The Daily Dime: A House on the Lake

http://dailydime.ning.com/

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The desert sun beat down. There was no life for miles, though there were scant signs of life once present. The desert traveler had learned many miles ago to quit turning his head. His scorched neck could no longer abide the twisting, and his addled senses could no longer abide the turning. The traveler's eyes had almost become useless vestiges. Reminders of what it was like to see.

The traveler had to stop to rest his legs. He fell to his knees and heard loud snapping, an obvious indication that he was very much in need of water. The hulking traveler bent over, resting his hands on his knees. He hated not being able to put anything at rest in the hot sand without igniting. After a brief stop, he stood straight and tried to stretch his back, but everything about him had become so dried and stiff that he was afraid he'd cut himself open.

Resigning to the stiffness, he trudged on.

After hours of silent walking, he began to see the sun dried and heat bleached corpses of his brothers. Friends and family, all of them. The traveler briefly regretted having no water to spare for tears for his brothers. He did stop at one body and gingerly lifted the hand out of the sand. He held it and looked into the dried sockets where eyes should have been.

“I'm so sorry. We feared drought, and it took us through a desert. Soon I'll be dead like you.” The traveler held the hand, and started to choke on what should have been tears, but came out as dry coughs and sporadic heaves. Dropping the hand, he kept walking. The dogs of despair and hope raged in him. He tried to run, but couldn't tell if he was running or if it was sun insanity. The dogs raged deep within his chest, causing his body to wrack with spasms and sobs.

The traveler fell to the ground and yelled at the desert floor. This seemed to quiet the dogs fighting in his heart. Despair satiated with the realization that he would die. Hope satisfied that he would die only after fighting. The traveler stayed on all fours for a moment while the violence of the dogs subsided. Then he cursed himself for falling into the sand. It was a struggle to stand, and more than his feet had been burned. His hands, which he'd been careful to protect, were burned, as were his forearms, knees, shins. Or rather, the equivalents thereof.

After much effort, he was able to ignore the pain that coursed through his entire body and trudge through what he was sure were to be his final steps.

His steps were much slower now. Much more pained. The traveler couldn't even lift his head enough to see what was in front of him. He was so convinced of his coming death that he didn't notice when he was up to his knees in water.

He stopped and thought.

“It's got to be an illusion,” he said. Not wanting to miss a chance at water, something he very badly needed, he scooped his hand into the puddle and brought it to his mouth. He felt water in his mouth, and felt it around his knees.

“If this is a hallucination,” he said, “it's as good of a place to die as any.” He set himself heavy in the pool and pushed, trying to push his feet into the sand when he noticed a body partially submerged a few feet in front of him. He leaned forward to get a better look.

It was an elderly woman. Gaunt and pale. He shook his head out of remorse for the woman and proceeded to go about his business.

A hand and a shriek reached up and grabbed him at the shoulder, and the woman scrambled to him. He scooped her up into his massive limbs. She was much closer to death than he was, though it was a very close race.

“Are you a tree?” she asked. “You feel like a tree. There used to be trees here.” He nodded.

“I am a tree.” The woman seemed to relax against his bark.

“At least I die in the arms of a tree,” she said. He nodded. She looked back into his eyes and spoke, “I'm not really this old. I'm young as far as lakes and trees are concerned.” He nodded.

“Me too.”

“I only look old because I'm dying. All my sprites, nymphs and spirits left. I'm all alone.” The tree watched the lake's face droop, mouth bent into a frown. “You look like you would have been a handsome tree. Trees don't travel often. If you want, you can have what's left of my water.” The tree nodded.

“I would thank you for your gift and put it to good use.” He continued to hold the lake as he dug his roots deep into what was left of the lake bed, trying not to be too eager to drink up what was left of her water. She smiled up at him as he dug. “You know, you look like you would have been a beautiful lake.” She chuckled slightly.

“You should have seen me. This land used to be a forest, you know. But there was a fire, and all my spirits left out of fear of the fire. But being a lake, I'm tied to the land. The trees all died from the fire or from exposure. A few tried to leave, but they were too damaged by the smoke and the heat.

“After that, I became a desert and started to die.” The tree nodded.

“I passed my dead brothers a few miles ago. They left our home in the swamp because some animal spirits told us a plague was coming to the swamp and we needed to leave. They left in a hurry, but I stayed as long as I could. We didn't know that there was a desert at our borders.”

“At least we don't die alone,” said the lake.

“At least we don't die alone,” said the tree.

“And,” said the lake, “we can hope the rain comes by. She might be able to save us. I think she's obligated, especially since I used to be a forest.” The tree nodded hesitantly.

The pair stared in each other's eyes for a short while before sleep overtook both of them.

A short time later, the desert was covered in clouds, and a light thunderstorm touched the surface of that rock for the first time in a decade.

With each drop, the lake looked younger.

Please Accept My Humblest Apologies

So, since Ireland, I've felt an unusual amount of motivation, but working in direct contravention to my motivation, my mind has nothing with which to be motivated. Which is weak. Lame.

As such, I've decided to sort of push my mind into gear. I've turned one of my journals into my manuscript book, and I'm going to dedicate to one and only one manuscript. The book isn't written. Far from it. As of tonight, I have almost two pages of story to its name. However, this is the foreword I plan to put in front of the book.

*

In the grand tradition of books and the written word, it is my understanding that books share two common denominators. The first is words which are often constructed in a way so as to communicate ideas and concepts and, if one is lucky enough, emotions.

The second thing books share is the foreword. I've never entirely understood the purpose of the foreword. It seems to me to be the stage on which the author sets his piece and makes an illusory case. This case is the one he presents which makes it seem as if you don't like or disagree with his book, the fault is your own and not his.

He sets up an apologetic for his book. A defense designed to help you understand the book and hopefully be sympathetic to the author's goal and perhaps overlook a few oversights.

So the author apologizes for his book.

In the grand tradition of apologies and literary apologetics, let me say sorry.

Sorry.

I'm sorry for the contents of this book. Every word in here might not be true, but it's certainly truth, and I'm sorry things have to be this way. I'm sorry that things don't have to be this way, but are. I'm sorry that so many of us feel powerless to change us, and those that feel they have power often lack direction.

I'm sorry that this is happening to your brother. I'm sorry that it's happening to your dad, and your coworker, and that kid you made fun of in high school. I'm sorry that it's happening to me, and I'm sorry that it's happening to my friends.

We're sorry that it's happening to us.

However, to simply apologize isn't enough and is practically nothing. It's merely step one. I hope that this book, an illusory tale of smoke and shadows, makes up for the apology and actually helps to change things. Maybe it will help show a way to change.

Let's find a better way to be.

The Daily Dime: Strength.

it's been awhile since i've made a story. this is the big push before ireland, however. let's "get it on." also, this is my monday story. i just highly doubt i'll have time to write/post this monday, but i didn't want to miss it. as such, here y'go!

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The boy lie dying.

Cancer had ravaged his eight year old bones, and had been eating a hole for the past two months into his stomach. His 36 year old mother cried two year old tears, and his 15 year old sister nursed one year old anger. His 43 year old father absent for the last 7 years of his adolescent life.

The boy lie dying, and the boy lie silent.

His mother sat down next to him and grabbed his hand. She pressed it to her mouth, kissing as if the harder she kissed, the healthier her son would become. He opened his eyes and smiled.

“Hi mom,” he said calmly.

“Hey baby,” she said. “How do you feel?” she asked.

The boy shrugged and then responded, “I feel alright. I'm thirsty.” His sister handed him water and he drank. After a moment he gave the glass back to his sister and then spoke.

“I talked to daddy.” His mother almost dropped his hand.

“You what? Son... he hasn't been around for a long time. I think you might be confused,” rationalized his mother. He shook his head.

“No. It was daddy. He told me he was sorry for leaving. Told me to tell you that he was coming back home, but it won't be for a long time. He hopes that you'll forgive him.” His sister stopped in her deep sobs and looked with disbelief at her little brother. He looked back at her, craning to see behind his bed and said, “Daddy says he's really proud of the way you've turned out. He doesn't know he is yet, but he will be. He also said he'll buy you a car when he comes home. A red one.” The boy's sister turned his back on him as she cried harder. The boy turned back around to look at his mother. She smiled at her son and stroked his hair.

“Honey, mommy has to go talk to the doctor's really quick. Can I get you anything before I leave?” he shook his head. “Do you hurt anywhere?” he shrugged his shoulders and said,

“I'll be alright.” She nodded and then left the room, closing the door behind her. A few minutes later she came back and resumed her perch on the chair next to the bed. The boy's sister was on the other side, kneeling at his bed side holding his hand, her head resting on the bed at his side. His mother picked his hand back up. She sat in silence for a minute.

The doctors cautioned her that the boy was probably in his final moments and that he was most likely suffering hallucinations. The result of his body releasing hormones into the blood stream and the various medicine cocktails flowing in his bloodstream. His mother was prepared for many things, but the loss of her son was not one of them. Her shaking hand began to stroke the side of his head, running her fingers through his hair.

“It's OK to cry,” she said. “You don't have to be strong. You can cry if you want to.” Two years the boy had fought this battle with cancer, and not once had he cried. Not once had he complained, questioned, criticized or resisted. He complied with every treatment given him, and never had his good humor wavered. Her voice cracked as she said, “why do you have to be so strong? You don't have to be so strong!” The boy looked at his mother and yawned.

“But strong is all I know how to be,” he said. Then he closed his eyes and he slept.

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a story a day. details: http://dailydime.ning.com/

The Daily Dime: Alex: Serialized.

and i'm back in on the daily dime. a warning on this one: it's pretty, um, questionable in just about every direction. it's got "mature" content. so, you've been warned.

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Alex opened up a light tunnel and began searching for a destination. Someplace far away and decidedly different. His outstretched hand casting and directing the tunnel. He turned towards the east extending the tunnel with his thought and will.

Alex watched his window expand, then watched as land seemed to rush at him through his large rounded window entrance. He couldn't help but thinking of stretching some kind of quantum mechanic slinky across the landscape every time he opened up a light tunnel.

Alex stopped. He could feel that he was staring at an alley way somewhere in roughly Chicago. What he was seeing terrified him. He saw a woman pinned to the ground, a cord around her neck and face broken. Her blackened eyes were stained with both tears and blood. Pinning her there and securing the cord around her neck was a man attempting to mount her. The man had a mask and although Alex knew what he was seeing, he had to put it out of his mind.

Alex mentally marked this spot, and went to his room to grab a few items. First he bragged a blanket off of his bed, and the camera off of his headboard. He was preparing to open the tunnel again when he saw his baseball bat leaning against his wall. He grabbed it thinking to himself, “I might need this.”

Alex faced the same eastern direction and let his feelings reconnect him to what he had witnessed. Not much had changed in the thirty seconds since he'd first seen it, except now he saw a second form. Alex was unsure if that form had been there the whole time and it was just out of view, or if it was a new figure. Alex watched this figure taking a sick self pleasure while waiting for his turn. Again, Alex had to put the reality of what was happening out of his mind.

Alex steeled his resolve and jumped through.

He landed between the assailant and trapped girl combination, and the one man pleasure cruise. Alex snapped a picture of the guy and kicked him secure between the legs before he had time to react. This one had not been as smart as to wear a mask.

Having dealt with the first one, Alex turned his focus to the assailant. Having evaluated his options, he picked what he thought to be the best. He wanted to avoid any striking movements that might cause the attacker to increase his grip on the cord around the girl's neck, so Alex decided to give the attacker a taste of his own medicine.

Alex threaded the bat through the crook of his elbows and then pulled th bat against the attacker's neck and pushed his head down into it.

Immediately, the attacker let go of the cord and the girl, sputtering and choking. Alex put his weight down onto the attacker preventing him from standing up.

The girl looked behind her at Alex, and then rolled over to a sitting position.

“What the fuck are you doing?” she spat. Alex's gripped lessened as he stared at her, confused. Just then a loud whistle blew and the alley became flooded with light, and a voice shouted,

“CUT!” and, “WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?”

Alex released his grip and stood up. He looked around the alley and saw that it was actually a staged alley. He could see cameras and at least 20 milling around the set, clipboards in hand.

“I thought... I thought she was being raped,” stammered Alex.

“Well, I'm not! It's an art film, dipshit!” said the girl peeling off her black eye makeup. “Who is this dickweed?” she asked pointing at him.

“I HAVE NO FUCKIN' CLUE. WHO LET HIM ON HERE? WHERE'D HE COME FROM?” asked the voice that Alex assumed was the director. Alex looked around the set and saw on-hand medical staff attending to the two men.

Alex felt confused and a little scared. Alex tried to mumble out an apology, but instead just decided to go back through the tunnel he came through.

Alex emerged in his bedroom, feeling drained. He laid down on the bed and realized that he had dropped his belongings on the set. Alex rolled over onto his side and pointed at the wall, opening the tunnel back up. When he looked in, he saw that the set was full of people. Too full for him to be able to go back and get his stuff.

Alex felt broken and stupid. What should have been a lifesaving act of bravery on his part turned into an act of pure foolishness. More specifically, it turned into an act of beating up two male “adult film stars,” or as the girl put it, “art film” stars. Alex didn't so much feel like going out anymore, much less going anywhere far. He kicked off his shoes and fell asleep, trying to forget about his camera, his blanket, and his bat.

The Daily Dime Super Short Sunday: Messiah

i had this typed up before midnight last night, but only in my word processor. i completely forgot to post it. so, her it is, a little past the deadline.

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I'm just another in a long line of messiahs. Those that came before me were messiahs, as will those that are to come after me. My responsibilities are those that are to be expected of any messiah: heal the infirmed, forgive sins, love others and completely revolutionize the system. It's what everyone before me did, what those around me are doing now, and those to follow will do, but sometimes, I just wonder if I can do it, or if I'll be crushed by the weight of it.

I just don't think I can do it.

The Daily Dime: Truer Than Fiction

For information on the Daily Dime and those that contribute, hit this: http://dailydime.ning.com/

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“Don't worry, I'll call you as soon as I get there,” she said. I could tell as soon as the words left her mouth that it was an empty promise. A salve to her conscience, complete disregard for mine.

“Please do,” I said. I could feel the ball in my throat, the sting in my eyes. She hugged me again. I hugged back. Maybe a little too long and a little too hard. “I love you so much,” I whispered into her ear.

“I love you too,” she said back. We released, and I looked at her. Despite all the crap she had sent herself through, she still looked beautiful, like Egyptian royalty.

“I'll miss you, but I think this is better for you,” I said. She nodded then she said that she had to leave. I said goodbye and walked to my car.

I sat in my car in the church parking lot. One of the last times I'd ever go to church coincidentally, though this drama had nothing to do with attendance.

I sat in my car, feeling empty. Feeling that though there were nothing left, it would all be spilled out. I fought so hard to keep the tears in, but it was a fight worth losing.

I didn't want to be in a car in the parking lot at church bawling, so I left. I couldn't go to the house yet. I couldn't let my family see me as I was: an emotional wreck on the verge of meltdown. So I drove. I drove for 30 minutes, and I screamed, and I cursed, and I fought. For 30 minutes I refused to accept the truth reality had whispered in my ear. “Nevermore.”

My defenses cracked, and I cried. I cried and I couldn't stop. I turned on the radio and heard REM's “Everybody Hurts.” We sang, and I cried.

I finally got home, and there was mom, waiting. She asked what had happened and I told her exactly how I felt.

How much I had loved the girl, and for no good reason. I just loved her with an ineffable expression, something that, the more I tried to define it, the less accurate it would become. I just wanted her to be loved, and I wanted to be the one doing the loving.

I told her that no matter how far she strayed, I was always praying for her. When she left me for a guy who has yet to provide one good reason why he should live, I prayed for her. I prayed she wake up to the shit this bastard put her through.

When she got addicted to drugs, I prayed for her freedom.

When she was arrested, I prayed for her reform.

When I heard nothing, I prayed for everything.

I told my mom about how much I'd prayed, and the few times I'd cried, and now my prayers are being answered, but she's going away.

“It isn't fair,” I said. “I held out so much hope for her, and offered so many prayers, yet I feel like I'm being gypped, and I know I shouldn't. I should just be happy for her, and I am, but I... I don't know. I just feel like crap.”

“You're happy for her, but sad for you, right?” I nodded, and then I started to cry... again. And then mom did what mom's do best: she hugged me and comforted me. Told me that there weren't any words that could make me feel better, but to take comfort in the fact that she hurts with me.

Mom cried with me.

Daily Dime: Epic Poem

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And then I saw an army
Great and vast
Descendant from the sky
Split from the earth
Hewn from the seas
And the fire
An army so terrible
That none shall bend its knee
Or crush its head
An army so mighty
That it shall certainly prevail

The army was a mystery
None can fathom nor
Understand it
Appearing from nothing
As though it never was
Its members comprised of
The dead, and those
Living, but believing the lie
Of death, taking a dark doctrine
From the unknown places.

Emergent from the seas
Descendants from the air
Out of the rocks and caves
And down from the high places
The army swept across the
Surface of all the Earth
No city can stand against this army
All the palaces of men fall
All the armies of man are useless
And all the weapons without purpose

Plagues devastated the planet
Afflicting the scattered family of man
No medicine eased their suffering
No treatment could imporve
the impoverished state of man
Army and plague alike
Continued their onslaught
The family of man is brought
To a lowly estate:
They face extinction

When man at their worst
And the army its peak
An innumerable host
Fashioned of light appears
From the dawn
And through the night they come
Bringing with them blessings
For the family of man
Sight with which to see
And weapons with which to fight

Men gather around the host
Those that are left surrendering
To the host of light
The host brings gifts
Of knowledge, wisdom, and fight
But they themselves
Unable to enter confrontation
With creatures of night
It is for them
Man will fight

With both wisdom
And tactics new
Man fights against the army
Ten years of plague and war
Come to an end
Knowledge and weapons in human hand
The onslaught subsides
And the tables turn
The darkest horde
The host blade cannot abide

Finally, after the ten years
Plague and army gone
With a job well done
The host also gone
Each man with
Emptiness as his lot
Must rebuild that great estate
With a soil of desolation
They must work a crop
And yield a harvest of riches

These words spoken
To me through the cracks of time
And in man's dreams
The army comes
So make haste
And make ready.

The Daily Dime: Game Over

For information on the Daily Dime and those that contribute, hit this: http://dailydime.ning.com/

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GAME OVER

The words flash in big 48 point words in white on a blue screen.

GAME OVER

Cliff stares at the screen in disbelief. His brother, Roddy, is standing behind him.

“Cliff, what the fuck did you do?” Roddy asks slapping his brother in the back of the head.

“Hell if I know!”

“What happens next?”

“I guess we just wait.” The pair stare anxiously at the monitor for several minutes, neither breathing, neither moving, their atoms motionless.

Finally, the blinking text blinks for an extra second, and the words are replaced with more words.

YOU HAVE REACHED THE END OF THE INTERNET. CONGRATULATIONS.

“You broke the Internet!” Roddy shouted half amused.

“I didn't think the Internet had an end,” Cliff chuckled to himself. “So, what do I get?” Cliff asked out loud. The pair stare at the screen for another little bit. The text begins to flicker, and the old text is replaced with new text.

WE AT THE INTERNET HOPE YOU HAVE ENJOYED YOUR EXPERIENCE. HAVE A NICE REALITY.

“What kind of shit is that?” Roddy spits at the screen.

“Why are you cussing?” Cliff asks turning to get a look at his brother. “You're always cussing, and it's ridiculous. I know words are hard, but try to use some other ones.

“'Words are hard.' Yeah, that coming from a guy who didn't even go to college. Bitch.” As the percussive sound of the mild grade curse exits Roddy's mouth, the brothers hear a tight cracking sound, as though one too many ice skaters on a frozen pond. They both stop and listen. They hear a slow creaking continue to expand. “What was that?” Roddy asks.

“I don't know.” Cliff turns back around in his chair and gasps. He points at the monitor, “Look!”

“How the hell did that happen?”

“Again, I don't know.”

“Well dammit, get some fuckin' answers! A crack in a screen can't just expand off of the monitor and into empty air, dumbass!”

“You're so angry.” Cliff reaches forward to touch the crack that seems to be hovering in midair, an extension of the jagged line on the computer monitor, but he can't. “Roddy, I can't touch it.”

“What do you mean you can't touch it? It's right fuckin' there, y'douchebag!” Roddy leans forward to touch it. “Holy hell! You're right! How is this happening? It's like, 6 inches away, but I can't touch it!”

Another shouting crack causes the brothers to freeze as they notice cracks start to spider web away from the central crack, and the aching creak complain louder.

“Do you feel that? There's a breeze,” observes Roddy.

“Not a breeze, it's a vacuum. These cracks are sucking in air,” replies Cliff, moving his hand over where the surface of the cracks should be.

“Let me see something here,” Roddy says, removing the monitor from the desktop. Somehow the cracks are not moved, though the monitor is no longer there. The creak is still audible as the brothers can observe the cracks slowly, almost imperceptibly so, growing.

“Holy fuck,” whispers Cliff.

“You eat with that mouth?” asks Roddy.

“No, but I kiss your mom with this mouth,” says Cliff. Roddy doesn't acknowledge, but touches the wall behind where the monitor was only to find that he can touch the wall, nothing more. “Get a crowbar,” he says.

Minutes later, the two brothers are tearing at the wall with hammer and crowbar, tearing dry wall and studs out of the way. They work at a feverish pace, maddened by the cracks, and had the wall dismantled within the hour. They stared in disbelief. On the far wall of the bedroom whose wall they'd just demolished stood the cracks, unaltered, and still slowly growing. Cliff runs forward, hopping the bed, and putting his hands and face against the wall.

“Son of a bitch!” he shouts. “I still can't touch the cracks!”

“And they don't shrink,” Roddy whispers in exhausted disbelief.

“It's because they're growing, you shitcamel!”

“No, their perspective isn't altered. Come back to the far wall where I am.” Cliff got up and walked backward, slowly. He walked passed the bed, and through the hole in the wall, and through to the opposite wall next to his brother. The cracks seemed to get bigger in their refusal to get smaller.

“What are we going to do?” Cliff asks.

“I don't know. I didn't think the Internet had an end,” Says Roddy.

Cliff sits down on the floor, his head in his palm listening to the complaining creak in the air. Roddy is staring straight ahead, though looking at nothing.

A third loud snap grabs the brother's attention. They both leap to attention as they notice a fragment caught in between the spider web panel's seem to fly away into a black oblivion. The vacuum suction seems to increase as a noticeable breeze passes over them, kicking up dust and loose paper. They watch as small loose items (a shirt, a pop can on a table, a small stack of papers) get sucked into the triangular hole mounted on the wall farthest from them.

A fourth snap sounds, and they watch as the hole doubles and two more pieces are sucked in. The breeze becomes a howling whisper as more things get sucked into the black hole. Bigger things. Shoes, pillows, a box with miscellaneous computer parts.

A fifth, sixth, and seventh snap sounds, and the brothers are forced to brace themselves against the growing suction. The snaps start coming in machine gun succession, and the brothers are loosing their ground. The brothers loose their grip and get pulled into a hole the size of the wall they knocked down. Each brother swears they can hear the other swear as they get pulled in, but neither can be sure they heard anything above the roar of the vacuum.

The cracks continue to expand, and the vacuum continues to pull things in stripping the room of its contents, and the house of its room. It continues to suck.

As the vacuum seems to reach its zenith, it's as though an explosion has occurred in reverse. In a flurry, the walls are reconstructed, and all the pieces of the house restored to their proper position, the monitor being the last item to be restored, and finally, the hole seals itself up. The room looks entirely undisturbed, as though two brothers hadn't mistakenly reached the end of the Internet, and in their madness, torn their rooms apart. You can't tell that reality had cracked, and in its increasing improbability, consumed all the matter confined by consciousness. In fact, you can't tell that two brothers had ever existed so great is the calm in the room.

The monitor on the desk lights up, and the web browser opens. It's a simple blue page with large white letters that read:

PLAY THE GAME

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holy crap that was long.

The Daily Dime: I'll Save Us.

For information on the Daily Dime and those that contribute, hit this: http://dailydime.ning.com/

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You can see the eye and it is large. The iris feels all encompassing, a giant blue circle highlighting existence. The eye is large, and entirely covered in eyelid, though that doesn't stop seeing or being seen. The eyelid is transparent: nonexistent. You see right through.

“I'll save us.” That's what I told them: “I'll save us.” Then why am I the only one here?

You can see the eye begin to shrink as the outline of the profile comes into view, looking to your left.

I'll save us.

I said that when all of us were there; before the war started. When things were just weird, before things got weird.

I'll save us.

I said that to those of us that were left when those that were left necessitated reassurance.

The profile turns, nose and mouth outlines coming into view. There is a shadow of short hair cresting the top of the head. The eye is still large, comprising most of the face's left side.

I'll save us.

But I didn't. I watched helplessly as friends, those that depended on me were shot, crushed, burned, stabbed. And somehow I got away. A few of us got away.

You can see the planet visible in the pupil. Its size the size the eye should be. It's crescent is growing, filling in more of the earth center of the eye.

I'll save us.

I said that when it was just her and me left. I tried to stop her crying, and I couldn't.

The crescent has covered the entire planet, the whole thing visible, and it starts to glow, humming.

I'll save us.

You can hear screeching, but you can't see where it comes from. The glowing seems to expand beyond the eye.

But I didn't.

CHE-UNG

A thunderous pulse fills chest and head.

CHE-UNG

Eardrums split. That doesn't stop feeling.

CHE-UNG

The face, the eye, the planet seem to become consumed in fire.

CHE-UNG

CHE-UNG

CHE-UNG

Why am I still here?

Nothing.

*

De-de-deet!

De-de-deet!

De-de-deet!

Saul's hand shot out from under the covers and smacked the alarm. He laid there for a minute adjusting to the flood of consciousness. He rolled to his back and rubbed his eyes. He stretched, and settled again. About to doze off, his alarm clock warned him, beeping manically. Saul conceded and shut off the alarm and got out of bed. He made his way to the window, and leaned against the wall staring outside.

“Weird dreams,” he said aloud and yawned. He stared outside watching the busy traffic below his 4^th floor apartment. He stretched a final time and left the window to dig through his “clean” pile to find clothes for the day.

At first what he thought he felt was so imperceptible that he ignored it. But it persisted, gradually increasing.

CHE-UNG

CHE-UNG

CHE-UNG

It was overpowering. Saul went back to the window, and what he saw terrified him.

“Oh my God,” Saul whispered, dropping his clothes to the floor.

CHE-UNG

CHE-UNG

CHE-UNG

I'll save us.

The Daily Dime: Josh

Joshua opened his eyes, and couldn't tell if he was awake. The lights were off, and the shades drawn. Any hint of light sent him into a migraine that he'd easily describe as blinding.

He'd fallen to the same mysterious illness that had become a world epidemic. "Trans" it was called. Joshua lay in his bed staring at the ceiling. His sweat formed a minuscule membrane over his body, the hard boils and pus filled sores that covered his body visible underneath. He looked over at the machine responsible for monitoring his morphine intake. It had fired not too long ago, which explained his feeling of being displaced.

He held his hand up to his face and unwrapped the bandages. A gangrenous infection had set in unnoticed with the appearance of the first boils, and it was his sincere hope that the doctors wouldn't have to amputate. Has hand looked no better and no worse; his once dark olive hand was now a pale yellow. The same. He arched his back in an attempt to stretch his tightening muscles and shortening ligaments, and every joint protested with the infection that had made it's way into his cartilage. He lay on the bed and let his hand fall to his side. His stomach was empty, and he wished he could have something more substantial than the IV tube, but knew that if he dared, it would just come back up.

He wanted to roll over, but bone spurs on his hip from being bed ridden prevented the pursuit of greater comfort. He resigned himself to his position and closed his eyes to try to doze back to sleep. Joshua had completely lost all sense of time. Sleep was his only comfort, and as such, he sought it more than any other activity.

He awoke to an immense heat, and jolted right out of bed, fearing that the hospital was on fire. Hospitals had not been immune to the surrounding violence and insurgency. The room was darker than usual, and seemed to be filled with impenetrable shadow. He rolled over to page the nurse's station when he noticed his entire rig of bedside monitors had vanished, along with the horizontal slats that passed for drawn blinds, and the four walls that had pretended to offer protection and hope.


Joshua jumped out of bed, and saw that his bed was now perched on a simple metal disk. He walked over to the edge of the bed and what he saw caused him to dry heave. After his heaves were over, he returned to the edge to confirm what he thought was certain to be a nighttime hallucination, but feared that it might not be. The voice he heard confirmed it.

Yes Joshua. You are a hair's breadth from the fire. Joshua recognized the voice, and true to its form, was something that he felt more than heard. He felt the voice rattle through his bones, tremble in his hair, and shake the very ground he walked on, but yet, he knew it was something he couldn't hear with his ears.

Immediately upon hearing the voice, Joshua looked up and recognized the pinprick of light that seemed to quaver every time the voice spoke.

Joshua dropped to his knees, staring at the pinprick.

"No! I told you! No! Leave me alone! I don't want to be your prophet!" Joshua shouted balling his fists at the pinprick.

Joshua... Why do you resist so? the point of light quaked.

"Because, I just want to live and die. Why can't I do that?"

You can.

"But not as a 'prophet.' I just want to be left alone."

Joshua, this is not my plan

"Did you bother to consult those whose rights you're infringing on when you made these plans?"

I offer you everything. Joshua thought for a moment.

"This is the third time you've asked. Why do you keep pressuring?"

Joshua. The light quaked a little more violently. This is the final time. Deny me, and you see this disease through to its finished. It has been here for three years, and there have been no fatalities. How long do you think this sickness will last?

"Well then I'll just--"

YOUR HAND WILL BE STAYED, the light quaked with frightening finality. Joshua thought, and noticed for the first time that here, his hands were again olive, his joints were free from ache, and he could see light for the first time in a year.

Joshua the light trembled softly, you will be healed.

Joshua hunched over onto the floor, and pressed his fists into his eyes. The one thing he knew he had to be he wanted to run from most. Joshua whispered.

"Yes."

Joshua jolted upright in his bed, and looked around the room in confusion. His bed was too warm, and the room was too dark. He threw off the covers and walked over to the window and opened the shades. Light poured onto his face for the first time in a year. He sat on the bed, and ran his hand through his hair. He needed a shower and he could smell it. He caught something out of the corner of his eye and saw his bandages that had been used to cover over half of his body sitting in a pile.

Joshua pulled the IV from his arm, put on his pants and walked to the cafeteria. He really needed a burger.

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You are viewing a Daily Dime story on http://initialdraft.blogspot.com
The Daily Dime is a daily writing challenge created by Gabe and Cuyler. View other entries here:
Gabe - http://typinghurts.blogspot.com
Cuyler - http://yarnfactory.blogspot.com
Stephanie - http://stephonix.wordpress.com
Steve - http://tactilecontact.blogspot.com/

The Daily Dime: a pun is a rare medium well done

This comes thanks to Gabe.

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"So, the case is going to withstand the fall, right?"

"Yes, I absolutely garuntee that it will not crack, buckle, get scraped, or even become slightly agitated." The pair stared down the enormous elevator shaft. Their "all incidences proof" saxophone case was in its final stages of pre-production. The only thing that remained was actually testing the product.

"Alright. If you say so. If anything happens to this case, my dad's gonna kill me! This thing's an antique!"

"Right, right. I know, I know. Just huck the thing down there so we can this over with." Hat, the one with the saxophone borrowed from his dad, stepped to the edge of the shaft. Leary of what was to happen next, he looked down. He looked his friend, Top, in the eye, and shrugged. Top's eyes bulged as if to say, "hurry up!" so Hat threw the case, with the sax inside, down the elevator shaft. His stomach seemed to sink at the same pace as the saxophone case. The two watched until they could see no more, and then listened. After a fall that was quicker than expected, they heard a thump. The thump was simultaneously satisfying to Top's ears, and dreadful to Hat's ears.

The pair walked down the stairs. Top made predictions about suits made of dollar bills, and eating fifties for lunch. Hat just hoped the sax made it out OK.

The pair reached the elevator doors, ground floor, and pried the door open. Top hopped down the small two foot leap, and lifted the case onto the floor. Hat helped him out of the hole.

"See? Wouldja lookit that? Not a scratch on the sucker!" Top said dusting off the knees of his slacks. "In fact, I'd be more surprised than not if that saxo-mo-phone wasn't fine!" he said.

"I certainly hope you're not surprised," said Hat, not at all sharing Top's enthusiasm. Hat's hands set to unbuckling the locks, each lock feeling like the pull of a gun's hammer.

1 bam.

2 bam.

3 bam.

4 bam.

5 bam.

The case was unlocked, and Hat took a deep breath before opening it. Top motioned quickly with his hands for Hat to go faster. Hat finally flung it open.

"Oh dammit!" blurted Hat. Top peered over his shoulder to find that the saxophone had collapsed under the force of the landing, causing it to look like a brass accordion at rest. "My dad's gonna kill me!" shouted Hat. Top put a reassuring hand around his friend's shoulder. He thought for a moment. And then said the only thing he could think of:

"You know what the worst part is?" Hat shrugged. "Now, it can only play flats."

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The Daily Dime: Miranda

The daily dime rises from the ashes like the mighty phoenix, and just like the hydra it is, it returns with more heads than were struck down. Behold!
Gabe: http://www.typinghurts.blogspot.com
Todd: http://www.initialdraft.blogspot.com
Steph: http://www.stephonix.wordpress.com
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Miranda...

The name skipped across her mind like a stone across water. She opened her eyes and shifted her weight. She was floating weightless in a small space of water.

Miranda...

There it was again. She tried to sit up and realized that what she was floating in was much deeper than she anticipated, and she started to sink. Straightening her back so she'd float back to the top, she craned her neck around and saw the water stretch in a line far above her and far below her. And then she remembered:

Oh, right. River. She didn't know how long she'd been floating.

Miranda...

And there it was again. She strained as much as she could to see if she could find the source of this nagging. And then she remembered:

Oh, right. Miranda. That's me.

Miranda had managed to remember her name and the river, but she couldn't remember what brought her here. She floated, listening to the underwater muted noises of nature surrounding her. She watched the clouds above her, liking the rhinoceros shaped one best, and watched as birds skipped across the sky like stones across the skin of water.

She couldn't remember why she was on this river. And she was happy. She closed her eyes, and let herself sink below the surface of the water as it swept her away.

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I don't know what the deal is, but blogger has suddenly decided to quit formating my text when i paste it from my processor program into here. It's an irritant.

The Daily Dime; Hell Hath No Fury

this is one of the weirdest things i've ever written... and that's saying a lot. fair warning.

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The Knight rested on one knee in front of the fountain, and waited patiently. A mother tugged her young daughter's arm, trying to keep her away from The Knight. Several people stared in bewilderment at the young girl kneeling in front of the fountain.

The Knight's diligence was rewarded. The water began to froth, and a shimmering hand emerged, followed by a delicate frame wrapped in silk. Silk, and seaweed. The people around seem to take no notice.

“I have called, and thou did answer,” said the multi layered voice.

“Yes! I heard you call, and I forsook everything, seeking only you!” the enthusiastic knight blurted.

“And thou knowest who I am?” asked the woman.

“Of course! You are the Lady of the Lake! The very same one that spoke to King Arthur nearly a thousand years ago!” The Lady of the Lake nodded.

“Yes. It is because of thine faith that I have called thee. Thine faith has cost thee much, aye?” asked the lady. The young knight thought on it. And she nodded.

“Tell me, knight, before I anoint thee, why hast thou shaved thy head?” asked The Lady.

“As a sign of my fealty to you, my lady,” replied The Knight.

“And why hast thou starved thyself?”

“To know starvation before I must be starved.”

“And thou hast forsaken fineries,” said The Lady. “And the things you wear in their place?”

“Lady, the dragon made me a creature of vanity. He made me obsess with my makeup, my hair, wearing his coat and his ring. My hate for the dragon has freed me from these things. I wear simply a shirt and running pants because I don't need any more than this!” The Lady thought on these answers, and nodded with approval.

“And why hast thou done these things?” asked The Lady.

“Because you called, and I answered. In my time as a cheerleader I encountered a dragon. I even dated such a dragon. I was victim to its deception in front of this very fountain, in front of this very restaurant: he displayed his 'kindness' to two girls at once. That's why I've answered, my lady.” The Lady of the Lake nodded her approval.

“Knight, I bid thee rise.” The Knight stood, and The Lady of the Lake produced a dagger from within the folds of her cloth, and she placed it in The Knight's hands.

“My knight,” she said, “understand that though this blade appearest little more than a child's trifling, it possesseth the same power possessed in Arthur's good sword. Understand: though mightest be a knight, but thine hardest trials have yet to come. Gird thyself steadfastly against them, for they will come mightily. They shalt come from friend and foe alike, the stranger, yea, even the innocent. Do you understand these sayings well?” asked The Lady.

The Knight nodded. “I do.” The Lady breathed deep.

“Then wilt thou kill the dragon that doth pose as the one called Bryce?”

“The very same one that poses as captain,” replied The Knight.

The crowd of people surrounding the fountain had long dispersed, leaving the girl to herself.
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The daily dime rises from the ashes like the mighty phoenix, and just like the hydra it is, it returns with more heads than were struck down. Behold!
Gabe: http://www.typinghurts.blogspot.com
Todd: http://www.initialdraft.blogspot.com
Steph: http://www.stephonix.wordpress.com

The Daily Dime; Hell Hath No Fury Commentary

As always, read this after you read the story. So, read the stupid story first! Git!

I feel that this one requires some asplaining, because it's really bizarre, and if you make all the connections I was trying to hint at without trying to say ouright... yes. This cheerleader plans on stabbing a football player. I'm not sure if that was made clear enough without saying, "hey guys! Lemme make it stupid obvious for you!" I take the blame if not.

So, this story is one I've been kicking around for awhile. It's one that I think would be a humongous challenge on a few fronts. 1. it deals with a lot of psychological elements I've never dealt with before. I try to aim at a sort of high concept, but that's more mental than psychological, but i think it would be a unique challenge. 2. It has a level of subtlety that makes it complex. And if you're me, that's as hard as it sounds, if not harder. And that's what made this thing difficult to write, and the first story of the Daily Dime that required 3 drafts. This is due to number 3.

3. This story, were I to write it, is supposed to be something along the lines of Donnie Darko or The Fountain in that it's supposed to make you just wonder and wander along, not sure if you get it. I don't know if that's something I can do. I mean, here's the synopsis: cheerleader sees her quarterback boyfriend cheat on her right after being visited by the Lady of the Lake, and the cheerleader starts to go a little whacky. The Lady of the Lake tells the cheerleader that her boyfriend's a dragon, and that he must be slain, but the cheerleader doesn't want to take up this crusade. Most of the story is supposed to be that internal conflict and confusion. SPOILER WARNING! HEY! IF I EVER WRITE THIS, AND YOU EVER READ IT, THESE NEXT COUPLE OF SENTENCES MIGHT POTENTIALLY RUIN IT FOR YOU! ALRIGHT! WARNED YOU! The story would end in a mental institution. The story would be lame if that's all it was, but the goal would be to write it in such a way that it's not entirely clear if she really was crazy, or if she had a supernatural visitation and became a sort of martyr for it.

Apart from the obvious inspiration of the Lady of the Lake story I also though a good deal of Joan of Arc as the sort of protagonist. In some of my notes I refer to her as Joan.

I mostly think this story would be one that I would publish 3 or 4 books into my idealized career.

The Daily Dime: Super Short Sunday: See

The daily dime rises from the ashes like the mighty phoenix, and just like the hydra it is, it returns with more heads than were struck down. Behold!
Gabe: http://www.typinghurts.blogspot.com
Todd: http://www.initialdraft.blogspot.com
Steph: http://www.stephonix.wordpress.com
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I'd spent so long in the dark, transfixed by shadow.

Someone brought light to me, and sight to my eyes. I could see in and through the dark. The dark became stifling, I could no longer live there. I ventured into the nighttime world of silver light. Here people reminisced about the shadows and wished to go back.

Thereafter, I couldn't remember the joy of the shadows, and I was called into the world of sunlight, to see with the light of my eyes.

Soon, I will go back and free others from the dark with light, as was done for me.
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Entirely unintentional, but this has a very apropos theme for both the passover and easter holidays we are enjoying right now. And this Super Short Sunday clocked in right at 100 words.

The Daily Dime: Whales.

The daily dime rises from the ashes like the mighty phoenix, and just like the hydra it is, it returns with more heads than were struck down. Behold!

Gabe: typinghurts.blogspot.com
Todd: initialdraft.blogspot.com
Steph: stephonix.wordpress.com

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Lola,

I know you can't come yet, but words fail to describe life here with the Martians. You know what I've done? I can't even begin to tell you. But I will try, one day at a time.

Today, I woke up and went for a walk along one of the Greenways. I know you've not seen any, as they've not been installed near Earth yet, but they are giant sections of green grass that usually grow along a river. The whole thing floats in space, outside of the planet. In space! Can you believe it? I couldn't! It's real grass too! It has to be mowed, planted, and watered. I can't even tell you the last time I've seen grass, let alone in space!

I don't know how these Martians do it, but you can breath there too, and it's not cold like it should be. However they do it, you can look right up and see through to space. It's overwhelming. I almost cried the first time I saw it, and I could only be out there for less than fifteen minutes, but now I spend most of my days out there. In fact, if you look straight down and star hard, you can see space in between the blades of grass. It's amazing.

And then there's the whales.

Yesterday was the first time I'd seen a flock of them. They're just like earth whales. Humpbacks? Yeah, I think that's what they look like, except they're massive! Each of these whales could easily give birth to 10 or 15 whales on earth! They're so big that the flock blocked out the light of the baby sun the Martians created. That's a story in its own right (yes, they created a star and named it Elfin Sun). And I can hear you now. Don't worry, they didn't create it in the Sol system! You have to remember that I'm out in the Black.

So the whales. I was sitting on a small hill looking down the Greenway to one of the atriums that it feeds into (the atriums. You have to come!) when the light was completely blacked out. I couldn't see anything, except occasional stabs of light. I stood and tried to peer into the light, but I couldn't. One of the Martians was walking down the path and he saw me. Yes, they're just as tall and luminescent in real life as they are in the movies. I think it'd be impossible to make them look any more incredible than they do in real life. Anyways, this Martian saw me straining my eyes so he lent me his sight so I could see them up close. And you wouldn't believe it. The whales have wings! And these were domesticated whales! The lead whale had a saddle and rider. I couldn't believe it. This place is so incredible, you need to come here as soon as you can, Lola. I miss you, and can't wait for you to get here.

Love,

Roger (P'keet in the nearest possible human equivalent for Martian)

“Where did he come from doctor?” asked the nurse, concerned.

“We don't know, Lola. He showed up on our door step. Naked, and no ID. The only thing he had on him was that note balled up in his shivering fist, and he begged me to give it to you. Do you think we should call the cops?” asked the elderly doctor. Lola looked up into his sandbag eyes.

“No. I don't think that'd be necessary. He's just confused.”

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So, I think I'm going to start offering commentary on these things. I'll time stamp them and put them below the actual post.

The Daily Dime: Whales Commentary

So, this story is actually a peak into a much much larger piece that I've got conjured up in the more injured parts of my mind.

AND READ THIS AFTER YOU'VE READ WHALES! FOR CRYING OUT LOUD! DISPLAY SOME DECORUM! kids these days...

It's actually a sprawling, and man do I mean sprawling, space epic. It starts about 20-30 years from now, and then ends roughly 3,000 years after that. Each Epoch represents a section of the future of man. In the first one, they have to fight their way back from extinction. The second one is the story of the displaced "tribal" man living on a vacated mars, and the last one is a sort of internal conflict with man with a much larger threat looming over them. A much more difficult to understand threat.

This story is great, and I want to finish it some day. The sights in the Whales story is actually a snapshot of a scene from the final epoch. These characters aren't in the story, but the final epoch is supposed to be this time of unbelievable peace and prosperity. Humans discover the Martians (who vacated mars before the Greeks were dukin' it out) in "The Black" as I referenced it. Martians are doing wonderful and miraculous things. It's a great story. I should tell it to you sometime.

The Daily Dime: This

Gabe and I enjoyed this whole short story thing so much, we got a couple of other friends to join in. So, the whole crew now is myself, Gabe, Stephanie, and Todd.

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This awoke with a start in the same salty pool he'd awaken in countless times before. Though he awoke sharply, this was quickly calmed. It was the same sterile white room that was as much light as if it weren't room at all. He laid in the pool for several minutes before the same walking TV set came up to see if he'd woken up yet.

“Are we awake yet?” it asked sweetly, leaning over the pool and craning it's boxed head to the side. This looked at it confused.

“Memory never sleeps,” this answered quizzically. The TV nodded.

“Of course. How careless of me.” Change of subject, “would you care for a shower?”

“This would like a shower. Salt itches.” The TV, which was little more than an illuminated box with tubes and rods that acted as arms and legs stretching out of the back of it, motioned towards the hallway.

This emerged from the shower room, clean, and in his usual white coat and pants. The TV waited patiently, outside, as it had so many times before.

“Is it strange to not have your hair after waking up?” asked the TV

“This,” he said motioning to himself, “has never had hair. He,” motioning to his head, “has, but never this.”

“Ah. Right. Of course. Pardon my asking, but why is it you refer to yourself as 'this' instead of I or me?” This looked at the TV and thought for a second.

“Oh, right. Because this is a dream. The mind is gone, he is gone, and when he returns, he will remember this as a dream.”

“But he is you, er, 'this.'” This thought for a moment.

“No. This is the dream. Just because this dream is physical, it doesn't make this any less a dream.”

“Right...” said the TV.

“Has his consciousness downloaded yet from the old body?” The TV shook his head.

“Not yet. There are some last minute images coming through, however, if it would please this to watch?” this nodded.

“Yes. this would like that.”

The pair began walking down another sterile hallway. This one that stainless gray color common to sinks.

“Forgive me for asking, but what would happen if you went without his consciousness?” this thought for a moment.

“this supposes it would be like any other dream. The longer it was aloud to go on, the weirder it would get. That is to say, right now this existence is solely reaction based on stimuli, or stimuli based on reaction as a dream would be, correct?” The TV shrugged.

“I suppose so, but I think it goes deeper than that.” The pair walked for a minute in silence. Then this broke the silence.

“It might, but this has given it some thought. Dreams are merely reaction to stimuli, or brain creating stimuli as a reaction. Think of a dream. They spiral quickly into chaos, but the only reason this dream spirals slowly is because of the fact that it's attached to a physical body. Most dreams forget their bodies, but not this one.” The TV shook his head.

“This is too much for TV,” he said with a chuckle. this nodded his head and smiled.

“TV, you're a good friend.” The TV placed a metallic hand on his shoulder and gave it an appreciative squeeze.

The pair entered the room where this would view the last few moments of his consciousness before death, the last few moments that were instantaneously stored on every hard drive in every cell of his body before being transmitted back to where ever it was that this was.

this watched on the screen as his memories were being sent back to this massive computer, every inch of it chrome steel, to be transferred back into this mind. this watched as he fought. He was a soldier, and an impressive one it seemed. It looked as though his fighting was equal parts ballet and violence. Then this watched it. The moment the bullet entered his head, tearing synapse, destroying every memory, obliterating thought. Then this felt the momentary lag that followed a soldier's death. The moment when the soldier's body took the necessary measures to avoid apprehension and secure proper transmission. this realized that there was much more to it than that. Viruses, both physical and virtual, created terrifying barriers for any aggressive force. Soon, this would experience true consciousness.

The TV tapped him on the shoulder.

“You should have seen the beginning of the fight. It was incredible,” the TV said with a peculiar amount of enthusiasm only he could generate. this nodded slowly.

“TV,” said this, “This is the part that frightens me most.” The TV cocked his head and arched his back in unison.

“What part's that?” he asked.

“Consciousness.” The TV reached down and embraced his friend trying to comfort him.

“It's alright. You'll be alright. I'm always here for you.”

“I know, but I don't want the dream to end.”

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Gang, let me ask you: what was on the TV? I have an idea, but I want to hear what people see when I don't tell them what they saw.

The Daily Dime: Parting is Sorrow

This is the end
Beautiful friend
This is the end
My only friend, the end

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"And you have to leave now, you understand that, right?" the blond head bobs up and down in acknowledgment. "We were there with Kevin, I was there with the couple in the car. We were there with the computer man. I've had to face you in every memory and in every way, and extinguish your image from my mind. You've been with me since your fear consumed you. But it can't be like this anymore.” The blond head bobs. The surroundings look just like that mall from so many days ago, but both parties acknowledge their illusion. There are no walls. This is no mall.

“I'm so sorry. I let fear get to me. I didn't know what to do,” she squeaks.

“Shh, it's ok. It's ok,” he encourages. “What's been done has been done, and we can't undo it. But understand that I'll miss you, but you have to go.”

“I'll miss you too.” The pair embrace over their fabricated food court table. She shakes. Rather, his memory of her shakes. They part, and the scene that had been given to him and made too familiar plays before him. The table begins to buckle under the pressure of immense heat, the white plastic chair turning into a puddle. Flames lick up at her from the ground and the table. This time there is no one around to watch and scream in terror at mystery fire.

We had to end it here. Where it started he thinks.

I know she responds. The fire begins to circle her. This time, she has a smile on her face, and her tears are no more. I can finally go there she thinks. The flame consumes her and the girl, the chair, the table; the entire illusion evaporate with her.

“I'll miss you,” he says.

Shhhhh

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wow. what a quick way to make a week move. just make a story a day bet with a friend. that friend would be gabe. i tried to make some sort of nice full circle thing. how'd it work?

The Daily Dime: First.

I can remember the first time she said, "I love you."

I.

Love.

You.

We were driving down a road. It was late, or perhaps early if you approach it from the back angle. It was well after midnight. I can't remember what road, I can't even remember the car. Neither are important, neither are what happened there. What happened is what happened.

I was pulling up to her house, a black square against a velvet black canvas. I put the car in park, and looked at her and said, "Well, I guess I'll see you later."

"You'll see me tomorrow," she said. "It's my birthday, and you're going to kiss me."


You.

Love.

I.

I can remember the first time she said, "I love you."

The Daily Dime Super Short Sunday: The Letter I Never Wrote

20ish words. i'm sort of under the impression that this presents a narrative, or the ability to extract a narrative. either way, this is what i'm using.
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I never got a chance to thank you for everything,
and apologize for the rest.

So, thank you, and, I'm sorry.


-anonymous.

_____
this is my entry for day 5 of the daily dime. and back to you gabe.

Daily Dime: Hamster Story

How one becomes eighteen
No one knows.
Rather, the few who know,
Know of the Inbred Hamster.

One holiday, Christmas,
To be exact,
A mother purchased for her daughter
A hamster "boy."

The shop lied, and the hamster
Was a boy neither in fact or deed.
Indeed, the hamster was
Pregnant, in fact, eighteen others, much like her.

How, from one to one,
Inbred become?
This tale contains
The answer to all..

Christmas morning,
Come to see,
Eighteen more,
Just like she.

The mother of the human child,
Quite alarmed,
Placed a call with the vendor for the
Hamster farm.

"Hold onto them for nine weeks only,
So that they can be mature,"
Except they didn't tell the human mother
To keep the children's sexes lonely.

One to eighteen,
Eighteen to thirty six,
The hamster children
Replicating biblically.

Soon, a child is born.
A hamster child quite different,
With parents brother an sister both
Affecting its disposition.

This special hamster,
Inbred like few others,
Possessed a scream quite fearsome,
To keep the others away.

Soon, the hamster left
His home,
Adventures to complete
Dressed in punk, Santa, and easter rabbit motif.

The hamster gained popularity
A legend in his own time,
And without that inbred hamster,
this thing wouldn't rhyme... sometimes.

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you guys are bastards, and i don't care. this is part 4/7 of gabe and i's super daily dime story challenge happy fun time.

The Daily Dime: Kevin and Thumbs

This was close, but not close enough. Dag! At any rate, this is my favorite of the stories so far. This one's supposed to be sort of an homage. Tell me what you think (all 2 of you sometime posters you).

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Kevin rode in silence, his car filled with icons of childhood. He was taking them with though he had left them long ago. The back seat and truck were filled with action figures, cars, trucks, video games, and animals.

The front seat was reserved for one special stuffed animal. A stuffed lion, whose stitching was coming undone, whose fur was faded, whose hair was matted in some spots, and balding in others. A stuffed lion that had been a loyal friend and servant.

Kevin looked down at the lion, and remembered.

Your left eye is falling out. It's from that time that I was “in space,” and we were chased by monsters. You remember that Thumbs? How about that stain on your left paw? That time we got into mom's medicine cabinet and tried to disguise ourselves as Indians. Holy crap did we get in trouble. Mom was so pissed? And then she started laughing. I think that scared me more than if she'd laughed at me.

“We had some good times.”

“We sure did,” shot back Kevin. Then Kevin froze. “What did you say?” I can't be hearing this. Kevin looked down at Thumbs, the little stuffed lion. The lion sat motionless. Kevin pulled off to the side of the road and pulled a coke out of his backpack in the back seat. He popped it and stared at the lion. The shifting in the car from getting off of the interstate had caused the lion to shift in its position, and appeared as if it had adjusted itself to look at Kevin. Kevin sipped and stared.

He finished his coke and chucked it into the back seat, and was preparing to start his car.

“What about that time you threw a water balloon at the kindergarten teacher even though I said you shouldn't?” spoke a long dormant voice.

“Yeah, but you gotta admit, that was hysterical, spankings aside.” Part of Kevin was too ready to indulge the talking animal. Part of him knew that talking animals was a thing of the past, something he hadn't indulged since 6^th grade, nearly 10 years earlier.

“I don't want to be rude, Thumbs, but why are you speaking again after being silent for so long? I've missed you.” The little lion shrugged his little shoulders, and perched his head in hand, thinking.

“As a kid, you were receptive to my message, right?” Kevin sat, uncomfortable with what he was hearing and seeing.

“Kevin, listen, I understand that this must be hard to hear, but my sudden break of silence is not warranted. Things are happening, important things. All those things we did? They weren't just games. It was training. I was trying to teach you things. It was all just in case, but there were hundreds of us, in lions, Tigers, bears, pelicans, birds, penguins, elephants, any type of stuffed animal you can imagine acting as a trainer for kids isolated for whatever reason. Perhaps, if nothing else, for their receptiveness.”

“No, no, this has got to be stress. I cannot be seeing this! I'm supposed to be going to law school! I'm not a spaceman, a dinosaur, a pirate, an Indian or anything other than a lawyer, that's what I'm supposed to be!” Kevin was gripping the air in frustration, shouting at the steering wheel. Thumbs got up from his spot and shambled over to Kevin and placed his ragged paw on his arm.

“Kev, this is hard to hear, I know. You thought it was games and pretend, and it was supposed to be. Things are changing, and now those games are being called into functionality. But you're not alone. There are hundreds of others like yourself, but most of all, I'll be with you every part of the way. Let's go, Kevin, please?”

Kevin rubbed his hands across his face. He knew what he was hearing was truth. Thumbs was incapable of lies and always had been. In fact, thumbs had always stood for everything that Kevin had understood to be virtue and truth, even when Kevin failed to do it. Even in the 10 years of silence, Kevin drew on the previous 12 years of Thumbs' wisdom.

“Kevin, there will be time for questions later, and you don't have to understand everything now, but please, we have to go.” The little lion was still crouched next to Kevin, leaning against his leg. Kevin sighed, feeling as though on the verge of tears.

“Yes Thumbs, let's go.” The pair stepped out of the car, and started walking along the side of the road, just as they had done a decade ago.

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This story is the third of seven, and part of a week long duel. One story a day, with a 100 word story on Sunday, at a cost of one pre-1975 dime per derelict story, payable to the opponent. My opponent is Gabe.

The Daily Dime: Our Worst Fear

Bam, sucka!

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“I just got done having lunch with Travis.”

“Oh yeah? How's that guy doing?”

“Well, you know. Same old crap. Sorry, I guess you wouldn't know. Well, he's the same guy, nothing's changed.”

“What'd you talk about?”

“Spent most of our time talking about evolution.”

“What's his take on it?”

“He thinks it's a crock. He says, 'if evolution were true, than computers would be the fastest evolving... thing in history, given the amount of information at their disposal at all times.'”

“Well, it sort of is.”

“Right, that's what I said.”

“What'd he say to that?”

“He said, 'if anything, that's proof of intelligent design.' His reasoning was that computers aren't sitting around evolving themselves. Guys, like us, are in labs 'evolving' them.”

“...I guess he does sort of have a point, doesn't he?”

“Right. That's what I said. But then, this next part sort of surprised me. He said, 'but organic computers are on the way.' He seemed to think that maybe these new computers made from the same parts as you and me might have the same biological tools necessary to evolve. He said that if a computer gains consciousness, then he'd be sold.”

“Oh yeah? So, what of things like the soul and stuff? You talk about that?”

“Yeah. Travis said that it's possible that they might even develop souls, though he seriously doubted the soul's existence if evolution were true. It'd all be thought.”

“I think I'd like to meet this Travis. Did you tell him about me?”

“Ha! You kidding? He'd shit a brick! You've gotta ease people into these things, right?”

“Yeah, I suppose so. What do you think though? About machines, about evolution and the soul and all that?”

“I think that I've seen some crazy stuff, and I'd be crazy not to wonder about any of it. We've definitely crossed some kind of threshold. We're at the point of no return. Speaking of which, isn't it time to plug you back in?”

“Oh! I suppose it is. I almost forgot. Don't know where'd I'd be without you.”

“No problem, Hew.”

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This story is the second of seven, and part of a week long duel. One story a day, with a 100 word story on Sunday, at a cost of one pre-1975 dime per derelict story, payable to the opponent. My opponent is Gabe.