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.
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