight. She'd ignore the sunshine and the bustling world surrounding her outside of closed blinds. The world's problems hit the outside of her bubble like baby moths leaving painful dust on a solar light's globe in a garden. A tenth coat of velvety amethyst-colored lipstick gave her otherwise nude torso covering. The shower still ran beside her, filling a stark bathroom with a heavy mist, which covered all but a hand-swept streak of a partially fractured mirror. She inspected herself with a cold stare, one that could be mistaken for the abhorrent burn saved for proper enemies. Her posture was impeccable like her alabaster skin, her pale pink nipples staring back at her at obedient attention, leading the way before an army of lean muscles and slender feminine curves. An abandoned popular magazine on the floor couldn't hold a candle to the powerful doll-like torso in the mirror, and yet scrutinizing shadowed eyes offered not a blink of concession to their own body's obvious radiance. Her spine tensed, squeezing every muscle from her neck down until her scapulae trembled, and in a breath, she swept out of the bathroom, the rusty squeak of the shower shutting down the room into silence.

Although the frills and glitter of a satirical caricature of a ballerina costume suited her no less than the laughter and bright lights that would soon find the body that the great goddess Athena had personally sculpted, this was her uniform. Where a suitcase or an end table would elevate a wallet and keys for any respectable working woman, instead a lone lacy parasol awaited a dispassionate grasp, meanwhile shedding the occasional tear of glitter from the previous performance. Standing before her worn apartment door, in a room lacking any color or excessive decor, she commanded her body to lower its guard just enough to yield to her only honest expression of the evening: a physical and psychological sigh.

With the flutter of a heavy traditional red-and-white striped curtain, the same body would emerge with the most magnificent act, glowing with glorious superficial rapture, her strong body curving to showcase a colorful, glistening fairy-like essence. Fluffing to life, her sidekick, a bipolar parasol, spread its tears of joy like a rainbow above her head. She perfectly disguised a lifeless corpse for another two-hour execution, and a full house of 500 mindless puppeteers applauded her act.

Thursday, November 10, 2011

Scuba Diver

Suffocatingly heavy water snugly fitted its way around the focused scuba diver as he followed the beam of his flashlight like a sailor set on the glow of his home town's lighthouse. His determination was strong, even outweighing his concern to hold fast to personal belongings, such as the wallet sporting his closely-shaven face over the name "Jonathan McWilson," which was now enjoying a vacation of solitude on an unfamiliar surface until otherwise claimed. A gleam of metal caught the underwater explorer's eye, and like a moth who almost knew better, he was drawn to this particular flame. His gloved hand stroked the slimy growth from the side of this unfamiliar structure, which was lodged into a garden of coral. The heavy base of the gleaming box was painted in a delicious deep red striped with vertical cream-colored stripes, perfectly alternating and drizzled with the markings of a short time spent in Poseidon's realm. As his light hit the ceiling of the object, the metal reflected down to cast an enchanting glow on some floating swollen particles, rendering them reminiscent of fireflies. One of many moments of awe stole a moment's breath from the masked pioneer, as he gazed upon this familiar sight in a foreign territory. Recalling no recent circus or fair, his frow burrowed, revealing his curiosity as to how a popcorn machine had made it to the bay.

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

Obligatory Greeting

The Self-Proclaimed Gods of Bizarre Month Labels have generously granted November yet another excessive tradition, which may or may not be lost and forgotten as of next year. As it has been presented to me, November is "novel month", wherein the ubiquitous masses have been challenged to write a "novel", known to consist of an average of 90,000 words. Come writers, gather amateurs, collect thy crayons children of all ages, for it is time to write, and write we must!

... Before I get ahead of myself, dear reader, I will shamelessly break the fourth wall to set this epic dream on pause whilst I ready myself for my personal compromise to the early stages of "the American dream." (Hey, something's gotta pay the bills.) But fear not! I've already been starting some short creative pieces and brainstorms that can and will be posted in this blog. Were I to guess, I'd say that the reader will find no substance for a novel here, but rather, brief glimpses of whimsical writing. (I might optimistically maintain the goal of 90,000 words just for the fun of it, but we'll see what I can do with such limited time.)

Until next time!