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11 MayTemporary

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Nate watched the flames spark and crackle in the campfire. He threw a few more twigs on it to keep it up while he dug out dinner from his backpack.

He wished he could shower, but he hadn’t passed a homeless shelter for the past three towns.

Pulling out a can of baked beans from his backpack, Nate held them over the fire to warm them up.

Branches snapped nearby causing Nate to hurriedly hide the beans in his backpack. He knew that people disliked homeless people.

“Hello?”asked a voice.

“Who’s there?” asked Nate, trying to appear casual.

“Just me,” a young boy slipped through the bushes besides Nate.

“What do you want?” asked Nate, prepared to leave.

“Well, you’re the one in my backyard.”

“Sorry,” said Nate, “I’ll leave.” He knew it was better to avoid conflict then have this punk get him in trouble.

“Nah,” said the boy, “it’s cool. You can stay. I just saw your fire and wandered who it was…You a hobo?”

“I’m homeless, if that’s what you mean.”

“Are you on drugs?” asked the kid, “That’s usually why people are homeless. What’s your name?”

“Nate,” he replied, surprised with how odd it felt to be asked that question.

“Why are you homeless?”

“I didn’t want to stay at my home.”

“I’m twelve, how old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

The boy’s eyes grew wide, “You’re so old.”

Nate chuckled, “It feels that way sometimes.”

“Bobby?” came a loud worried voice from close by, “Bobby, where are you?”

“Ugh,” said the boy, “It’s my mom.”

“You’d better go see her.”

“Can’t I stay with you?”

Bobby’s mom burst through the bushes and gave one horrified look at Nate, “Get out of here, tramp!” she yelled.

Nate immediately grabbed his backpack and left without putting up a fight.

Category(s): 56 stories, Writing
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10 MayNumb

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“Why do you stay up late each night?” Molly asked her older brother Riley, “Do you never sleep?”

Riley laughed and picked up his younger sister so she could better see the night sky from their backyard.

“The night is prettier than the day.”

“But the day has the sun.”

“But you can’t look at the sun,” explained Riley. “You can look at the moon.”

“The moon is grey,” said Molly, sucking her thumb as she grew sleepy, “Grey isn’t pretty.”

“I like it,” said Riley quietly, starting to carry his sister back inside.

“When are you going to go sleep?” asked Molly, yawning.

“When I get tired.”

“When’s that?”

“I don’t know…I don’t sleep a lot.”

“Well, I’m going to stay up just as late as you.”

“We’ll see about that,” said Riley, opening the door to her bedroom.

“You’re like Batman!” said Molly, drifting off to sleep as Riley put the covers over here.

“I wish,” said Riley softly.

He closed the door to his room and was greeted by his mom, “How are you, honey?” she asked.
“Not tired yet.”

“The doctor said you really need to sleep…Insomnia can really hurt your body.”

“He also said that lying in bed wasn’t going to help at this point, just like the meds won’t help.”

“I’m sorry, honey,” said his mom, “I wish I could help.”

“I’m fine. I like the night.”

“What do you do all the time that you stay up?” asked his mother, yawning.

“I think. The night is quieter than the day and I get more done.”
“Don’t you feel tired.”

“I don’t feel tired anymore, I just feel numb. It’s a dream, everything is a dream.”

His mother smiled, “I’m off to bed…Try to sleep,” she added.

“Sure,” he replied, “Everything is a dream.”

Category(s): 56 stories, Writing
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09 MayAppearances

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It seemed apparent to everyone who knew him that Raphael was not born, he simply always was.

People change and grow. They regret and reform. They fall back and step forward. Raphael was simply Raphael.

I never saw him regret anything he did. Actually, I never saw him do anything he should have regretted.

His perfection was horribly frustrating.

“We’re just human,” my friends would remind me when I got reprimanded at work. “Everyone messes up,” my boyfriend would reassure when I burned dinner again. “If I had to count all the mistakes I made, I would be sitting here awhile,” advised my mother when I complained of my faults.

I wondered what Raphael told people when they complained to him.
The man was an enigma. I’m not even sure what the definition of that word is but I bet you that Raphael knows.

He was flawless, from his perfectly spaced, white teeth to his addicting and yet refined laugh.

I met him at a work party. He had just joined the company but had somehow landed a top position in advertising.

“So what did you major in?” I asked, “Communications?”

“Heck no,” he said, too polite to actually swear, “I majored in scuba diving.”

Only Raphael could pull off something like that.

Everyone I had ever known in my life had been riddled with more holes and faults than Swiss cheese that had been left out for the mice but Raphael challenged every one of my facts about human nature.

How could he be the way he was? Was it all a giant charade and did he go home to his giant mansion and get drunk every night? Did he murder someone to get the position he did? Was he really perfect or just the world’s most underappreciated actor?

Category(s): 56 stories, Writing
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08 MayCircles

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Story #38 out of 56…as stated, two stories were posted today.

The three Kio swam slowly in circles as Kenwo watched them.

“What are you thinking, son?” asked his father from the porch, not looking up from his paper.

“I’m wondering why the fish always swim in circles,” explained Kenwo, looking up from the garden at his father.

“I used to wonder the same thing when I was your age. It took me many years to learn the answer.”

“What is the answer, father?” asked Kenwo, coming out of the garden to listen to his father.

“I will tell you but I know you will not understand. Would you rather learn the answer on your own or have me tell you now?”

“A wise man once said, listen to the instruction of the wise when you can,” replied Kenwo, “I will hear your words now and perhaps it will save me time later.”

“A good response, son,” replied his father, “the answer is simple. The Kio swim in circles because they understand what many humans do not.”

“What is that?”

“That life is a cycle, not a line. They swim in circles and we swim in circles.”

“You are right, father,” said Kenwo gravely, “I do not understand you.”

His father laughed, “One day, when you have children of your own, you will remember what I told you today and smile.”

“That will be many years from now.”

“And yet years get shorter every passing day.”

“That is impossible,” said Kenwo.

“And yet,” replied his father, “someday you will agree with me.”

“I think I will watch the Kio more,” replied Kenwo as he returned to the garden. “Perhaps they will help me understand.”

“And the blind shall lead the blind,” replied his father, smiling at the confused expression on his sons face, “But soon the blind will see, my son.”

Category(s): 56 stories, Writing
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08 MayMind Games

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my apologies for technically missing yesterday…I left my house as 7 in the morning and didn’t get home till 1:30 this morning. Not my intention but clearly, there was no way to post. But that means you get two stories today…

“Just two more times, Jacob,” encouraged the physical therapist. “Reach as high as you can!”

Jacob gritted his teeth and pulled his arms up. His newly healed muscles stretched and pulled painfully like a guitar string being pulled out of tune. The sharp jabs in his arms were like discordant noise of a sharp note played on the guitar.

“That’s okay, Jacob,” said the therapist, “You can stop for today.”

Jacob lowered his arms. All his muscles shook and he could no longer stand. He sunk down to the floor.

“Let me get you a chair,” said the therapist.

Jacob accepted it with slight reluctance, “Thanks,” he said.

“You’re sure you okay?” asked the therapist, “We could slow down. This is a lot of work to do so soon after the accident.”

“I’m good,” Jacob insisted, “I need to get back in shape.”

“There’s a difference between getting in shape and pushing yourself way too hard.”

Jacob smiled slightly, his amber eyes crinkling, “I’ve always pushed myself too hard. That’s the only way you succeed in life.”

“I’m trained to make sure people pace themselves.”

“And as a therapist, how many people that you treat get all of their mobility back after an accident.”

“It depends on the severity of the accident…very few people ever get full mobility back.”

“That’s because you set them up for failure.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You tell them what you told me – ‘pace yourself, you were in a horrible accident so don’t expect everything to get right again soon.’ If you tell people those things, they’ll never even try. I’ve been in three accidents in my life…that’s what you get when you do trick bikes for a living, but each time I’ve gotten back all my mobility,” Jacob paused and smiled, “It’s all in the mind.”

Category(s): 56 stories, Writing
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06 MayDecisions

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“I tie both of my shoes differently so they both feel special,” explained Davey, working hard to pronounce the words right. “Now Binkey and Bartholomew don’t get jealous.”

“You name your shoes?” asked Jack, his older brother, “What a dork.”

“Well, now my shoes are happy…yours aren’t,” said Davey.

“You are such a weirdo,” said Jack.

“Stop picking on your little brother Jack, and come eat some pancakes!” yelled their mom from the kitchen.

“He’s so…creepy,” said Jack as he walked to his mom.

“He’s four,” said his mom, “Give him a break.”

“He always does something weird. Every day. None of my friends like him,” elaborated Jack as he sat down at the table.

“Well then your friends need to get some perspective,” said his mom, watching as Davey’s curly blonde head joined Jack’s dark hair at the kitchen table.

“Why did we a-d-o-p-t anyway?” asked Jack, spelling out the key word.

“Dad and I asked you. You thought it was a good idea,” said his mom, flipping more pancakes viciously.

“Yeah, that was before I met him!”

“He’s four,” said his mom slowly, “What did you expect him to be like?”

“I don’t know. Different,” said Jack, stabbing his pancakes.

“You’ve known him for three days, chill,” said his mom.

“That’s three days too long,” muttered Jack.

“Go get ready for school,” said his mom, starting to lose control.

“I have my backpack right here…I’m ready to go.”

“Go. Now,” said his mom.

“Delicious breakfast, mom,” said Jack, “See you at 3:30.”

Jack left the kitchen and walked out the front door.

The mother sighed as she turned off the stove.

“What is it, Mommy?” asked Davey, turning his head slightly as he struggled to understand the situation.

“Nothing, Davey,” she tousled his hair, “beginnings are always rough.”

Category(s): 56 stories, Writing
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05 MayRepeat

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Life was long and hard and Abby was sick of living.

There was no way to sugar coat the words, to make the feelings any better.

Life was a carousel and Abby had been on it when her fair ticket had expired long ago.

She had cheated death too many times. She had outlived five of her children and one of her grandchildren and she was sick of decaying. She was tired of watching death crawl around her house and take others but never come to collect her.

She was sick of the way she smelled when she woke up. Of the way she could barely lift a coffee mug in the morning and how her teeth were so old and rotten that she could only eat soup for dinner.

It was as if parts of her body simply picked up and left her, worn out after years of faithful service. Her eyesight was horrible, her hair thinning so rapidly she felt like a chemo patient and yet, her health was almost perfect.

She wondered how much longer it would take before her organs gave out, before she could stop this charade of being happy with still being on this earth. She had been baking cookies for the grandchildren for the past twenty years and the chocolate chips were going moldy.

Her purpose was useless; her grandchildren were all adults now. Her husband had died years ago and she had lived in their old, broken down home alone too long. She was lonely. In a way that the crackly voices on the radio couldn’t fix.

She needed to return her voucher on life but someone up there wasn’t listening. Were these feelings wrong? You were supposed to appreciate every moment you got in life but life just wasn’t worth it.

Category(s): 56 stories, Writing
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04 MayPractice

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“Do you even know how to shoot that thing?” my brother asked as I tested out my bow string.

“I’m an expert,” I explained.

“Yeah…at stealing! What do you think dad’s going to say when he finds out?”

“Dad doesn’t need to know,” I reminded him. “Besides, if I don’t practice, I’m not going to get good…and Old Will said I was a natural.”

“He looked at your hand and said that you might turn out to be a decent shot.”

“Same thing,” I insisted, grunting slightly as I tried to put the string onto the bow.

I swore with the effort it took and my brother’s eyes bulged, “Dad said if you ever said that word again he would drown you in the river.”

“And I said that dad doesn’t need to know about this…any of this….There!”I finally slipped the string into place.
“Pass me an arrow.”

“You’re going to shoot that!”

“Why would I string the bow if I wasn’t going to shoot it?”

“What if you hit something?”

“That’s the point, idiot,” I groaned.

“I mean something you shouldn’t hit.”

I grabbed the arrow from my brother and put it back against the string. I rested the front of the arrow against the hand holding the bow and pulled back with my other hand. Raising up the bow, I held it in front of me and pulled the arrow back against my arm as I sighted down at a tree in the forest.

I released the arrow and simultaneously yelped in pain. The bow string had bounced when released and hit the inside of my arm. I could already feel the large, painful welt growing.

“Wow, you’re a natural,” said my brother, “that arrow really soared…until it hit the ground right there by your foot.”

“Shut up.”

Category(s): 56 stories, Writing
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03 MayPlans

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It was a warm afternoon when the young family came to the beach. Waking up early to drive several hours to the beach, they arrived at the dunes in the morning and spent hours diving in and out of the waves, hunting unsuccessfully for shells and resting in the shade. The couple had married seven years ago and had two young boys, Tennyson and Alfred.

It was almost noon when Tennyson excitedly announced that he was going to build the best sandcastle ever. Alfred, who was slightly younger and in total awe of his older brother, instantly agreed to the plan. With giggles and laughter, the two boys ran around the beach collecting stones, sticks and seaweed to decorate their future creation. After amassing a pile of miscellaneous beach items, they set to work on creating their masterpiece.

They made their dad lie, reluctantly, down to serve as a giant measure stick as they designed a massive castle. Then they started digging deep into the sand around their castle to create a moat. Carefully, they used all the sand they took out to add to their tower until a giant mound of sand was in the middle of a pit as tall as Alfred.

Still excited about their creation, the two boys carefully patted and pounded the sand to make it firm and hard before they created their design.

It was mid afternoon when their mother called to them to finish up. They needed to get home.

“But we’re not done!” explained Tennyson, desperately. He knew that his mother’s tone meant there would be no arguments but he wanted to stay.

“Now,” said his mother, and obediently, the two boys got up and left their giant sandcastle by the beach waiting for the tide to come and sweep it away.

Category(s): 56 stories, Writing
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02 MayInevitable

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I had more fun writing this story (as creepy as that sounds) that almost any other one…there was a lot of word play and double meanings to do…I just wish I had more words to use so I could elaborate on the plot more.

The sickly sweet smell of sickness penetrated every area of the house. The odor of death crept in and hid under the curtains. It slide under the locked doors of the house and discovered the secrets within but it didn’t breathe a word about them.

The Armstrong family line was disappearing faster than the bones they left on the floor for the dogs, and in much the same way. Savage attacks splintered the family into fractions, exposing the tender marrow and threatening to suck them dry. Only the grinding teeth that hurt the family were actually each other, viciously threatening each other for the family fortune as they tried every method to get rid of each other.

Amelia, the long established patriarch of the family, had died two years ago quite suddenly. Edward, her youngest son, had been accused of poisoning her but nothing could be proved. Since then, the four children and their separate families had tried everything to take control.

The will had left Amelia’s house and possessions to her eldest son, Albert, who died only five months after inheriting. The unwitting man had not bothered to write a will and so now the siblings scrambled to gain control of the family mansion and money.

No one trusted each other with food after four of the children mysteriously fell ill and died and each family lived in the mansion, hoarding their own stashes of food from each other.

Each person grew more haggard and desperate by the day. Fear and paranoia obvious in their eyes and faces until the neighbors refused to make eye contact and the family’s good name melted away like a spring frost. The Armstrongs existed for the moment, but just barely. Death, once grown, cannot be eradicated or stopped. Their fate was already written.

Category(s): 56 stories, Writing
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