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?
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
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.
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."
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!"
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!"
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
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.
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 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.
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.
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