The Death scene...

Candles used to mean so much more as a child. They weren’t needed for warmth, but rather, wishes. Some wishes were juvenile, while some wishes were just naïve. Promising futures, friends forever, love. Who would have thought my wishes would have been better spent on castles, ponies, even money and men? I’ve wasted too many years and too many wishes just to see them all slip away.

On my ninth birthday, I had nine wishes. A wish for every year, my mother would say. I had a friend who never made it to nine wishes, and my mother didn’t live long enough to hear my tenth. When you’re young occurrences such as unexpected deaths don’t make much sense, and as you get older, they only become more complicated. An innocent death, one of a child, a single mother, or one of someone never really given the chance to live at all, is the most tragic. Not only is such a death unnecessary, it is always undeserved. Someone on the brink of living herself or someone who works so others may live better deserves to live for as long as the beats of her heart will let her. Or possibly him, I’m not sure who it is yet. 



These thoughts of failed wishes, of undeserved death, and of the inevitability of it all bring me here, rounding some corner on Rouse Boulevard. The slight rain does not keep me from taking the long route through the town to get to the bus station. This will be my one last journey through it. Even merely walking down the street has become much more difficult, though. Not only is the onset of old age taking its toll on my joints, the shooting pain up and down my left arm has returned. It showed up just a few days after I learned of the death to come. Some days it’s just a dull pain, a relieving distraction. Other days it’s an overwhelming reminder of an impending tragic end. But whose?

I certainly hope it’s not Ronald. I’ve come to enjoy his visits and even look forward to them most days. I left what little I could spare for him in a jar next to a freshly baked loaf of bread. The rest of my money I’ll use for my ticket. Wherever the next one out will take me. I can’t imagine being here long enough to find out whose death it is I saw. Just knowing of the unforgiving fate awaiting someone unsuspecting is a burden even the heaviest heart cannot hold. I’ve spent my life uncovering secrets I wish not to have uncovered, finding answers which would have been better off unknown, and unlocking mysteries which do more harm than good. All this I have received unasked for and not until now has it troubled me so much. An innocent death. Undeserved. Unnecessary. Unasked for.


 Coming up to the park, the light shower suddenly turns into a heavy downpour, making it hard to see more than a couple feet in front of me. The single shooting pain seems to have multiplied into several shooting bullets, racing throughout each and every limb of my body. I suppose it wouldn’t be so bad to take a small break. It’s gotten more difficult to breathe, too. It feels as if a chest as heavy as the one I left in my shop has been placed on top of my lungs. Perhaps if I could just lie down a moment, I could regain my strength and still make it to the station by morning.

The slide offers to me its protection from the rain. The mulch underneath it seems to be in the exact mold that it was when I slept here as a child. And even though I’ve grown significantly since I was nine, I still fit perfectly. I might as well not have grown at all.

Early last week a vision had shown me yet another innocent death. Even after all those I’ve lived through it dared to show me one more. Another life cut short just before it had the chance to improve. No clues as to who it will be. No chance that I can save him. Or her. Most likely someone young, but perhaps they’re older. Maybe someone new to this town, or maybe someone working hard to get out. 



My breathing is slowing but becoming easier to control. The shooting pain has become a numbing sensation, making it nearly impossible to move. All I can do is look up at the slide. No longer covered in rust, but new, bright red paint. The talk of the town. No more gum, only the shine that comes with new steel. It’s just as it was years and years ago. Safe. Nine years old. A great time to be alive. It was never my job to change the future, only predict it. Nine wishes, nine dreams, nine friends forever, nine promises kept and nine different ways to be happy. I couldn’t stop it then. I cannot stop it now. If only a person could be nine forever.

Years and years of knowing peoples’ fates. Only those first nine years matter. Nine more breaths. Nine final wishes: Nine open doors for needy visitors. Eight better futures. Seven reassurances. Six smiles from strangers. Five new beginnings. Four forgotten prayers. Three places to call home. Two kept promises. And One last candle finally blown out.

Be prepared...

You should have this next-to-last blog post completed by Monday night, the 11th. You should have five to six stellar blogs by then. (If you don't, the gods will punish you. ) Although everyone has not had the privilege of being "drawn by the hands of fate," we must move on the the inevitable death scene. Therefore, on Tuesday, we will draw the card of the poor slob who will die. That person will have the opportunity to write his/her death scene and others will write his/her final blog and incorporate the death of said character. Of course, it will be raining that day.

Fanny Mae Lewis

"Fanny? Fanny Mae!!! Open up this damn door right now!" The violent knocking persisted. "I'm not kidding woman, you know who this is. OPEN UP!!"
Fanny Mae curled up in a corner in her cold, dark kitchen. The knocking and yelling continued, but she remained still and silent.
The knocking eventually weakened and then there was silence for a minute. She started to get up to check the doorway. Maybe he finally got tired and left, she thought. But she was startled by a quiet plea from the other side of the door. "Baby, just let me in, I was real worried when you wasn't there one morning, I just want to talk. C'mon baby."
It sound like he's calmed down...maybe it won't hurt to talk this out. She opened the door slowly, and looked up into the eyes she had always found so irresistible. Wow...she thought. He's a lot taller than I remember.
"Hey," he said.
"Bert."
"Sorry about earlier... I just want to talk about this like grown ups now."
"Ok."
"Why'd ya leave baby? You know I love you, I came all this way to find you. Now come back with me."
"You know why I left," her eyes moved down to her bruised arms, "I'm not coming back."
"Look, I'm sorry baby, I was just drunk. It won't never happen again, I'm gonna try to quit drinking. I don't wanna hurt you no more, all I want is for you to come back to me."
Fanny Mae momentarily got lost in the sea of his beautiful blue eyes, but snapped back. "No! I can't, I don't wanna. I- I like it here," she lied. "Besides, I have a new job at this place called The Jaguar."
"You can't possibly like it here! This place is a dump, you're coming back with me!" Fanny Mae could sense that rage coming, the rage she had experienced several times before. She backed slowly into the counter. He approached her angrily,
"Get in the fuckin' car, woman! Don't think I'm playin', you're my wife and you best do what I say!" Fanny Mae backed further into the counter with her hand behind her back, positioned on a kitchen knife. Bert lunged at her, she whipped out the knife and stabbed him right in the shoulder. He fell to the ground in pain and she ran past him into the hallway. Outside of the room, she ran into a man in a track suit.
"Are you alright lady? I was passing by and I heard screaming and-" He looked into the apartment and saw Bert lying on the floor passed out and bleeding. "Oh, oh ok. Um, I'll call the police." Fanny Mae leaned against the wall and slid down, listening to the man talk to the police.
"Yes, Hi. My name is Jeremiah Taylor, I'm in the Jupiter Apartments and there's been a man stabbed...Yes, there is a woman here. She hasn't left so I assume it was a case of self defense...Yes...No...I'm not sure....Apartment 556C...Yes, ok thank you." He hung up the phone and turned to Fanny Mae, "Are you alright? I assume that you knew this guy, yeah? Well the police and an ambulance are on their way. Do you need something?" Fanny Mae didn't say a word, she just buried her head in her knees, sobbing as a crowd began to form outside of apartment 556C.

Robert Covington-Bradworth

It occurred to Bob, as he laid on his bed watching geometric shapes dance around his ceiling, that his life severely lacked substantial social contact. His life was empty, pathetic and alone. But how could he quantify the measure of his life? He had certainly worked hard for the last ten years; he felt he should take some satisfaction knowing that he had made a positive impact on society, and yet he was not satisfied; he felt he still had some impression to make. A million profound images flew through his subconscious as he watched squares twirl in circles around rapidly spinning triangles. Maybe he should paint a picture. At this point, it seemed like an exceptionally good idea. But first, a snack. Brain food. He fished out from his closet an art set which had inexplicably survived from his childhood. A sign. The next moment, Bob was hunched over a canvas with a granola bar slathered in nutella in one hand and a crayon in the other. He feverishly began to draw sweeping strokes, tears pouring down his face as he scrawled across the canvas as if he were possessed. A child was holding a dead rat from its tail in one fist and a book in the other. Blood was dripping down his chin as lightning flashed behind him. In his haste, Bob realized that the images which filled his head had become mixed up in this, their physical manifestation, and yet upon further consideration he could not remember the significance of any of the images on their own. He was losing touch, with his own thoughts and his surroundings.

Bob was suddenly inspired to go onto his computer, to check the youtube video which reminded him how to "roll the perfect joint." The contents of the large bag he had recently purchased were somewhat different from that of the video, as it appeared to be covered in a fine white dust, and yet it worked well enough. Tearing another thin page from his bible Bob rolled another joint and in a minute the thoughts had returned to his head as though a floodgate had been opened. Intangible, ungraspable thoughts, and yet he somehow knew that they were significant. If only he could articulate them somehow.... Bob looked over at the painting he had created. It wasn't very good, but he knew that art was very subjective, and thought that perhaps there could be an audience for his work, some genius critic who could pick apart the different pieces of the picture and discover the thoughts Bob could only consider floating through his brain. He picked up the picture and walked out his door, grabbing a pack of fruit gushers on the way. A song was playing in his head, one which was as alien and yet familiar as any he had ever heard. Even though it was cloudy outside, Bob felt as though the sun were shining on his face. He approached a man walking down the street with an army cap on.

"Excuse me, would you like to buy this painting?" Bob asked him. The man just scowled and continued walking. Bob sensed that the man was struggling, fighting some unfathomable cruelty, bathed in the agony of his own sorrow and not likely to consider the finer points of an artistic vision spontaneously presented to him on the side of the road. Bob continued walking until he came to a market selling fish. He presented his painting to the fish vendor, and almost immediately regretted it. It was the man he had met in the liquor store, the man who had been shot just the other day. The man scowled at him, and Bob could even feel the energy of the man's hatred exuding from him like heat from a fire.

"Fuck off." The man snarled. But Bob could not divert his gaze from the twisting features of this man, the ageless power which seemed to be channeling through his expression directly into Bob's chest. It seemed to Bob that these were the only two men left in the universe, standing on a precarious platform spinning wildly through space. Bob vomited onto a selection of raw fish, and the last thing he saw as he fell to the ground was a pair of bleeding eyes staring down at him before his world went dark.

Miles Walker (this blog is an early one... it's missing a few...)

Miles looked up at the small clock next to the ancient cash register. With a long slow sigh, like the air being let out of balloon, he lowered his balding head into his hands. Thirty more long minutes before he could go and relax in his armchair before a warm fire brandishing a large scotch and a small plate of shortbread. Miles raised his head looking up and the moldy ceiling. His eyes wandered to the cracked windows above the line of old refrigerators and to the warped paint chipped floor boards. For the last eleven years Miles had meant to have them fixed but figured the cost would not be worth the return.
The bell above the door tinkled as two teenage kids shuffled into the food mart stomping snow and ice from their boots on the weathered door mat and raising their hands in a casual salute to Miles. Miles returned their daily greeting with his hand in lazy acknowledgment.
"The usual?" he smirked, as the two teenagers ambled up to the register clutching two blue slushies and two bags of potato chips.
The kids smiled in an embarrassed sort of way. No one really understood Miles Walker and his attempts at humor. The lined aged face that peered down over the cash register was unreadable. Miles often seemed to absorbed in his painful past rather than in opportunity of the future.
After he handed the taller teenager the change the two kids hurried out onto the snowy streets, the grimy shop door closing with a tinkle of the aged bell and a whoosh of cold winter wind and snow. The warmth and elation that had filled Miles at the memories of his own childhood at the sight of the two young friends, left him as quickly as the wind outside rushing through the snow packed streets. He stared at their footprints left in the snow just outside his shop window. Miles imagined himself as a footprint left in the snow. An imprint of a person that will soon be wiped away, never to be remembered.

William Bunker

Uncle Harry's fists pounding on the door woke William up from an uneasy sleep. Glancing over at the dresser, the clock read 6:15. Too early for William to even consider waking up. However, he knew that school started at 8:10 sharp and in order to make it on time, he'd have to wake up no later than 6:15. Pushing the covers off of his body, the cold air instantly clashed against his warm skin. The uncomfortable temperature change gave William incentive to run as fast as possible to the shower.

Letting the hot water run over his weary eyes relaxed all of William's anxiety about starting at a new school today. All night the same question ran through his mind, Would the kids be different here than they were at home? Nevertheless, the water began to get cold again so William quickly finished his shower and got dressed.

Opening his bedroom door, his sister stood in front of him holding a bagel in one hand and bus fare in the other.
"Do you remember the name of your school?" she asked.
"Oakdale Elemetary, at the corner of Appleton St. and Bronze Avenue," he replied subjectively.

Handing William the bagel and bus fare, the two made their way out the door and onto the elevator that took them to the street. Mary pulled out the morning paper out of her oversized purse. William always felt that she carried too many things in there. On the front page read in bold letters, "FAMOUS RAPPER ARRESTED IN FRONT OF JAGUAR, THE PRESS NOW WONDERS ABOUT HIS CAREER AHEAD."
"Hey Mary, who got shot last night?" William asked puzzled.
"Some big rapper, I'm not sure of his name," Mary stated.
"Why was he arrested?" William asked.
"You should keep your mind on school William, don't worry so much about this rapper," Mary insisted.

Taking a left out of the apartment building, William and Mary approached the bus stop, but before they had time to rest, the bus pulled up to the street curb.

"Okay, here is your bus fare and lunch money, use it wisely because I don't paid until the end of the month, I'll be right here after school to take you home you here? So no diddy daddling, hurry home from school. And if you get lost, you ask that nice bus driver to take you where you need to go. I love you, be careful." Mary breathed hard and kissed William on the cheek and continued to walk to the diner.

Walking onto the bus, William inserted his fare and found a seat towards the front, close to the driver. William sat next to a man who looked fairly solemn. However, William saw pain in his face. Glancing down at the man's leg, William saw a large white bandage over his calf. Apparently the man noticed that William was staring so he replied to William, "I was shot last night by some lunatic in a SUV, can you believe that?"

"Oh...I wasn't...I mean...that's actually quite," William stuttered
"Save it kid, I know you don't know what to think, say, where are you headed off to this morning so early?" the man replied.
"School, I'm starting school today." William responded.
"Well, good luck, I'd chat more, but this is my stop, nice talking with you kid."

The man got up from the seat and walked out of the bus with a bit of a stumble but certainty of where he was going. The rest of the bus ride to school William thought about the man's encounter with the bullet wound, and that made him think of his parents. If only the car accident hadn't happened. If only the other driver had his parent's best interest, if only, William's life would be so much different.

Arriving at school, William pushed open the doors to the place he'd been avoiding until now.

Ronald Batzcavich

Cold Sore

I have licked my lips so many times that they are slowly abrading. My once blood-luscious lips have been transformed into a coarse pair of kissers, accompanied by a conspicuous cold sore that lingers on the lop left corner of my mouth. Cold sores or Herpes simplex are most commonly considered remediable, this is true. However, if this common viral infection is not remedied or treated with standard hygiene, it becomes highly invasive and converts its symptoms to those identical to herpetic whitlow, a sickening disease where the virus spreads inter-histogically until it takes up an immense portion of ones epithelial tissue; creating distasteful bumps to sprout up allover. If I want to befriend, kill, and eat Felix, I can't have these despicable sores all over my body. This is why I must go into the city today, to get an antidote for this horrid infection.

Most people are manipulated by advertisements to buy defunct consumer products that claim to alleviate cold sore symptoms quickly. These advertisement claims are only partly true. They do alleviate cold sore symptoms, but not quickly. The most efficient cure for herpes is eicosapentaenoic acid, a common acid found in pretty much any non-tetrapod chordate. This acid is found in fish oils and significantly reduces superficial tissue inflammation. Fish scrap is free at pretty much any fish market whereas typical cold sore remedies are priced anywhere from $6-$30. For parsimonious and intelligent individuals like myself the free choice is far superior. So I have decided to abandon my home temporarily to visit the local market. The one problem with getting fish scrap in this city is that you have to interact with Donald James, the most miserable and bitchy fish sales man ever to touch foot on this God-forsaken earth. But even he is not as annoying as these bloody sirens which have been going off all day, creating a deafening cacophony even I can't ignore. Well off to the market I go.

Jeremiah Taylor

"Hey, wake up."
"Wake up, we are closed yaknow."
I sit bolt upright in my chair and glance around wildly.
"What? Huh? Where am I?" I look up and a once pretty young woman is standing over me.
"Right, right, the Pub." I mutter glancing at my watch, 3:30. "Sorry, I'm really sorry."
I look back up at her and could see she looked a little run down. We suffered from the same thing. This city ran you into the dirt, broke all hope and brightness in your life and left you to wallow in its streets, its gutters.
"I really am sorry," I repeat again, "I've gone and made you stay up late, and after you let me take Kara in here and everything, I really appreciate it." I look down at Kara, dead asleep on my lap, I dread waking her.
The waiter smiled, "Stop apologizing, I was up talking to a friend of mine." She studied me closely. "Do you have a place to stay? If you don't mind my asking that is."
"Kind of," I say, brushing the hair out of Kara's eyes. "Actually, yeah, I think we can go stay with a friend."
"Is there anything else I can do for you two then? Want me to watch her while you call your friend?"
"Yeah, that would be really great, thanks." I slid my legs out from under Kara's head and she sighed in her sleep. "You're really being an angel you know." I said to her as I stood up.
"Its no problem really." She replied looking down at Kara's sleeping form, "I'm happy to help, I don't get out of the pub much so I guess I don't see as much of children as I'd like to..."
She trailed off an I could see she was blushing.
"Kara's a real sweetheart."
I start away and then turn back.
"You know what? I don't know your name."
"It's Tara, and yours?"
"Jeremiah."
"Nice to meet you, Jeremiah."
"You to Tara, and thanks again."
She just smiled and sat down in the booth across from Kara.
The phone at Alex's rang an ungodly number of times before he picked it up.
"Alex?" I said, looking over at Tara.
"Uuh?"
"Is it alright if Me and Kara crash at your place for tonight?"
"Huh? Wait, what?" Alex said, more awake now, "Whats going on."
"I'll tell you when we get up there."
"Okay, yeah sure." He said, "You can come on up."
"Thanks, man. I'll spill once I get up there, I've got alot to tell you, man. I've got a whole lot to tell you."

Thomas Wesley

Im awake i look around; my apartmen; wearing all black?

the television is one the jesus roof man has been arrested and there is a fire downtown; damn arsonists;

i walk to the kitchen to get rootbeer and i stumble over a heavy bag; the money was so plentiful i pinched myself to see if i was dreaming; i went to the beer to get a refrigerator to think more about the money (where did it come from?)

Walt Komanski

Walt's second day continued.

Walt opened the door to the coffee shop, and braced himself expecting to be assaulted by that disgusting rap music they played these days and a bunch of stupid goddamn hippies waving pamphlets bitching about their stupid problems. He walked up to the counter and immediately took a step back, The young man, if you could call him that, had a green mohawk, enough metal in his face to look like a fucking robot and eye-shadow around his stupid fucking eyes. "Jesus H Christ" Walt muttered and looked back up at the worthless waste of air who was about to serve him probably the worst coffee of his life. Walt grabbed the cup from the kid's hand and walked over to a window seat and grabbed a paper as well. Walt looked at his cup of coffee with disgust, he raised it to his lips hesitantly and took the smallest sip. He smiled to himself, it was one of the better cups of coffee he had ever had. Walt worked his way though three more cups and finished the entire paper when he realized there was a man staring at him from across the bar. Walt slowly got up and got a good look at the guy as he put the paper back on the rack.

David Borisovich Sokolov-Town House #2

The man crumpled, choking and gasping. The knife's blade protruding out of his neck. The hiss of liquid under pressure swiftly drowned out the sounds of his struggles, his last breath a drawn out sigh as if it were a balloon with a slow leak. David stepped back, his face impassive, and the blood spray settled into a fine red mist atop the refuse of the alleyway.

Once the struggles had stopped, he reached into the man's jacket, snapping the chord that reached up to the thin patch that was almost indistinguishable from his fair skin. Reaching further, he drew out a small patch from an inner pocket. the black bat on the blue globe stared back at him. "GRU," he spat. "You'd think SPETSNAZ would be more subtle." Stooping, he donned the man's blackout gloves, he removed the broken wire, the recording equipment, the minuscule camera, the long knife, the Markov, anything that could implicate Russia. When his search was complete, he pulled the knife blade from the man's artery, the sickly gasp of air that accompanied it shot a spurt of blood onto the stolen gloves. David cursed in disgust. Wiping the blood from the blade with a handkerchief, he reattached the blade to it's hilt.

One last chore to do. With a disheartened sigh, David pulled out several of his own forged documents he had been planning to switch to at a later date, and slipped them into the bloodstained jacket. The man was now Nicholas Ivanovitch, store clerk, 32, nondescript, no family, just bought an apartment on the east-side. Nobody would miss him. A few store coupons and a half empty diet-coke later, and he was just another mugging gone bad. Pocketing the $200, David walked away. Russia, the city authorities, nobody would ever know Nicholas was even born. The KGB would see to that. At least they had standards. Sending a kid, what were they thinking in GRU?

Tara O'Connell

The lights slowly flickered back on to illuminate the empty pub. Upstairs, Tara fought the inertia of her old, sunken sofa. She would have to work after all. After taking a minute to regain herself, she went downstairs to flip the sign back over: OPEN. She called to Ever, who came grumbling down the stairs rubbing his eyes. With the usual, minimal, communication, he went back into the kitchen and began his new routine of cleaning and washing.

Felix was the first to come in that night. Snow dusted off of his many raggedy layers as he walked. He mumbled slightly incoherently and sat beside the heater. Tara acknowledged him kindly. She's familiar with this quietly needy man. She brought him a warm plate of left over cooking from last night and watched him eat hungrily while she went on getting the pub ready for the long night to come. She liked Felix's sporadic visits.

Tara was tired of her routine. She'd once been grateful for its stability, always knowing what to expect. But she had come to realize that she naturally couldn't fit into a routine; it was dull. Mind-numbingly, emotionally absently, dull. Even her hands weren't appreciating the same old wear. And she wasn't all that young, and routine's monotony was making her youth seem to seep away more quickly.

Setting additions #3

Donald gets shot in the calf. It's a random bullet from some passing car. Famous rapper gets arrested at the Jaguar. Road work in manhole in front of Jupiter Apts. Crazy man, who thinks he's Jesus, is ranting on top of the Bank, which is three stories tall. It's Tuesday, and the weekly food market is up and running. Food and other items are for sale. A shady character, who has escaped from the local Police lock-up, is loose in the neighborhood.

Ferdinand Fernadino - "Jaguars and Seances"

I numbly walk to the Jaguar, willing my body to handle the cold. I'm underdressed, and it's getting late. It is 12 pm when I arrive at the Jaguar. The building stands in opposition to the church, a darkened rectangle adorned with neon pink and blue lights. The place is hopping, as usual. Sunglasses-wearing bouncers mill about outside. A fight breaks out in the parking lot, where gleaming Maseratis and Lamborghinis are parked conspicuously. I walk in and immediately regret the decision. It's too loud in here. I'm not exactly squeamish, but there's something weird about ritualized ogling of women by large crowds of men. The women don't really want to be there, they're just doing their jobs. I toss a twenty dollar bill to one of the more starved-looking ones and exit out the same way I came in. The door is a portal, linking the cacaphonous heat of the club with the icy silence of the outside. A few people turn their heads as I exit, annoyed at the sudden rush of cold air invading their inebriated dream-worlds. "Sorry," I mutter under my breath, "but that's life."

I find myself in a surprisingly bitter mood as I walk the streets, hands shoved in my pockets. My ears burn uncomfortably, and I'm muttering. That's never a good sign. It's cold, dark, and quiet, save for the wind. Frustration. I look at my options – going back to the apartment, going to Mo' Liquor, going to the bar, or...a walk in the woods, maybe? Beside the church, there's a skimpy a patch of woods. I'd never gone in there before. I walk into the enveloping darkness. For a time, all is dark. And then, the darkness clears. I come to an opening in the woods, illuminated by moonlight. In the center of the opening is a well, and a hushed crowd is gathered around it. My first impulse is to turn and run, but I realize that I am invisible to the people, cloaked in the darkness of the forest. White light reflects from the identical frosty cloaks that each person wears. I can count eleven of them. I hear a voice.

"Someone died and was buried here...her name was...her name was..." Someone looks up with start and says, in a surprised tone:

"Abby."

The man clenches the air with his fist. "Abby! Yes! Her name was Abby! Her parents weren't fond of her, they...they hated her! They threw her in this well and drowned her! Everyone, we must bring Abbey back, together!"

It starts as a gentle moan, then gets louder. "Abby. Aaaa-by. Aaaaa-by. Aaaaaaa-by," like they were calling a dog. The man in the cloak, who seemed to be the leader, threw his palm into the air. The moaning stopped."

"Can you hear her!?" the man says, his eyes wide. "CAN YOU HEAR HER!?" He was kind of annoying, actually. A few members of the crowd give half-assed nods of agreement. I decide to jump-start this seance.

I clear my throat and muster up my best falsetto. "Iiiiiiii AMMMM ABBBBBYYY." The crowd looks around, confused. I can see the leader's train of thought rumble across his face. We wait, on edge, and then, he speaks:

"IT'S HER!" He exclaims, his eyes growing wider. "IT'S ABBY. We must listen."

I smirk and raise my voice again. "MYYYY PARENTS DROWNED ME WHEN I WAS 11 YEARS OLD..."

I think for a second.

"...AND I HAVE HAUNTED THESE WOODS EVER SINCE."

The leader cuts in – "Abby, which one of your parents drowned you?"

"IT WASSSSS MY FATHERRRRRRRRR." I reply.

"Abby," the leader starts again, his voice taking on a tone of utter seriousness, "what was your father's name?"

Uh-oh.

"MY FATHER'S NAME...MY FATHER'S NAME WAS....IT WASSSSSSS–" I say the first name that pops into my head – "LU GARIGAMI!"

"Lu Garigami!" the leader exclaims. "We must find this man, whoever he is, and bring him to justice! The spirits are not to be ignored!"

I laugh to myself, turn around and leave. "Well, that was fun..." As I make my way toward home, an image strikes me – the apartment register in the lobby. It's one of those old-fashioned ones that lists the name of the man or woman who owns the apartment. About halfway up, where it says "Lu Garigami-Apt. 121F."

"So that's where I got that from." I think to myself. "Hmph...Hope nothing bad happens."

Hot Tears --Loretta Lynn McMurphy

I'm taking Jojo to that abandoned lot today, the one over by Lu's garage. I promise myself I can get a hot milk at the coffee shop if I go out. I like the ones with almond syrup, but no whipped cream. I hate whipped cream. Anyway, the flipping lot is a let down. This Lu guy must toss all of his reject parts there, and after I decide I don't want to have to take Jojo to get a tetanus shot, we leave.

As soon as we turn onto Pulaski Jojo pulls on his leash. My drink sloshes onto the flannel jacket I've worn the last four days. I think the laundromat should give me a discount for using all of my hot water, but so far my arguments have been unsuccessful.

I guess I wasn't watching where I was walking. I am jolted out of my thoughts when a rude man, cursing worse than my uncle after six rounds of whiskey, runs right into Jojo. Neither Jojo nor the slightly overweight man seem to have noticed, though, so I take a step backward to survey all the people milling around. I don't go out much, but this is ridiculous. I ask the frizzy-haired woman next to me if she knows what is going on. The only response I get is the overwhelming stench of alcohol and cigarettes burned too long. Don't ask me how I know what too long is. But the stench reminds me of home. Warm tears trickle down my numb face as I rush back to my flat, unsure whether they're from the cold or the place I'm running from.

Supporting your friends

When you look at your classmates blogs, please complete the following:

1) Say one, specific, positive comment

2) One specific suggestions relating to the development of the character.

3) Any other comment, such as, "wow, my character would go great in your story!"

Setting additions #2

A nice, clear, cold day. Patchy ice and snow left over from the snow day. Sirens often coming and going through the neighborhood. False fire alarm-- some stupid kid pulls the lever.

Notes/comments

7) Ideas to consider:
a.) Setting is as important as character. Do not forget/neglect the world around your character. Setting helps authenticate experience. Currently, you all are doing a great job letting the setting blend with character-- many of your characters are as bitter and biting as the weather.
b.) Conflict must be present. Internal conflict is more difficult to authenticate than external. You don't need to know the characters name to mention or interact with characters. For example, this week's entry from Donald Consider why and how you would know his or her name.
c.) Don’t forget about literary devices. Many of you are doing a nice job with imagery, some with metaphor. For example, this week's entry from Sidda.
d.) Each time you write, reread your previous entry. Build on the unknown and the unknowable. There needs to be mystery so that the reader can be engaged and looking for his/her interpretation. Do you know the motivations of your character? Most of you are definitely doing a great job dropping us into the middle of things (in medias res) and giving us enough to know and work with, but each entry should be about something.
e.) Keep thinking about physical, spiritual, intellectual and emotional lines of movement in your character. In a way, you are writing a short story, so most movement will be incremental.
f.) proofread and spell check.
g.) Have fun.

Donald James - "Fish"

So last night I decided to watch the eleven o'clock news, you know channel 6 with that weather girl with the big tits. While I was staring at her jugs I happened to overhear the word snow, and sure enough the next morning brought a blanket of cold gray snow. Obviously my favorite weather seeing as I have to ride my bike down to the lake. I had to bang the ice off of my lock on the fire escape when I got down on the ground, some dick tried to yell out at me for waking him up. Probably just another drunk with a hangover. Anyways, I was going through this slush on the side of the road when some jackass walking his dog steps out in the road in front of me. I tried to swerve but ended up lying in the snow. So I got up and started yelling at this guy. Guess what, guy is blind. Dog was one of those helper dogs. Now felt like shit in two ways, I yelled at a poor blind guy and I was covered in dirty slush. So after another miserable day out on the water and on my way home I saw another beautiful sight. A fucking tree had fallen and knocked out the power. My building got power back soon but the damage was done. That building might as well have paper walls, it was colder inside than it was out. I pulled out all of my blankets and went to bed cold and alone.

Lu Garigami

Lu closed the shop early for the day because of the recent power outage and snowfall. As he walked home from locking up, he felt cold gust of wind slap him across the face. He felt his nerves creep to the surface of his skin and he gave out a short but violent yelp. Physically, Lu had never felt worse. Mentally, Lu had felt worse, maybe once or twice. As he stumbled down the sidewalk, Lu accidentally brushed shoulders with whom he thought to be the most insufferable person in the world, Yung Li. In the gray/white mist of windy snow, Lu THOUGHT he could slip away without any interaction. Ms. Li, however, had a way of making all Lu's wishes come untrue. She grabbed his arm and threw out at him,

"What, no apology now?"

Lu rolled his eyes and muttered,

"srry."

"Darn white! So, what you gonna do to fight off the snow and the no powa and the cockroaches?"

"I don't know Ms. Li, probably just sleep it all away. Bye now," replied Lu.

Ms. Li, a bit offended at Lu's apathy towards her, offered one more hook:

"You know, i've got a problem Lu. I've got cockroaches all over my place, and I need someone to squish 'em fo me."

"You want me to be your cockroach squisher?" asked Lu.

"Yes. Lu, you owe me fo something. Lu!"

"Sorry I...I have to feed my cat."

As Lu starts to walk away, Ms. Yung Li yells out,

"You don't have a cat!"

"I do now!"

"Cockroach!"

Sidda Quayle

Sidda's fingers left damp smudges on the papers. The ink curled under her fingertips and bled into its neighboring word. Her brow furrowed. Her tongue slid over her cracked lips. She sat under the window, near the floor vent. A thin blanket lay, draped, over her shoulders.
Her grip tightened. The papers, limp in her hands, creased softly, tugging at the corners. Her throat growled and Sidda crumpled the papers in her clammy fist.
She crawled to the kitchenette, where the tea kettle whistled. Her apartment was, for the most part, empty; she'd brought her small things (a kettle, terry sheets, the Lamp She Loved) and three cushions, to sit on. The rest of the dusty furniture had belonged to her mother's friend, her mother's late friend. An iron bed sat against the wall in the middle of the main room; a tiny kitchen sat to the left and a small bathroom with a view had its door in the back corner.
Sidda poured the water into a chipped teacup, and slid to the floor. She blinked, tasted. Blinked, sat still. The steam from the tea made droplets to slide down her nose. The lamp crackled, then went out. Sidda flipped the switch back and forth, but it was dark. She shivered. It was getting dark outside; streams of light faded from the window.

Sidda sighed, placed her cup on the floor beside her, and stood to leave. She wrapped scarves around her neck and slid her fingers into the wool gloves her mother'd sent. A thin cockroach skittered in the corner; even the roaches were cold. Sidda slid her keys off the table into her pocket, and shut the door behind her.

Sidda felt her way down the stairwell. The cold rail of the metal stairs warmed to her touch. She hated the cold; Virginia hadn't ever been this cold. It made her ears ring and her eyes water. She pushed the side door open, slid against the metal door and stepped into the street.
Rounding the corner, Sidda fingered a loose lock of hair. Her hair hung wild around her head, like a lion. She watched the cracked sidewalk as she walked, her eyes turned low and nose burrowed in her scarves.
She was close, now. Pools of water and scum hugged the steps leading down to the tunnel. Faded, once bright graffitti sprayed like wallpaper on the tunnel walls peeled back to reveal dirty cement and hard grime. Sidda placed her feet carefully on each step, pausing before continuing down the short flight.
Light from the street poured into the tunnel. Crouched near the wall, a man sat, twiddling a twig in his dirty fingers, dirty nails. She knew him; Felix had always been there, since she'd moved in. The two had an arrangement: Sidda would leave lines of poems she loved for Felix, and he'd stay silent when she passed through the tunnel. Sidda wasn't one for small talk, or any talk at all.
Sidda stepped daintily over the puddles and scraps, careful not to make a sound (in efforts to avoid disturbing the quiet peace that whispered in the tunnel).
When she emerged from the tunnel, she sighed. She'd held her breath.

Magdalene

I woke up ten minutes later than usual, and didn’t bother to climb out of bed until another hour had passed. The minutes ticking had no meaning to me. I had nothing needing to be conquered. The sweater I’d worn for the past three days was cramped up in a stale pile of cigarettes and reeked of the Irish Pub. I couldn’t remember how I’d gotten home last night, but I was sure I’d seen Felix on the street somewhere along the way. As I pulled on the sweater, I clasped my broken watch on my left wrist, and I scrounged around for some quarters to buy a bagel down the street. The watch was a waste of time since it no longer ticked, but then again I didn’t have much use for seconds and minutes anyway. It wasn’t like I ever had any engagements. I figured I should wait until at least noon before I downed my first brew, so I took my time getting my bagel. I saw Jacen Vaughn on my way, and I desperately wished I had something to say. Any sort of conversation would have been fine. I even would have been happy to chat with Yung Li. I was beginning to feel like I was invisible. I decided I’d spend my extra change on a bus ride. It was getting too chilly to walk. As I paid my change, I found an empty seat next to the window. I recalled a conversation I’d heard the other day. A girl I had never seen before was asking directions.

“Can you tell me how to get to Le Royale?” She asked.

The women she was asking snickered a bit, and I held in my comments. It had been years and years since I’d stepped foot into that place. I never thought I’d ever return. But just hearing the name of the theater made me curious to see what had become of it. I decided that was to be my destination for the day. I’d just have to hold off until later for my beer.

Jacen Vaughn

I awoke as I did every day. Cold, weary, and aching. The insistent beeping of the alarm was shut off as Shadow hit the off button with her paw. She came over and nuzzled my palm then hopped up onto my low bed to lick my face til I got up. I swung my feet over the edge of the bed and walked to the bathroom with my hand on the wall opposite the stairway out of my small apartment. As I walked I felt every little ridge and crack that passes under my fingers. The plaster flakes off a little time every time I run my hands along it. The whole apartment smells like mildew and stale dog food. I turned on the shower, only cold water came out as usual, even when I turned both knobbly cracked valves on the shower. Everything was in its place easy to find by touch. As I toweled off I walked back into the main part of the apartment running my hand along the wall until I reached my dresser. I pulled a carefully folded set of clothes out, underwear and socks from the top drawer, a shirt from the next one down, and pants from the one below that. I retraced my footsteps around the wall past the bathroom to my bed where I pulled my shoes from the drawer under my bed. I could hear Shadow happily munching on some dry dog food in her corner as I finished getting ready for the day. I called to Shadow to come to me. When she got to me she let me know where she was by nuzzling my hand. I put on my coat with its special extra pockets sewn into the inner lining so I can carry the tools of my trade, the pick gun, torsion wrenches, and various picks that I use to supplement my very modest income from the government. As I finish my preparations Shadow slips into her harness and comes around my bed and nuzzles my hand again to get me to tighten down the harness.
We both ascended the stairs and emerge into a chilly room that smells of old books. This is the bookstore I live underneath. The old man who runs it is kind enough to let me rent out the basement since his business has no need for it. I turned and locked the door to my abode and allowed Shadow to lead me towards the door. We exited out onto the street and turned out of the front door to the bookstore. The air is cold and crisp and smells like it rained the previous night. The sound of birds chirping in the crisp chilly morning air came floating out of the woods behind the bank as I walked towards the coffee shop where I spend many of my days waiting for business. We round the corner and the aroma of coffee and fresh bagels wafts down the street towards us, but the effect is ruined by that biting aroma of some kind of oil leak in the street next to me. When we reached the coffee shop we entered and Shadow wove her way through the tables until I got up to the counter to order my usual breakfast, two bagels and a cup of coffee with three sugars, and a piece of bacon for Shadow. I allow myself to be led back down to my usual table by the window where I can set up my sign that says I can get into apartments, houses and cars if you've lost your keys for a small fee. There is a enough demand for a locksmith in this neighborhood for me to be able to afford the little luxuries, especially one who cant see who he's working for or what he's working on. I settle in and bask in the low sunlight that comes through the window and wait for someone to need my services.

Yung Li

Every night he comes with his blue sleeping bag and bright orange tight curly locks. And every morning I come with my broom in hand and makeup on. I come into the living room and begin to unscrew the wooden stick from the sweeper. I turn the stick and it squeaks, metal upon metal, and the young man’s feet twitch suddenly. I put the sweeper against the wall and look at him. I just look at him. His body is curled up on the hard carpet floor, and his back facing me about three feet away. I turn around and pull on the blinds to let some light into the dark room. The man’s orange hair is illuminated by the sun. His hair looks like gold, the gold specks my grandfather once brought home to me and my sisters from the mines.

His feet twitch again and I remember what I came for. I raise my stick and yell “YI! YI! YI! You! get out of my house! You! Why you in my house? I don’t like you! You don’t make me happy! You! GET OUT!” My stick falls in continuous motion upon his back and buttocks. He squirms and pulls himself out of the sleeping bag.

“Sorry maam, sorry maam,” he whispers as he stands up and picks up his sleeping bag off of the floor. I hit him, I hit him again, I hit him one more time. He is at the door, opens it, steps out, leaves it a peak open, sticks his head in and whispers, “Sorry maam.” PANG! I hit right where his face should have been. He shuts the door. Sighing, I lock it. Resting my stick against the wall, I rush to the bathroom. Splashing my face with cold water I rub the makeup off with a rag. I never wear makeup.

October 27th, 19-- (Details to include)

It's snowing; the power goes out at 6PM for two hours. Because of the colder weather, the roaches encroach into the apartment building and other residences.

Greta

The bus decelerated, wheezing, before a imposing building and pair of waiting figures. Greta watched the pair carefully as the bus approached: just as her acting coach had instructed. The man, in stained diner smock and navy windbreaker, held a double-folded paper in two fists. His eyes, in a head that drooped forward a little, were trained an inch or two above the top of the paper.

Two or three feet down the bench sat a woman, perhaps younger than the man, but not young. Every part of her (knees, feet, hands, elbows), thought Greta, was carefully contained -- except her eyes. Her eyes wandered over the street, into the sky, onto the man.

Inside the building, Greta gave her name to the manager, a woman in an ill-fitted skirt suit who sat behind an empty desk and flipped through a celebrity gossip magazine.

"Can I leave my bags here for a little while?" Greta asked. "I've got to go to a job interview."

The woman pointed to a corner of the grubby office. "Where's the interview?"

"Le Royale Theater." Greta tried to keep the anxious pride from the words, tried to act as though she was used to this sort of thing. "Well, it's an audition actually."

The woman raised her eyebrows and scanned Greta's jeans and beige pea coat. "An audition, eh? At the theater? And you're renting here?"

Greta nodded, puzzled. "Actually, could you tell me how to get to Le Royale?"

The woman pointed to the street beyond the grubby window. "You came in off Rouse. That street there on the side is Polaski. Walk a block down that and you'll hit Main. You can only turn left. The, uh, theater," (here came a stiffled snicker), "will be on your right. "

Felix, The Tunnel Under Rouse Blvd.

Felix opened his eyes slowly, they were heavy with sleep and cold. He pulled the Daily Post over his chest attempting to warm himself. Felix lay on his back facing the domed ceiling of the tunnel in which he lived. By the darkness of the night, Felix estimated the time to be about half past midnight, one learns these things after living outside for years. He closed his eyes for the twentieth time that night, and as he drifted off to sleep he listened closely to the incessant dripping of water from the ceiling into a puddle below. A rat scampered across Felix's toes, yet he did not flinch. Felix had become accustomed to sharing his home with the lovely little creatures.

About an hour later, Felix awoke to a sound he did not recognize. He sat upright and looked around, however it took a few minutes for his eyes to adjust to the dark. When finally Felix was able to see, he turned around and with a look of confusion noticed a man sitting on a ledge staring at him with a mysterious smirk on his face. The man was not exceptionally interesting or unique. He was of average height, average weight, and looked to be about about 40. He had brown hair and from what Felix could tell in the darkness of the tunnel he had brown eyes. The only remarkable thing about this man was the smug look and devilish gleam in his eyes as he inspected Felix.

Pokey Swain Apt. 111

Pokey Swain was worried about the impending cold weather. He had just left his mother's apartment twenty blocks away; she had given him his bag of early winter clothes. Lined goloshes, a flannel and wool plaid coat, the black stocking cap, multiple pairs of cotton and wool socks that he carefully arranged in the top drawer of his dresser, flannel shirts, and six pairs of lined jeans. His t-shirts and boxers were already in the second drawer. He counted them before he went to see his mother on the second Thursday of every month. If his mother thought it necessary, she would provide him with more, after he had given her the carefully recited inventory of his dresser. She worried about Pokey and checked and doubled checked his bag before he left.

"Don't let this bag out of your hands until you get to your room."
"Okay, Mom."
"Make sure you make it on time to dinner."
"Okay, Mom."
"Don't talk to anyone on the bus ride."
"Okay, Mom."
"Pokey, did you take a shower this morning?"
"Yes, Mom. But only a short one. The water was too cold."
"I'll call the manager. You pay on time and there's no reason why you shouldn't have hot water."
"Okay, Mom. The 4:15 bus will be here in 15 minutes."
"Take this thermos and don't leave it on the bus."
Pokey sits on the first row of seats that faces the opposite window and he watches the city move slowly by. He worries that the traffic will make him miss dinner. If he misses dinner, he knows that in the morning, he will feel foggy. He might forget to eat breakfast and be late for his job as a parking garage attendant.
He had missed dinner once before and was late for work. He didn't want that to happen again. Pokey would only order the early bird special. The diner two blocks away served meatloaf as the special on Thursdays. Meatloaf, greenbeans, potatoes and rolls sprawles across a greasy white board that has long ago lost any semblance of being white. It now hangs precariously on the nail just inside the diner entrance. Years of grease, smoke, as well as the general grime that creeps into the diner every time the door swings open, has coated the daily-special board, the wall and most of the diner. Pokey's stool, the third one from the door, has a similar glaze. The tiled floor which was once white now carries the same nebulous grime. Each tarnished tile is outlined in thick, black lines of unknown density.
His thick brows furrow at the lines of cars trying to escape the city. Pokey reaches inside his coat pocket and unravels his headphones. He carefully places them on over his cap, pulls them into place and hits play. Coltrane, in mid-rift, fills his his ears. Pokey closes his eyes and waits for Miles's trumpet to follow.