She

Time for a "scary" story from my Fiction class ...

She

     A woman leaves the Surf and Turf and rounds the corner onto a now wet, deserted street, the moon absent from the void black sky. No-one should be out this time of night. The night hadn’t gone well, with another and last argument with that now, thankfully, exboyfriend. In the distance, the sound of traffic looms, as the city never sleeps. She starts her way alone along the stained concrete, of urban sprawls whose dwellers sleeps in multicolored quilts or a lover's fold; minds imaginably filled with easy, pleasant dreams. She looks up at a flickering streetlight, lights a cigarette and curses, smoke whisking behind her in the breeze, jacket collar pulled high, head low. The orange glow of the streetlights was reflected by shards of glass and puddles of water.

    

  There was a giggle from a girl and slam from the door and that was that, more stillness. The welcoming party ahead of her consists of a traffic-free street, adorned with burnt out butts, drenched newspapers and empty packets of cigarettes. The rain, as if to remind her of its presence, grows more intense for a second or two, then lingers in a mist. Now she just wanted to get home quickly before it’d rain further. The weather sure knew how to makes things depressing all the more. ‘Rain in January when it was supposed to snow? Where is the snow and ice, the white and diamonds that bend the light in all shades, bringing some life to the dirty muddy roads and melancholic grey trees?’

     She was cold, her lips pressed together; she resumed walking the darkened streets towards home. Almost immediately she hears the tap, tap, tapping of someone walking behind her. ‘Time to be cool’ … she picks up her pace. Tap Tap Tap. ‘Damn, they are speeding up!’ She sees a cab across the street about a block ahead and begins to cross towards it, trying to appear calm and composed. Suddenly she thinks better of it and stops, returning to her side of the street. She has heard things about pretty young women in cabs at night. Best to walk it. She continues on, but the tapping is closer now. TAP TAP TAP. She doesn’t want to run, never show panic, that’s what she learnt. But inside panic is building … quickly. She keeps her eyes open for a lit window, any house will do, just want safety. With a sigh of relief she finds one, but it is still quite far away. She speeds up again, hoping that whoever is following won’t notice. But they do! TAP TAP TAP! That’s it! Had enough! She begins to run, looking cool be damned! Closer and closer to that door. But they are running too! Taptaptaptap. Trying to go as fast as she can, but they are catching up! TapTapTapTap. Reaching the steps of the house, stumbling slightly, she reaches for the door. But then, a hand grabs her shoulder. She spins around and …

     … Finds herself looking into a pair of friendly brown eyes. It’s one of the bartenders from the club. He smiles, “No-one’s out to get you, you left your purse at the bar Miss, I followed you to give it back.”

     She almost falls to the porch in relief but he holds her up. She manages to whisper, “Thanks.” 

     The barman chuckles softly, “Sorry, if I scared you. You sure that you don’t want that cab?” After she nods her pretty head no he waves, “Have a good night, be safe.” He walks off in the opposite direction and she is alone again.

     Taking a moment to unwind, she continues to walk down the street. She hears the bells from the Holy Cross Catholic Church toll three; it is quite late into the night. The moonless sky overhead coupled with the subtle whistling of the wind sends chills down her spine. Plip Plip. Quickly swiveling her head, she frantically glanced around until she found the source; a leaky gutter, spilling droplets of rain water. Plip Plip. There’s a long sinister alleyway, shadowy and menacing, with its single source of light coming from a sickly amber light over a doorway, which causes her to quicken her step. Every once in a while she’d hear what sounded like a footstep behind her, but she knew that No-one in their right mind would be out this late at night, and that the depressing atmosphere was getting the better part of her imagination. The streets seem darker tonight, and the sounds seemed clearer. ‘It must be the cloudy, rainy skies,’ she figures …

     She grew more tired with every step, but there are only a few blocks to go before she’ll arrive at her cozy little apartment. She stopped to tie her shoelaces under the peculiar Willie’s Deli streetlight. Tonight the light decided to be on and it seemed to be smirking at her. Such a joker, it never seemed to care what anyone thought of it, and thus it could decide to take the night off and decide not to shine. Whenever I was reported broken it shone as brightly as ever, like nothing was wrong. It must get huge kicks out of it, she couldn’t think of any other reason for such behavior. Well, other than just to piss people off. You never know …

     She crossed the road and came to the entrance to the city park, which was so dark it made the street look as bright as day, as it seemed to suck all of the light from the area. She could not even make out the lights on the opposite side of the park. She nearly walked past the entrance, but stopped to ponder a moment. She knew that if she cut through the park she would save a few minutes from the trek, then again she was hesitant to enter. Her mother always had told her not to walk alone at night, telling her about grisly murders, always about the pretty young lady out on her own. ‘Why would anyone be in the park this late at night?’ ‘No-one,’ she answers herself. She mused a moment longer, she’s crossed it hundreds of times before, and then let out an uneasy laugh. Once more she was letting her imagination get the best of her. At last she reckoned that an extra fifteen minute walk, as she was dog-tired, did not warrant her to walk around the perimeter. She cautiously stepped into the entrance, taking a last drag off her cigarette and discarded the butt on the cobblestone walkway.

     She stopped for a moment as though to capture some of the crooked light before going into the darkness. Home is not far away, yet this spot has always creeped her for some reason. She set off further into the park, but couldn’t help but to think that on this night it seemed oddly unfamiliar. A few more yards in she turned her head around to see he park entrance, seemingly the only beacon of light in the void black park, and then continued on her way. The trees above were glistening, wet and bare, which contrasted with the thankfully, now seemingly, not-so-dark-sky. She could make out the silhouettes of the gnarled tree limbs moving in the wind, which seemed to have picked up a bit. A burnt out light in the parking lot stood like gallows in the shadows, she wonders why they never fix it.

     There it was again, the tapping sound on the stone, but then it stopped. Tap. Her heart sank, and the dread builds as the seconds tick by. “Let me be wrong.” A Northern Mockingbird takes flight. She now nervously smiled, “Just my imagination,” she whispered to herself. The entrance to the park was now well behind her, there was no going back. A flickering lamp came into view up ahead illuminating a bench, she pressed on. The tapping noise would start and subside at random intervals; she tried to imagine them as tree branches colliding in the wind, although she knew in her minds-eye that it was not. Nearing the bench, there seemed to be a sense of salvation, almost as though the light would keep her nightmares at bay. Perhaps it was foolish … Nevertheless she did not care. When she got to the light she found that she was short of breath, noticing how hasty she had been, her legs began to ache with fatigue. She reached into her pocket for her Marlboro’s, only to realize it was empty, she crumpled her pack and tossed it indignantly towards an open trash can. As her heavy breathing stopped, she tried once more to rationalize. The tapping was mute; her ears were playing tricks on her. Nothing more.

     The damp, porous, wooden bench under her creaked, as though it felt to be called to bring her to terms. She knew what it wanted to say. She should go, because it was senseless to wait for something, which would never happen. After resting a minute or two, she turned and started on her way. But there it was again, the tapping on stone. Her mind ran wild picturing night prowlers, drug addicts, vampires and monsters of every kind rushing after her in the darkness. Ha! Later she’d lie in her comfy warm bed and laugh about what a silly unaware child she had been. In the distance the old Holy Cross Catholic Church sounded once more –one chime- three-thirty.

     She continued on the long winding path, trying to ignore the sounds at her back when … Was that an animal? A quick but smooth movement caught her eye in her periphery. Must have been, No-one is out in the park this time of night. Without hesitation she quickened her step and moved on. The sound was more consistent now. Tap, tap, tap, and tap, each time sounding closer and closer together. Her heart begins pounding like thunder; she began to vigorously grind her teeth as she attempted to move even faster. The shadows danced at her back, heckling her futile attempt to escape their cold dark embrace.

     Even at the end of her wits, and while her legs burned as if on fire, her feet numb, she thought over and over in her head: ‘No-one would be out at this time of night’, ‘No-one would be in a dark park at half past three in the morning,’ ‘No-one would be out at this hour.’ The shadows seemed to wrap around her from behind, closing its grip around her throat. She opened her mouth to scream but no sound came out.  She tried and tried to cry out but still no sound came. Thump, thump, thump. Her feet moved at a mile a minute, her mind raced even faster, but she seemed to go no-where. She tried yet again to let out a shrill scream for help, for mercy. But all that escaped was a small amount of air and a bit of saliva. Her feet thrashed, looking for ground, no-where to be found. She gasped for air, her throat would not allow. She felt a sharp pain at her side, and again, and again, and once more. The pressure from her throat ceased, but her cries for help revealed only a hoarse whisper as she stared up into the darkness trying in vain to see anything.

      The now sure-to-be footsteps confidently dwindled away into the darkness. Now another sound joined the gnarled tree limbs moving in the wind, a pair of lips whistling “Silent Night,” tantalizing her. As it died away into the dimness of her fading conscience, her mind replayed over and over. ‘No-one walks the park this time of night.’ ‘No-one is out in the dark at three-thirty in the morning.’

     She was quite right. No-one in fact was out in the night, and now only No-one knows where the pretty girl was, so late that January night.

.

Those Summer Dresses

This is the first "real" story I ever wrote. I was in a beginning Fiction class and people were writing all sorts of stories, mainly sci-fi, stuff that was at least somewhat violent and had orks in them ect. I was about to drop out of the class, I just couldn't write like that and my classmates could write rather well, how was I to compete with that? So a germ of an idea appeared to me while sitting in the commons on a rainy day and that weekend I locked myself in an dingy motel in the middle of no where, the rain continued to pour, and here is the result. It was make or break as far as I was concerned for this class as it was so different than what others were doing, I was going to drop the class the next day. Somehow it was well accepted and I was shocked! Its even going to be in our College's literary Journal coming out next month!

Here is my first story ...

Those Summer Dresses

Another rainy evening finds me sitting by the window.  I am watching the drops of water as they fall against the glass, the streaks of light as the streetlight shines brightly. The pane is cold to the touch; my fingers leave a small vapor from their trace.  There is the tinkling sound of wind chimes coming from the porch. My cat Izzy has somehow found a spot to curl up in on my shambolic bed and Charlie dog is snoozing in front of me with his chin on my feet. What is it about rainy days that make you feel so alone?

On the table a small candle is burning sweetly in its light as it flickers slowly. I have a very warm cup of coffee, not so much because I need it, but because I love to feel its warmth in my hands as it flows into the coldness of my fingers. The TV is on atop the small wooden dresser with the sound off, and the stereo is playing this Coldplay tune. “Look at the stars, look how they shine for you.” I’m listening to music as it seems the only thing that relaxes me, for a while I don’t have to really think of anything. Glancing at the tube I can’t help but notice a cute young looking brunette actress, flouncing across the street in the rain, wearing a fluttering red and white flower print sundress. Damn. What is it about summer dresses that breathe their life into a lonely man’s soul?

Laying back in my overstuffed recliner, I recall sitting on a graffiti scared park bench, with the summer heat on my skin, and glorious treats filling the senses. The summer dresses would pass by; they would sway and voice their concerns to the playful wind. They would soak up the daylight and were worn like the sunshine itself. They would light up the world with their amazing colors of yellow, pink, green and white, dancing in the sun with the grass and wind. There is no music but I feel it flow through me and come alive. How many are hoping for someone to dance with? What is it about summer dresses that make a man want to get up dance? A smile cannot help but to cross my face …

Ah yes, I remember back in high school when I met an angel named Judy. She bought this dress, made of the lightest green with little white flowers all over. She wore it from dusk to dawn, sometimes for days at a time. She danced in it, drank in it, ate and slept in it. She sometimes did things we sure as hell didn’t want her Daddy to know about in it. It was a billowy, spaghetti strapped dress made of cotton that was perhaps a size or so too loose. She oh who she loved it!  Memories, drifting like feathers softly through my mind. Never will I forget Judy and that simple green dress!

I remember another one, a taller one, a clean sleeveless white, with ruffles down the side with a touch of lavender embroidery at the hem. I couldn’t help but to wonder if she is wearing anything under it. She still believed in magic, unicorns and fairies. It is so easy to imagine her, with perchance a small white headband to support her auburn hair streaked with grey, capering through the woods. She probably took a penny with her, or maybe a special quarter, hoping that perhaps that whatever she was wishing for would come true just a little bit faster. Everything about her seemed so childlike. “Dreams are priceless”, she said, and you can’t argue with that I suppose. For a moment the vision was perfect. Then again memories can make things that way.

I remember a third, a blue and white one, which would flare up about her knees when she spun around. I would see her by a massive oak tree, the one with the smooth little bench that was under it, writing about thoughts, desires and dreams. Oft times she would ask me to join her and the warm summer breeze would gently sweep leaves about us. The writing would stop so that she could take it all in. I look up to the sky, let my hands reach over my head and I feel the grass with my fingertips. Time would be delighted in looking at those lofty clouds, as free as the open air ourselves.  Sometimes you would kiss me; sometimes you would run your fingers through my hair. Sometimes we would sit there in silence. Silence with her was beautiful too. Eventually she would put her pencil to paper again, and the words came out evermore enchanting.

Even though it was only March, the end of March to be fair, but still March, she thought she would be optimistic about the weather and try for once to make an effort. Feeling a bit down it was decided that wearing her scruffy jeans, the first t-shirt on hand and washed-out grey hoodie, wasn’t going to make it yet again today.  This dress has never been worn before, not even on vacation, despite how much she loves it. It is cream colored sun dress with blue flowers, tight at the top and then floats outwards, the skirt part of it was gently ruffled to give it more shape. She also chose her thickest pair of black tights, it was March and it was pouring rain after all. Though still a bit edgy and kind of close to tears, (though probably no more so than usual), she tried her best to smile and be chirpy. Like the way she used to be. An acquaintance of hers does the same, acting as if she's confident and happy and somehow it seemed to help. I have to wonder sometimes, how many people are acting? Sure some people thought that what this girl was wearing was daft, but there seemed to be a change. She didn't particularly remember consciously being miserable, but the world around her seemed to become a lot sunnier.

Some people like to say that looks don't matter, that they're not important. I thought that as long as you are comfortable that's all that mattered. But I think I may have to change my mind. It cheered me up a little to find that sometimes, when all hope seems lost, that a simple thing like dressing nicely can really cheer someone up, even me. What’s up with that? Obviously I'm not going to go and wear a dress now, though it may sound like fun in an odd sort of way, but I might try making an effort to look my dashing self someday and seeing what happens. But alas, today wasn’t that day …

The wind stands still, and clouds roll across the sky. I take a stroll outside, getting myself wet on purpose so that I could sit by the heater and look out the window. There was this itch to dance. The sky begins to darken, shadows seasoning underneath. Izzy and Charlie doze on. The rain continues to beat a tempo on the windowpane, though now appearing more soothing … calming. “Dreams are priceless”, she said. It sure does seem that way I reply.  I get up to and walked into the kitchen to ponder … What is it about summer dresses that breathe their life into a lonely man’s world?

The Delight

The Delight

1.

The lady’s house sat alone, down a dirt road in the middle of a rolling field. Her lawn consisted of dazzling yellow dandelions that were blooming in full. In her garden were fruit trees and climbing Romano beans, every kind of tomato, numerous vegetables ripening in the warm summer sun. Off to the side of an octagon cedar gazebo was a particularly noticeable raspberry bush.

Behind her porch was a single stone path that ambled straight through corridors of lavender, chamomile and an assortment of mint. It met a small koi pond that had blooming lilies floating on its surface.

The dress she had on was silk, very fluid and perfectly white like fresh snow, or perhaps a swan’s wing. The skirt was full length and golden ribbons served as a belt and trim to the neckline and hem. Her mahogany hair had been curled and hung in long loopy tendrils past her shoulders to her mid back. She looked in a word stunning, and yet …

She invited the gentleman in and showed him her cottage. It was hand built of stones and bricks, with wooden rafters from which there were thousands of scented leaves and sprigs drying. There were large glass windows which let in the moonlight and stood open to let in a gentle breeze tickling the Scottish Lace Curtains. Her bookcases were filled with knowledge, adventure and mystery. A river rock fireplace took up a wall of the kitchen, a large stone basin stood next to it.

The lady had counters of polished blonde oak, and cabinets full of dishes, some brightly colored, some of simple clay, all of her hand. She smiled at him and produced an old copper pot, which was filled half full and set over the stove. She turned on the burner as she rolled fresh Moroccan mint and buds from the lavender and set them afloat in the water. After it had boiled, she strained the moss colored liquid into two simple clay mugs ….

2.

“Where is this place?”

“You’re only dreaming”

This was a short story done for my fiction class a few  months ago. My instructor made the comment to class no one should ever end a story with "and I woke up," or something like that. Of course I had to try ...

Day 10: Living History Day Collier State Park

Today, the last day before I go back to school, Melissa took me to Living History Day at Collier Park. Outside of Crater Lake National Park, this is probably the most 'famous' place in this area. This is a big event with people dressing in period costumes to celebrate to logging past. Below is a photo of Spring Creek which runs through the park before slamming into the Williamson River.

Below is a 1912 steam engine that was used to haul logs. "It's even older than you Dad!" Thanks Hannah ....

Hannah getting cozy with a beaver. This is Oregon after all!

One more shot of Spring Creek. It was a fun day. Now to begin thinking about school ...

The Delight

I little something I wrote for Fiction class a couple weeks back.

The Delight

1.

The lady’s house sat alone, down a dirt road in the middle of a rolling field. Her lawn consisted of dazzling yellow dandelions that were blooming in full. In her garden were fruit trees and climbing Romano beans, every kind of tomato, numerous vegetables ripening in the warm summer sun. Off to the side of an octagon cedar gazebo was a particularly noticeable raspberry bush.

Behind her porch was a single stone path that ambled straight through corridors of lavender, chamomile and an assortment of mint. It met a small koi pond that had blooming lilies floating on its surface.

The dress she had on was silk, very fluid and perfectly white like fresh snow, or perhaps a swan’s wing. The skirt was full length and golden ribbons served as a belt and trim to the neckline and hem. Her mahogany hair had been curled and hung in long loopy tendrils past her shoulders to her mid back. She looked in a word stunning, and yet …

She invited the gentleman in and showed him her cottage. It was hand built of stones and bricks, with wooden rafters from which there were thousands of scented leaves and sprigs drying. There were large glass windows which let in the moonlight and stood open to let in a gentle breeze tickling the Scottish Lace Curtains. Her bookcases were filled with knowledge, adventure and mystery. A river rock fireplace took up a wall of the kitchen, a large stone basin stood next to it.

The lady had counters of polished blonde oak, and cabinets full of dishes, some brightly colored, some of simple clay, all of her hand. She smiled at him and produced an old copper pot, which was filled half full and set over the stove. She turned on the burner as she rolled fresh Moroccan mint and buds from the lavender and set them afloat in the water. After it had boiled, she strained the moss colored liquid into two simple clay mugs, and lit a candle ….

2.

“Where is this place?”

“You’re only dreaming”

Makin' Plans

This quote confirms what I’ve been thing nowadays. I’m now in Spring Break and halfway to my graphic arts degree. It is true … Aim high … It gets exciting!

Make no little plans; they have no magic to stir men’s blood and probably themselves will not be realized. Make big plans; aim high in hope and work, remembering that a noble, logical diagram once recorded will not die, but long after we are gone be a living thing, asserting itself with ever-growing insistence.

– Daniel Hudson Burnham

The school that I'm now attending have as their nich name the "Badgers" and the motto of, "Its a great day to be a badger!" Something about that cracks me up, although its perhaps a tad distirning ... Be that as it may ... This is SO, um......mindlessly disturbing and annoying......but it's REALLY COOL!! Oh just watch.

Click here: Flash / Banana Phone (Badgerphone)

http://www.albinoblacksheep.com/flash/badgerphone.php

The "old" badger thing is here ... and it lasts 60 minutes, or so I'm told! I've only made it 5 minutes before meltdown ....

Oh well .... back to homework ....