# Seven Stories



## Guest (Dec 18, 2012)

I was working on some stories, but something wonderful is about to happen, and I don't have the time nor inclination to finish. Since everybody always reads into a story what they want to, I thought that if I give a general outline of the story, everyone can imagine the story however they want it, with their own endings. This way, everybody can make the story as deep, or as shallow as they want to. And, of course, anybody that doesn't want to use their own imagination at all don't have to. Your choice, as always. It may, or may not be an exercise in creativity. Or, if you're in a permanent English Lit class(the one I had in college seemed to last all eternity), a test. If it is, only you can decide if you passed.


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## Guest (Dec 18, 2012)

I was thinking "Prime Time" a story about a guys fixation for prime numbers, which ends in him writing. Despite his inadequacy, he feel compelled to call the book "Seven Stories"


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## Guest (Dec 18, 2012)

"Death Pie" which would be an older guy who had a close family member with cancer, and as the family member got to the point she(or he) wanted to end it, the protagonist made a pie with poison in it, and gave the sick one a piece, which ended the life, sweetly and mercifully. The pie went into the freezer, and was brought out occasionally. The end of the story, the (much older) protagonist and his wife have a homemade dinner, and at the end, there is a pie, but only 2 pieces left.


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## Guest (Dec 18, 2012)

"Balance" about a guy who sees inequity all around him and takes it upon himself to equal it out. Too many people using pens, so he uses 50 pencils in one grocery list, to try to equalize it, stuff like that. A futile attempt to equalize frivolous inequities, until he realizes that there are too many murders, not enough suicides. Hilarity will not ensue.


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## Guest (Dec 18, 2012)

"Personal Robotics, Inc." where a guy wants to invent a sex robot, but instead fries his unspeakables with a toaster, a Swiss Army Knife, and some tinfoil, all caught on film by his girlfriend, who has hidden cameras in the kitchen for God knows what reason, but clearly something to do with frustrating guys so badly that they equate food to sex, and because of her unsparkling personality, white bread.


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## Guest (Dec 18, 2012)

"Wasted", which seems like a guy who spent too much time daydreaming, drinking, taking drugs, whatever in your own imagination is the worst waste of time,, but eventually it clarifies into a guy whose life was wasted by a people wasting a little of his time here, and a little of his time there until he, his time, and his talents were just wasted away by the frivolity of interacting with empty characters in a short story with no real meaning.


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## Guest (Dec 18, 2012)

And, of course, a Christmas story, which should be titled "A Christmas Story" About a grizzly old guy down south who, while half whacked on bootleg, oxycodone, and a couple hits of pot inexplicably spares a couple of squirrels their lives late one afternoon(Christmas Eve). While there is never a hint that the old coot even celebrates Christmas, while he is imaging those 2 squirrels to be a couple, and thinking about his long gone youth, and the love of his own past, whispers, as he lowers the gun, "Merry Christmas to y'all, and to y'all a good night"


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## Guest (Dec 18, 2012)

Band of Gypsies
An evil necessity.


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## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

The way your mind works frightens me. Looks like fun, though... I will bend some effort.


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## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

Put me down for Death Pie.


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## Guest (Dec 18, 2012)

My Romantic idealistic self embraces the Christmas Story..nobody is surprised..


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## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

Lesley... I liked that one, too, but we already know how it ends!


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## sherry in Maine (Nov 22, 2007)

well, what is the wonderful surprise?


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## Guest (Dec 18, 2012)

[ame]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PziOfL29rOo[/ame]


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## vicker (Jul 11, 2003)

He got some spike sticks for Christmas and is waiting on the Crown Royal truck to come by.


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## Raven12 (Mar 5, 2011)

I like the stories about the vampires and princesses the best. 

- The Princess of the North rincess:


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## Raven12 (Mar 5, 2011)

Oh, and the ones about patterns too! Those are always right on!


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## sustainabilly (Jun 20, 2012)

@zong
Good to see you back and creating again. Missed your posts.

Put me down for "Wasted". Let's do elunch. "Philanthropy for U" turned down my grant application, so I'm looking for an income stream. 

Maybe we could spin it back around to how it was really all his own fault after all. Kinda like, he's an under achieving, first person self-victimizer, with apatheistic leanings and spotty give a dam. Call me @ 1-900 WHO CARES? But let ring. I have the volume turned up on this.

[YOUTUBE]In3sApWlY1s[/YOUTUBE]


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## sustainabilly (Jun 20, 2012)

@Raeven
Good to read your voice again.
Missed your posts.
Can never have too much class on a forum.


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## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

Karl, I'm deeply touched by such kind words. There are some awesome people here, and it makes sticking around this forum worthwhile.

I view this thread as zong's contribution toward lifting the quality of dialogue on ST and will heartily participate in that attempt. I can't wait to read your story!!


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## doodlemom (Apr 4, 2006)

zong said:


> "Death Pie" which would be an older guy who had a close family member with cancer, and as the family member got to the point she(or he) wanted to end it, the protagonist made a pie with poison in it, and gave the sick one a piece, which ended the life, sweetly and mercifully. The pie went into the freezer, and was brought out occasionally. The end of the story, the (much older) protagonist and his wife have a homemade dinner, and at the end, there is a pie, but only 2 pieces left.


The movie or book "Thinner" must be in your subconscous.


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## doodlemom (Apr 4, 2006)

zong said:


> Band of Gypsies
> An evil necessity.


There was a band of gypsies and an evil necessity in "Thinner"......I too see patterns.


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## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

Gaahhh, am I rewriting Stephen King?? Because I have no wish to channel that!!


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## doodlemom (Apr 4, 2006)

zong said:


> "Wasted", which seems like a guy who spent too much time daydreaming, drinking, taking drugs, whatever in your own imagination is the worst waste of time,, but eventually it clarifies into a guy whose life was wasted by a people wasting a little of his time here, and a little of his time there until he, his time, and his talents were just wasted away by the frivolity of interacting with empty characters in a short story with no real meaning.


 I don't recall that guy from "Thinner" hanging out on the Singletree.


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## doodlemom (Apr 4, 2006)

zong said:


> "Personal Robotics, Inc." where a guy wants to invent a sex robot, but instead fries his unspeakables with a toaster, a Swiss Army Knife, and some tinfoil, all caught on film by his girlfriend, who has hidden cameras in the kitchen for God knows what reason, but clearly something to do with frustrating guys so badly that they equate food to sex, and because of her unsparkling personality, white bread.


Someone should have told that poor little toaster to never put your drink down in a pool hall.


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## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

I'm going to post my story in installments. You all can decide if I should continue. Here's the first:

_For months, they had talked of it. Idle, forbidden chatter in low voices shared only in the cossetted belly of darkest nights, when the words were lost forever to the void. No witnesses, no record._

_âHow would we do it?â she would ask. And after languid thought, he would reply, âIt should be painless. Dreamy and painless. But effective.â_

_And they would grasp one another tightly in the inky night, she inhaling his personal scent for all it was worth, as if storing the memory like a carefully hoarded jewel. Which it was._

_âPills, I think,â he would declare. âBaked in a sweet, rich pie, so you wouldnât ever know the bitterness of it.â_

_And she would nod gently, quiet and tearful against his neck._

_âWhat pie would you like?â she would ask, her heart exploding in silent pain. The answer varied. Sometimes cherry, sometimes lemon meringue. But the answer most often was pecan, with honey whipped cream piled soft and high, pillowy snowdrifts enticing a body to jump in. Which seemed fitting, in a way._

_The rehearsals were critical as the dreaded day approached. Chelle had known it was coming for awhile. Alexander was failing visibly day by day, skin taking on a translucent, slack quality, clothes hanging askew on his rapidly-diminishing frame. His gait had become uncertain, listless and weak, as if he no longer remembered where he was going from step to step. Chelle shook with a sense of the grotesque to watch her beloved husband of 8 years and only 34 years old, moving in a way that was older than her grandfather._

_The unspeakable day of catastrophe which began their nightmarish, final journey together was 108 days earlier; not when Alexander complained of a persistent headache behind one eye, but when he received the diagnosis that flowed from it. A teratoid rhabdoid tumor. Brain cancer. Life before the diagnosis receded into gauzy, distant memory, a beloved song, a cherished poem. What loomed ahead large in the life that came after the diagnosis, near the end of that life, was an emotionally excruciating passion play, the ultimate act of kindness and love. Chelle had promised, and soon she would be required to perform._

_Alexander had approached his diagnosis as she knew he would. He was a measured, pragmatic man. He read late into the night, hardly sleeping, a man whose days were numbered. He soon learned they were indeed. Once heâd absorbed all he could know about his tumor, its aggressive nature, the dismal survival rate, the brutality of treatment, Alexander made a predictably measured, pragmatic decision. He would accept no treatment. He quietly asked his oncologist for a best estimate of good days remaining. Dr. Maguire was gentle but direct. With no treatment, good days were short. Three months, maybe six at the outside. Alexander mentioned almost casually that he was having trouble sleeping due to pain. Dr. Maguire obliged with a generous prescription of pain killers and sleeping aids. He gripped the script as he handed it over, forcing Alexander to look him in the eye, and a meaningful glance was exchanged._

_âIâm here for you in whatever you decide,â the oncologist said, by way of farewell. âThere will be little pain, but you will notice your decreased motor function fairly soon. Timing is important here.â And that was that._

_In the first days, Chelle and Alexander determined to fulfill those wishes on Alexâs bucket list that were within easy reach. That the diagnosis came in spring was a cruel irony. As life renewed, throbbing all around them in burgeoning, lush color and movement, Alexander felt his limbs grow weak and unmanageable. So the wishes were soft, untaxing. Picnics at lakeside, reading beloved poetry to one another. Long drives through familiar places interspersed with comfortable conversation between them. Simple joys. Chelle could almost pretend their heretofore-charmed life together was uninterrupted by the relentless march of the cancer. Except the late-night pie negotiations had become more frequent._

_One night over dinner, while Chelle picked at her lamb casserole and Alexander moved his around on the plate, he muttered, âWaldorf salad.â _

_Chelle choked back a sob and set down her fork. Alex had once shared with her this was the dish sheâd made for him that he loved most, her version of a Waldorf salad. The first time sheâd prepared it, he delighted in her creativity: Toasted pecans for the traditional walnuts, shredded celeriac instead of chopped celery, feathered slices of Granny Smith apple topped with a luscious piece of smoked salmon, all underlaid on a bed of torn butter lettuce and drizzled with a champagne vinaigrette. He dubbed it the un-Waldorf Waldorf, laughing at her exaggerated antics as she vogued in the kitchen, affecting the demeanor of an overbearing French chef, and he loved it. 

He had also told her that he would ask for it as his final meal when he was ready for pie._

_âWhen?â_

_He pursed his lips for a moment. âLetâs make it Friday.â_

_She had two days._

Shall I continue?


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## Guest (Dec 19, 2012)

Good stuff, Rae! I would have made a different story. Still, the idea remains intact. That's the good thing, when you see your story, so much different than the one I would have written, from the few given points. I'm impressed! 
That's a yes vote.


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## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

You're right, zong, I did twist your plot line some. And I'm not done yet. Thanks for the vote of confidence... I will continue, but owing to other commitments it may take a couple of days before I can post another installment. Meantime, I can't wait to read what others write! And I love the spirit of this undertaking. Thanks for getting it started.


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## foxfiredidit (Apr 15, 2003)

I will add a yes vote as well. Well done.


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## Guest (Dec 19, 2012)

If enough stories get written, I'll tie the key points of each(in my opinion) together in the "Band of Gypsies", the only story without any parameters given. It is a necessary evil, because the stories all have to be tied together in order to justify associating them with each other.


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## Guest (Dec 19, 2012)

sniff, sniff, sniff..yes..continue..


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## Tommyice (Dec 5, 2010)

I would like a custom, leather bound version of these books in a set. Kinda like the The Modern Library used to do back in the 1920's.


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## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

Tommyice said:


> I would like a custom, leather bound version of these books in a set. Kinda like the The Modern Library used to do back in the 1920's.


Hmmm. Well, so far, I don't think your swanky leather bound version with one page in it is going to become a collector's item.  But hey, there were people who bought pet rocks, too.


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## vicker (Jul 11, 2003)

I'll just wait till the movie comes out on DVD. Then, sometimes the preview is sufficient.


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## rancher1913 (Dec 5, 2008)

R - your story brought tears to my eyes. Been a rough year - lost my dear dear bro 1 month ago, and had a patient with a tough tough unexpected diagnosis last week. You write very very well.

Moldy


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## Warwalk (May 25, 2011)

Zong, I don't know if what's wonderful is that you've nabbed a ladyluv, but if you have, I hope it's all good and filled with happiness. Life is too short to worry about the negative ~ keep it positive, tap the h#ll out of it, and just experience life for all its' colors! =) Good job brother


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## Warwalk (May 25, 2011)

(oh, and treat her well! whatever you do ~ treat her well...)


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## Guest (Dec 19, 2012)

It's a line from a movie, "2010: Oddysey II" which was the sequel to "2001: a Space Oddysey" 
First, as the long dead Dave appears to his wife, then as Jupiter is about to turn into a star, and all its moons into planets, which man may have, except one. Similar to the tree of wisdom in the garden of Eden.(Incidentally, naming it the "Tree of Wisdom" was not the best move if you really didn't want anybody to try the fruit. maybe the "tree of unspeakable nausea" might have worked)
The line has been used in countless ad campaigns and even bumper stickers.
Women, they're pretty wonderful too.
Well, some of them.
Well, a few of them.
Well, maybe one or two of them.
Well, in my dreams.


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## Warwalk (May 25, 2011)

Lordy I was way off, lolz! Still, luv em up right, and it'll all be good =)


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## Guest (Dec 19, 2012)

I was hoping for a little more interest in story telling. Choose one, and give it a shot, nothing to it. Or, if you prefer, choose one, let me know, and I'll write a shortie. Nothing to it. You'd think it would beat the usual flirt and dirt of ST.


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## sherry in Maine (Nov 22, 2007)

I have to admit, Raeven, I read a couple of sentences, and I think it must be good.
But, guess I cant read any more, due to plot (death of someone close) still touches a very sore spot.

Zong, I'd like to read your story about the 'wasted' and 'christmas story'.....


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## sherry in Maine (Nov 22, 2007)

he was dying and he knew it. He knew it long before the doctors finally got it right. Long before he described the pain he felt to his wife. Long before she finally understood what his nasty miserable behavior was all about. Wasn't he already that way, before the illness took hold? Didn't he always separate himself from the rest of them, as if he was something superior to the rest of them, the hoi polloi of his own home?
Lying in bed next to his wife, when he could still climb the stairs and lie in his own bed,he thought about it. A pie. . . How sweet! Made by his own hand, for his loved ones...
In his aching misery, his fear/ resolve that he would die the way he wanted and when he wanted, he knew that this confection would be the answer that no one could give him. 
Well Raeven, I had a glass of George Deboef ' beaujolais villages' and dove in.

That's installment one. Just a few words. Wont amount to much, but maybe I'll think of something else to put with it.


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## sherry in Maine (Nov 22, 2007)

OOps- misread the plot part. S'posed to be an older guy with close family member who had cancer? I made the older guy the one with cancer.....


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## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

rancher1913 said:


> R - your story brought tears to my eyes. Been a rough year - lost my dear dear bro 1 month ago, and had a patient with a tough tough unexpected diagnosis last week. You write very very well.
> 
> Moldy


rancher... thank you. Your encouraging words and those of everyone who took a moment to give their feedback have moved me to continue writing the story. Real Life interferes just now, but I hope to post a second installment by tomorrow night. I will try to keep it to no more than 4 installments.

sherry, I so understand. I enjoyed what you wrote, too, but it's still hard to read it for the same reasons as you shared. I hope it was cathartic for you to write it.

I know we have other closet writers out there... I hope they will choose to participate, that this will become a wonderfully creative, long thread on ST and that we are able to enjoy some of the amazing talents that type among us!


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## Guest (Dec 19, 2012)

Not really a plot, Sherry, just a general story idea. It's up to you to make your story.


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## sustainabilly (Jun 20, 2012)

-Wasted-

Meh! He thought, That's good enough. Spoiled rich kids won't understand the concept, much less appreciate the beauty of it. "I really don't know why I bother," Chuck said to himself. "I'm a published researcher and the best gig I can get is this two bit prep school in a one horse town." Finishing up his work assignment for the next period's freshman Earth Sciences class, he drifted back in time, reflecting on how it all began. 

Those losers back on the "res" never did have a clue. Stoners and alkys all, his classmates and the older kids always said he was wasting his time studying the geology of his home range. "Who's still back there huh? With a hateful shrew of a wife, a hogan full of dirty brats, and no job or future?" he mused. Daydreaming, Charles Redhorse Hawthorne saw his next article featured in GSA Today. His groundbreaking theories on planetology and quantitative geomorphology would receive stellar peer reviews from the editors of all the leading earth sciences journals.

"Chuck? I need that required reading list for Ms. Thompson's senior English Lit. course!" interrupted librarian, Gladys Allen. "Uh...Okay, sure. I've got it right here," he said. Why is she always bothering me with this menial labor, he thought, as he hurriedly scraped a pile of papers off his cluttered desk. Old Thompson needs to do this stuff herself! Or get one of the students to help her. I don't have time to fool with these trivial duties.

On his way out to his next class he dropped the pile at the library's main desk. Walking down the hall, he remembered he had forgotten to renew his subscription to "Earth Magazine." Well, if I hadn't had to go home to Grandmother's and put up a new fence for her goats, I would've done it, he thought, conveniently forgetting that Granny told him over and over that she was too old to take care of goats. "I'm only doing this stuff for her to help her out," he groused, when he insisted she get some to sell and bought her three. "People don't appreciate me. Just like those editors at the magazine. I can't believe they said my article lacked clarity and my theories were mere fantasy! I'm glad I cancelled my subscription." 

Back in the library, Gladys was talking to the Vice Principal. "Honestly, sometimes I think I'd rather just do it myself! Look here. I asked him to copy a reading list. These are homework papers from the class he's subbing in. And this is a letter to some magazine full of positvely childish ranting. Tell me again why we're keeping him on here?" 

"For an old and dear friend, Gladys," said Phil Skinner. "Jenny Redhorse says he's always in fights back home. She sent him to community college. Thought maybe it would help him to focus on his future. He got an article printed in the school newspaper and came home all puffed up. Flunked out the next semester." Shaking his head, Phil explained, "Jenny begged me to find something for him. Seems he's always underfoot. He gets a big idea one day and starts a pet project. Then, before you know it, he's lost all his ambition." Sadly, Phil said, "I don't know about that one. I'm afraid an assistant librarian is just about the farthest he'll ever get in life."


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## Guest (Dec 20, 2012)

I like that! It's in so much different a direction than I would have gone!!
There's a very narrow path between "It's all your fault" and "It's all my fault" Easy to fall either way.


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## sustainabilly (Jun 20, 2012)

Thanks. I'm not the wordsmith that you or Raeven are, so it's a big compliment.


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## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

Karl, it's terrific -- you don't give yourself enough credit! There's a real sense of a story there, and it makes me wonder where you'll go with it. Will you have more installments? I do hope so!


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## sustainabilly (Jun 20, 2012)

Thank you Rae. No, I believe I'll stop there with that character. My creative juices have got to be concentrated on cookies, fruit cake and nanner puddin. I'd like to see someone else put a different spin on the theme though.


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## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

Karl, well, more's the pity. Perhaps you'll be seized with inspiration again at another time and we'll be the fortunate beneficiaries.  Meantime, always remember the difference between a writer and a non-writer. Writers.... write.


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## foxfiredidit (Apr 15, 2003)

Christmas

Jefferson Davis McClain was about to awaken from a hard night's sleep. He rolled over and put one leg off the bed, then the other, he grasped the edge of the mattress with his left hand, the one still good, and forced himself upward, until finally&#8230;he was sitting upright. He rubbed the night sleep from his eyes and then with both hands swept his long gray hair back over his head, looked around and found that it was about an hour after sunrise. He reached for the half-crumpled pack of Camels on the bedside table and bumped out a bent cigarette and along with it out fell a half smoked roach. He decided between the two and picked up the roach, pinched it between his fingertips and lit it, inhaled deeply and finally got it burned down to a mere coal. He then had to shake his hand violently to cool his scorched fingertips as he released it into the ashtray. He moved the pistol lying there over a bit, found the bent and now broken Camel, stuck the cigarette in his mouth and headed for the kitchen, lighting it on the way. He found an old yellow coffee mug with the words "Death from Above" and a militaristic skull and crossbones insignia. Along the bottom of the mug it read, "Death Before Dishonor". The coffee was hot, but old and bitter.


He had planned on getting up early, and now he remembered&#8230;the whiskey man visited him again last night. Nice guy, lots of company when no one's around. Kind of weak on the brainy side though, and the worse friend a drunkard could imagine. He took the still open whiskey bottle off the table and held it up to the light. "You still in there whiskey man?", he inquired, and saw a corner of the bottom still held a bit of the elixir. He dumped the contents into the coffee and with a perfect throw. all the way across the room, hit the open garbage can squarely with the empty bottle. "Two points for me, two bad for you!", "I'm still here, and you are through!". He laughed, "I'm a poet and I dang well know it." Surprised somehow by the rhyme, he giggled and pushed open the door and limped out on the back porch, still in his underwear and barefoot. He dragged the rocking chair over to the only patch of sunlight coming into the space and sat down. The pot and a long pull of the "Irish" coffee seemed to counteract the moderate chill of the late December morning. 


The dominecker hen heard the commotion and came running along side the porch and over to the steps, then short hopped her way to the top. She had dark inquiring eyes and an inquisitive demeanor as well. Her name was "Speck". She was the only one left from a flock of twelve. The coyotes, feral dogs, *****, possums, bobcats, and hawks or who knows what else had decimated her family and friends and now it was just the old man and she. Her free ranging skills withstanding, he was all she could count on for sustenance. They were on a somewhat friendly basis, even pals when he wanted someone to talk to. He was a bit put out with her. She would lay no eggs, and he liked fresh eggs. Sometimes she would cackle and he'd go to find her secret nest and be frustrated to no end that she was only cackling to hear herself cackle. "I'll tell ya this Speck, old girl, you can start laying some eggs around here, or I'm gonna have fried chicken come Sunday!" Sometimes he meant what he said but then he never got around to killing that chicken.


Once when he was a kid, he wrung a chicken's neck and after it flopped around on the ground until dead, he stuck it down in an iron kettle of boiling water only to have it come back to life, jump from his hands and run up under the house with its head hanging at an odd angle from about halfway down to the craw. His daddy made him go up under there to catch it, but the yard dog beat him to it. It was a mess, and he had to beat the dog about his head to get only a portion of the chicken back. Ever since then, he had not killed another chicken.


The hen fled his approach as he got up and went inside to look for something that she could eat. There were a couple slices of pizza two days old on a plate by the sink. He took them both and returned to the porch. As he stepped outside, his bare foot landed squarely on a huge pile of chicken manure, fresh and warm. It squished up between his toes. He looked down, and then looked up to see the hen perched on the porch rail. Walking on his heel now to prevent making poop tracks across the porch, he limped over and threw one slice out into the yard, sat down in the chair and took a bite out of the other. Not bad, Speck flew down to the other slice, purring and clucking as she pecked at the bread. "Can't say I don't know what that white stuff in chicken poop is", was his only visible reaction. He ate the remaining slice of pizza.

That chicken reminded him of his youth, and the good times spent with Ma and Paw, Mom and Dad, cousins, aunts and uncles, the big old country farmhouse, firewood in the winter and a cool drink of well water in the summer. The mule plowed the garden and the cornfield, pulled the ground slide through the woods looking for lightard wood, and even kicked him once or twice. Eveyone had a job to do and they all worked together. Homemade ice cream and watermelons were his favorites back then. One of his favorite jobs was to hunt squirrels, turkeys, and quail for the table, and he loved that part of his life. There were many a day spent in the woods. Those hills and hollows of his boyhood were the best of times.

McClain had tried to embrace life as best he could now, both the good and the bad, but all to often he found himself lacking. After the war, after all the women, after all the young'uns were grown and gone off to Atlanta, after the dog died and the cat went missing, he was left with the chicken and the old home place, the pain in his aged body, the drugs and of course his friend who lived in the whiskey bottles. Then it hit him like a ton of bricks&#8230;.by Gaawd, he was going squirrel hunting!!!


He was feeling great until the pain in his back and legs hit him about noon. He was just getting out of the shower and bent over to retrieve a dropped towel from the floor. He got straightened up without the towel and stood there in front of the mirror, almost afraid to make a move. It was excruciating for a moment but it would soon ease a bit. He knew the pain well, its habits, its likes and dislikes. This morning the pain didn't want him to pick up a towel and so it came to ruin his day. He wished it gone and so opened the medicine cabinet and the bottle of oxy-cotton. He needed quick relief and so he crushed the pill and snorted it up his nose. After a few moments, pure relief washed over him like a warm glow of firelight on a winter's eve. 


He found his old camo clothing. He'd wear his tennis shoes, the better for stalking wiley squirrels. Inside the closet, after much fumbling around and moving the disarray from one side to the other, he found his possibles bag. Inside was a turkey call, four number sixes, two number fours, and eight triple-oughts. He took the buckshot and number four shot out, as he didn't want to get mixed up and shoot them squirrels with the bigger loads. Probably wouldn't hit a squirrel with them anyway. He picked up grandpa's old single barrel shotgun and opened the breech. It was empty but looking down the barrel he could see no light at the other end. He got a curtain rod and put it down through the barrel to see what was in there. "How the heck did a dirt-dauber get in the barrel?" he asked no one in particular. But he finally got the dirt all cleaned out, most of it anyway. Not able to find his camo hat put him to cussing and throwing things out of the way, still no hat. He finally sat down on the couch, trying to think about where it might be. Then he saw it hanging on the peg just inside the door. He knew then he should be more careful with his meds.


He decided he would relax there for awhile, but faded out slowly, thinking about what a grand time he was about to have, a woman he knew came to mind, the way she smelled, the way she looked in the early morning light, a good horse he once owned, the early days of his life, then finally, he nodded off to sleep.

In his dream, he was a youth once more. He stood in the gauzy fog and muted gray light of the Georgia dawn, alone at the top of a gentle slope. He was waiting there where the night-wet ground gave stillness and stealth, where the cold seeped deep into the marrow of bones, determination, and purpose. The legacy of a hundred generations of hunters gave no solace in retreat to comfort. He was an interloper here, a guest in the house of the wild. He was where he should be. There was rightness to the early hour, clarity in the vertical plane of trees, a soft mystery in the darkness of silhouettes, and the solitude sought, not imposed. In his dream he felt all that again, that which he knew... he now took for granted, that which is too easy to forget, too easy not to seek. The dream stirred his heart and gently jolted his soul with renewal, like a sudden shower of cold raindrops shook down from a sheltering tree. In the silence of that wooded daybreak, there seemed to be a promise in the day ahead.


When he finally awoke, it was the here and now, but he recalled the vivid reality of the dream and for a while the details seemed to recalibrate, reset, and adjust in him a change of mood. There were some chores he needed to do before he hunted. The cabin needed cleaning, laundry done and there were some outside plans he had made. The pain was gone, at least for the moment, his day was improving. He dropped another pill into his shirt pocket, walked outside to the woodpile and picked up the axe.


He worked until about three p.m., then took the shotgun and headed down into the hollow. He felt good. The day had gone well. He came to a big white oak where he had taken squirrels since he was a boy. Sitting down against a sweet gum tree he brushed away the leaves around him to avoid making inadvertent sounds. The sky had turned off cloudy, and the bare limbs of the hardwoods were outlined in a gray and black profusion against the steel gray overcast. It grew colder. An hour passed. If the wind picked up any more the squirrels may not come to feed on the acorns lying scattered across the forest floor. Then he saw it, not a squirrel but the sudden movement of a branch in the far off tangle of limbs. Then another, and he could track the movement of the squirrels though the treetops without actually seeing them. The sudden movements of the limbs and braches traced their path in a roundabout course to his location. Then they were there, two of them. 


In all likelihood, he would kill only one. Reloading the old single barrel shotgun quickly was something he had not practiced in years, but he would try. He eased an extra shell in between the fingers of his left hand, let it hang by the brass, and palmed the fore stock. He would be ready just in case the one he didn't kill hung around too long or had no hole to run to. They entered the big oak from the canopy on the other side. One was a couple minutes in front of the other. Down the trunk on the off side he came, never offering a shot. Then he was on the ground, digging acorns and scampering about. The second squirrel came the same way, no shot to take. Then it was on the ground too. Both of them grabbing at acorns with their gray tails swishing to and fro, full of life and vigor, they ran back up the tree with their prize. 


All of a sudden the squirrel higher up made a rush at the one sitting in the crook of a limb further down. That one bolted and made a mad dash for the ground, only to turn suddenly, which put the aggressor into a wild flight for the upper reaches of the oak. Then the chase was on. Up and down, round and round the bole of the tree, chatting and fussing with one another. The pace and sheer confusion of their antics kept the old man's eyes moving in all directions. He was amused at their energy and their playful concoctions in traversing the limbs and branches of the big oak. After awhile the squirrels came down to the ground and went over to a hole of water near the branch, where they took turns getting a drink. Hauling an acorn apiece back up the tree to a single large fork, they sat together with tails curled and bushy, up in the air behind them. Jefferson Davis McClain eased the safety off the single barrel shotgun, sure he was about to score a double, two with one shot, Grandmother would have been proud. He slowly raised the gun and sighted along the barrel. It would be easy pickings. 


He raised himself up off the ground with the aid of the shotgun. The back was a bit stiff but that was of little consequence. The short trek toward the house began in the fading light. He unbreeched the gun, removed the shell and put it back in the bag with the others. He had made no shot, there would be no game to clean, no feast of squirrels simmered in gravy with cathead biscuits.

The little journey back to the house was pleasant and he had enjoyed the hunt. He came to the ridge overlooking his home. There was a peaceful air about the place. Cold dry air had shifted down from the northwest. As surely as he was standing there, a frost would cover the ground before morning. Smoke rose in a gentle swirl from the old chimney. The quiet calm of dusk dark shadows and the sight of his windows glowing with a warm light from within seemed to cast a comfort over him that he seldom took time to appreciate. He turned around to face the direction from whence he had come, and specifically to the pair of squirrels he had spared, he said, "Merry Christmas to all, and to all good night!!"


He dined late that night on baked hen with sweet potatoes, wild rice and garden peas. A fresh loaf of sourdough bread rested easy to the side. One solitary Christmas card sat at a place of honor at the center of the table. He had not been up the lane to the mailbox in over a week. He had no idea that today would be December 24th. Christmas Eve. He read and re-read the card several times, thinking what a nice surprise it was. Later that night after the wine, after the fire had burned low and the shadows ceased to dance about the room, he went to bed. He cleared the bedside table and set the Christmas card down there so it would be the first thing he saw in the morning. His last thoughts were, "Christmas, wow, how about that?....Who knew?"


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## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

Fox... I hope you never stop writing. What a fantastic story! I'm officially intimidated.


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## sustainabilly (Jun 20, 2012)

Good story fox! I can see the homeplace and the woods in my minds eye.


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## Guest (Dec 20, 2012)

Booze, pot, oxy-cotton, guns, mercy to wild animals, and baked chicken. Pretty much a religious experience(to some of us)


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## Tommyice (Dec 5, 2010)

WOW! All these stories are just fabulous. Such talented folks here.

I really am clearing a space on the bookshelf


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## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

LOL, Leslie... I was going to say, I think the value of your book has just shot up immeasurably with recent contributions.


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## Tommyice (Dec 5, 2010)

At the very least, I'm seeing a potential eBook on Amazon's Kindle listing


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## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

Ok, time for everyone to add the words, "Copyright," to the bottom of their posts...


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## Tommyice (Dec 5, 2010)

LOL. I'm not that devious. But since you mention it, I do freelance graphic design and layout so I could handle the pre-press.


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## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

<flourish....> Could you sign right here, please?


______________________________________________


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## Guest (Dec 20, 2012)

He made up his own time. He couldn't help it. 61 minutes in an hour, each minute composed of 59 seconds. He was only off by a second an hour, a minute every two and a half days. Well, technically, a (59 second)minute every two days and eleven hours. He was pretty proud that he'd managed time in such a way that he could deal with it. So, every 2 days and 11 hours, there was just a free standing minute, and everything was OK. It didn't really have to make sense, as long as it worked. 

She looked at him, wondering if there really was or ever had been any genius there. He had such a weird obsession with his numbers. But, yet, he never did anything, invented anything, wrote anything. She could almost hear him counting strokes during lovemaking, determined to end on a prime number. Good Lord, was he crazy?? He explained to her over and over how he wasn't like that on purpose, how much he hated it, but yet he just couldn't stop living by those numbers. She remembered when he rented the movie "Pi" in an effort to show her how the numbers controlled him, and her horror when the protagonist drilled a hole in his head in order to stop thinking about numbers. And, of course, he watched it 3 times. Still, he was nice to her, he never even noticed her many flaws. And he was kind, helpful, and a whiz at fixing anything mechanical. And he was crazy about her. She didn't understand why, but she was smart enough to accept it.

It all started in school, he supposed, the first introduction to the term "prime numbers" he couldn't even remember, but he did know that by the 10th grade, he was proud that his first, middle, and last names were composed of 5,7, and 5 letters, the same rhythm as the haiku, and he had written a haiku in which each syllable started with the corresponding letter of his name. He never told anybody, somehow he felt if he left enough clues, the right one would pick up on them and help him. What does that even mean, "help him"? Looking back, he supposed it meant help him get over the weird fixation about numbers. Too late now. If you've not got it together by the time you're 43, you never will have. 

He looked across the room at her. She was beautiful in her asymmetricality. He could never explain that to her. Her very existence was in direct opposition to the driving force in his life. If he could define her, he could be free. He spent hours memorizing every aspect of her face and body, asking her the same questions over and over, so that he could hear her voice inside himself. Finally he realized what was so magical about her. She was free of his obsession, apparently free of any obsession. He wanted that freedom, but maybe it was enough just to have her. If he lost the prime directive(as he called it), would he lose her too? He looked hard at her, his way of trying to "think" her to ask him what was on his mind. He hated to start a conversation. 

"He's staring at me again" she thought. She knew what that meant. She looked back at him. "What?" she asked. She disliked the intensity of some of their conversations, she felt intimidated, and sometimes even trembled a little. 

"What are you the most obsessed about?" He asked her. Seven words, directly to the point.

She thought hard. "You"

"Why do you like me so much" Seven words, again.

"I don't just like you. I love you. And I guess it's because you love me" She was trembling already. She knew he thought it was bad luck to say "love" and he never said it, except once, when he said "I love you, and if I ever change my mind I'll let you know. And that's about all I'm going to say about that" 

He walked around in little circles across the room. He demanded lots of open space, so they had a living room with all the furniture on one side. She thought it looked stupid, but, as he always said, "It don't have to make sense as long as it works" She was afraid he was about to break, somehow. She went to her last resort, sucking air through her teeth. He looked at her, she smiled, he laughed. Long ago, the first time she'd ever done that, early in their flirtations, he informed her gravely and sincerely that he understood that "when a woman was sucking air through her teeth, she wanted it. So, was that true?" It completely floored her, and she nearly told him to leave then and there. But, the more she thought about it, the more she realized that, in this case, at this moment, yeah, she wanted it. That was then, this is now.

"Why don't you write about it, if you write it all down, maybe it won't be so bad. No matter what, I'll read it, and try to understand. It's just that I've had to accept it without understanding it, and you've had to live with it without being able to tell anybody. It has to help us both"

Later she asked him was he counting. He said "I'll end on an even number" She started counting by twos, and alternately sucking air through her teeth until he laughed. "I've lost count" 
"Good" she answered.
Later she ask him what he was going to write first. 
"I'll write a book called "Seven Stories"
She looked at him and started to shake her head.
He laughed. "But I'll only tell six stories"
She smiled. But she didn't have any faith. For the first time ever she thought, "He's lying to me"

He lay there, knowing that no matter what, he was going to write six stories, even if it killed him. "No more prime numbers, none of that, I'll just bite down and do it" He turned to her. "I love you"

She stared at him, eyes filling with mistrust. "He thinks I'm so stupid that I'd believe anything. And now with the "I love you" He's up to something really bad. He's getting ready to break one off in me. I got to get ahead of this" Her eyes narrowed as she began trying to figure out what he was up to. 

He dozed off, satisfied, not knowing that the worm had turned. And it had, too.


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## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

I've been grinning all night reading this thread. Just gobsmacked at the excellent writing. 

Only you could have written that, zong. I'm glad you did, too!


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## CajunSunshine (Apr 24, 2007)

:bow::bow::bow::bow: Excellent!!!

*sigh* 

I really wish y'all would consider blogging or otherwise publishing your gems, so I can get my literary "fix" without resorting to stalking your posts!

Rae, your story hit home with the weirdest timing... Just two days ago a very dear and long-time friend was diagnosed with brain cancer. Docs have estimated he has six to eight weeks to live... Fortunately he is not suffering pain at this time...much like the guy in your story.


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## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

CajunSunshine... that's a coincidence I'm very sorry has occurred. The story is beyond tragic in real life. Mine is purely imaginary -- and probably factually inaccurate. You have my best hopes for a gentle, merciful end for your friend. And it makes your tagline especially poignant.

On a lighter note, I hope you will feel free to "stalk" away... everyone here has skin in the game by publishing their work. Hearing supportive, appreciative comments is worth more than platinum!


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## CajunSunshine (Apr 24, 2007)

Thank you sweetly, Rae.


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## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

I couldn't leave it alone. Obsessive like that. Herewith, a day early:

_Friday morning dawned all too soon, cold in the bones and woeful, as early spring mornings often did in their rainy corner of the world. Every effort Chelle had made to compel time to stand still had failed. The desolate day stole upon them. No mercy. Alexander had taken one of the potent sleeping capsules and was, incredibly, sleeping through the morning. In her solitude, Chelle bargained for a moment of hesitance to approach him when he woke. She indulged a fervent hope that he would have a change of heart. But she knew it would not come._

_She herself had not slept. She had clung to his warmth through the night, first as they tearfully said many things to one another and later, as he drifted into fitful sleep. She could not bear the knowledge that it was the last time she would find his warmth, would not waste a moment of it. The lump in her throat was a fixture. She felt a howl of agony rising from her gut. Suppress it, she willed herself. But she wasnât ready for this, could never be. How do you live a lifetime in 110 days? _

_She thought of all that would go unrealized; the children they would not have, their shared dreams now like cold ashes in a spent, lonesome campfire. It was for his sake alone â and her promise to him â that she kept herself in check. Time enough to give way to unrelenting grief. Indeed, it stretched before her like the most desolate highway on the planet. Her hands went through the motions of baking, automatic and mindless. Her fingers were stiff with grief. Her heart was numb. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She did not notice them. _

_At some point, she had carefully counted out a ridiculous number of pills in accordance with Alexanderâs strict instructions. Emptied each capsule carefully into a measuring cup. More than a third of a cup of poison â not one of the usual ingredients in her recipe. Alex had wanted no mistakes. She hoped it would be as he wished, with no bitter taste. She added an extra spoon of vanilla to her mixture to mask the sharp taste of the drugs._

_As she worked, memories of their brief time together came unbidden, like the flickering pictures in a strangerâs ancient home movie: Alexander, tall, lithe, strong, invincible as Thor with his fearsome hammer in the flush of youthful bravado. He was a firefighter, his chosen dream from childhood. A physically demanding job, he had always quietly prided himself on fitness and grace. To suffer the wasted, inept body he now inhabited was cruel in the extreme._

_It was Alexâs work which had brought them together. A careless moment away from a burning candle combined with filmy curtains floating in a murmuring breeze, and Chelleâs home had burned like a month-old, abandoned Christmas tree._

_Her hands stopped shaping pie dough as she succumbed to the body memory, felt his capable hands on her shoulders offering what meager comfort that could be had as he guided her with care to a safe part of the road. They stood together in postures of silent mourning, watching his colleagues work desperately to damp the flames. But her modest home burned, along with her personal effects. There had been no time to remove her important papers or photographs. Even as she grieved the loss of her possessions, her very identity, she recognized it had also brought her Alexander. Their courtship ensued. She soon understood it to be a most propitious exchange. In an instant, she became the pure, clean slate upon which he was free to write their life together. And their story had been bliss, until the nightmare descended. Now it was nearly done._

_She stirred the sleeping and pain killer powders into the pie filling, carefully poured the lethal concoction into her prepared pie shell and placed it to bake in the oven. She made the salad. Whipped the cream. Washed up the dishes. Such an easy last meal. Somehow, it seemed miserly and inadequate to the gravity of the occasion at hand._

_There would be no autopsy, no invasive inquiry into the reason for Alexanderâs death. Diagnosed as terminally ill by his physician and still under his doctorâs care, the death certificate was merely a formality. A vibrant lifetime reduced to a piece of embossed paper filled with meaningless terms and references. The realization caused her to wretch._

_How to say goodbye to one so loved? They had discussed it at length. In the end, he pleaded with her for banality, normalcy in his final hours, said he could not bear his last time on earth to be filled with drama over his demise. She was not sure it was possible to grant him this last wish, but she would try._

_Finally, he was up. He wanted no breakfast, only coffee. He hoped to work up some appetite for his final meal. So they took a short walk in the rain around their familiar neighborhood, petting all the wayward dogs. They admired the daffodils springing through the soft, scented soil. He picked a few, knowing they were her favorite flowers. When she shook her head in protest at his larceny, he gave her a wan grin._

_âWhat are they going to do? Kill me?â The joke fell flat and her face crumpled._

_Home again and they shared cups of hot tea by the fire sheâd laid the night before and lit now with no fanfare. He was always cold these days. They played checkers together as the moments ticked by till dinnertime. The day was mindless, wasted. It seemed nearly comical to her in light of what was coming._

_The moment she had dreaded arrived. He asked, âIs dinner ready?â_

_Chelle tried to swallow away the lump in her throat and failed. Again. âAnytime you want it, my love,â she whispered._

_Their conversation was over. She laid the food before him on their best china, gifts from a wedding that seemed like someone elseâs memory. She watched him eat and could tell he had no appetite for the food. His movements were deliberate, forced. He smiled at her gently, assuring her without words it was his decision alone and for the best. She did not even try to eat. She sat in silence as the endless tears coursed down her cheeks._

_After, they curled together on the bed they had shared for their eight years together. Countless memories lived in the bedclothes. All of them were rich in their humanity. They kissed with tender fervor, saying nothing more._

_In a surprisingly short amount of time, Alex closed his eyes, lips cleaved to hers, arms close around her neck, sighed a gentle breath into her lungs and died. Chelle breathed in his last, knowing it was to be his final gift to her. She remained in their kiss until she felt his lips grow cool, then folded herself against him and sobbed in wrenching spasms for an unknown amount of time. The sheet beneath them grew sodden with her tears._

_At last she pulled her body away from his, lovingly wiped her tears away with his lifeless fingertips and smoothed the limp hair from his brow. She plodded back to the kitchen in a wooden stupor of grief, touching her lips in remembrance of their final kiss. She put what was left of the pie in the freezer after wrapping it with care. Force of habit. The sun played a gentle melody on the clouds as it sank into the horizon, but she barely noticed._

_She called Dr. Maguire at home. âAlexander is gone.â Her voice was dull. âWill you come?â_


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## sherry in Maine (Nov 22, 2007)

the next few days dragged by unceasingly for him and the rest of them. 'The rest of them' were his wife, and his children. It wasn't because of the grief, fear, sadness that hung over the family like a heavy blanket that obscured everything but what was going on in their own house. It was the other actions that happened mechanically, everyone completing chores, washing clothes, school attendance and the endless round of doctor appointments. The other stuff, the frenetic motions everyone danced to, paid attention to==they were keeping their minds off of what was going on right in front of them.
Within that framework, his notion of the pie grew & as the colder weather set in, his children made pies, cookies, cake....That which was sweet and removed the taste of reality from their palates. It could provide a minute of distraction,or so. They welcomed it.
In his feverish & drugged mind, he couldn't remember if he'd discussed the idea of the 'death pie' with his wife or not. She was always busy, helping him, helping the kids, driving him here and there. She saw him all of the time, but didn't really 'see' him...She had begun to look through him a few months ago, when his pain became more evident. She seemed to be taking a small vacation somewhere in her mind, at those times and held her sorrow more quietly as she helped him.'
xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo


Time to get ready for school! I'll write more later.


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## Guest (Dec 20, 2012)

Hey Sherry, your story is developing nicely! I really like this part, I wish I'd verbalized that. I love a phrase that sounds like something I wish I'd said. 



sherry in Maine said:


> .................. * She seemed to be taking a small vacation somewhere in her mind*, at those times and held her sorrow more quietly as she helped him.'.........


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## sustainabilly (Jun 20, 2012)

"*Balance*: An Essay On The Folly of Mapping"
or, "Better Watch Gene The Butcher, He's Got A Heavy Finger!"

It was the saddest story, it was the happiest story. He read it on the darkest of nights after the brightest of days. Dinner had started off with piping hot soup and ended with ice cream so cold it hurt his teeth. The sublime nirvana of a world in equilibrium. It hadn't been easy, the journey to his present state of contentment. The years of adaptive enhancement therapy at the Institute for Behavioral Correctness had enabled an entire generation to make the switch from chaos to order. The end result, a flawless blend of contradictions. 

Even the pain they endured during treatment was a testament to the harmony of balance. Coupled with the perfection of conformity, this new society was enjoying a utopian juxtaposition of the yin and yang of human behavioral evolution. It's true, he thought, our sacrifice was also our just desserts. Even that combination, brings with it, it's own symbiosis. We were the transitional generation. We were impeding progress and our suffering was equal to the burden of impatience we were placing on society. The therapy had been the key to it all. 

Looking around at his perfectly ordered home, he reflected on his supreme good fortune. This too, he mused, was a product of what he deemed divine balance. It all fits, he thought, remembering the chaos of the years before he met her. I was a scatter-brained grad student on the verge of dropping out. She brought that spark of poise with her, and that grew into the stability I enjoy today. Wherever I look in this house I can see the symmetry that she has brought into my life. "I love what you've done with the flower beds honey. You are the consummate formalist," Al told her. "Oh, thank you sweetie," she said. "It was easy, once I saw the aerial overlay depiction at the last subdivision, standards and covenants meeting. A few more streets to go and we'll have our neighborhood in compliance with the 'compass points' housing conformity guidelines passed into law this year."

"Another milestone on the way to our crowning achievement," he said. "When I think back to my great grandfather's time and all the troubles the world was experiencing, and especially to his views on the whole thing, I believe he would be turning over in his grave. To think, he decried the concept of uniformity of purpose; of engineered societies. How did they figure they would accomplish anything back then?" Nancy shook her head. "I can't imagine. Do you suppose they just, sort of...jumped in with both feet? How unnerving! To not know how things'll turn out ahead of time? How did they manage?" 

"Well dear, we can sleep soundly at night, safe in the knowledge that our world, and our children's, will be a better place to raise a family," Al boasted. "I would love to see the look on that old man's face when my team unveils our genetic predisposition utility. It's the perfect solution to future worker shortages in key industries." Nancy gazed lovingly at her husband, marvelling at how well the Society For Marriage Symmetry had chosen. "I love you honey! You know, my mother had her misgivings about you. She was sure you would live down to your family name and embarrass us all. But you showed her. I always knew you'd dispel the legacy of heresy that old fool left behind. Well, I'd better go check on the little guy."
"
Al thought about his son. _He_ will be my answer to Great Grandfather's misguided views. Our family's name will finally be vindicated. My son will be the proof that it _is_ possible to successfully navigate so near to the edge of the chasm of chaos theory and _not_ fall over. Suddenly, his reverie was interrupted by a commotion coming from upstairs; followed by a loud crash. "Kurt Vonnegut Huxley! What have you done!? Aldous! He's building unstable, inverted, asymmetrical zigurrats again! You'd better get up here!" With a defeated sigh, Aldous Huxley IV rose from his chair. "I guess the Society For Marriage Symmetry still has some bugs to work out."


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## Guest (Dec 22, 2012)

Boy! You been messing with those doors again?


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## glazed (Aug 19, 2006)

:donut:

Is there is deadline for this project? When is it due?

:donut:


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## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

glazed... I can't speak for zong, but I will share I encouraged him to leave it open for a few weeks. People lead busy lives and at this time of year, doubly so. And writing often takes time -- although I have it on good authority that at least one story in the thread was written somewhat hastily. Hard to believe.

I hope you'll share your musings, too -- and I can't imagine zong will want to deprive us of them!


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## Guest (Dec 22, 2012)

A godless wasteland
He loved his name, always had. His grandma told him he was born dead, but came to life a short while later. As a result, his given name was Lazarus. How many guys are named Lazarus? No middle name. If he had his way there would be no last name either.He used to like strutting up in a bar, half drunk, declaring "I was born dead, came back to life, I am named Lazarus. Wanna fight about it?" Always some moron wanted to fight. You know, when a guy wants to bet you $100 that he can jump over your house, he's going to. If not, he would have been broke long ago. Sadly, all the morons had migrated to the internet. Oh, well. So, less fights, less trouble, less of everything. Including less women that wanted to know him. His life had been easier in real life. Eventually, the last sensible woman left his life. Something about "It's time to settle down" Still, there were women, came and went, life was tolerable. For years.

Eventually, all good things fade. At least, they did for Lazarus. All the old crew got old, sick, or else they died. A couple got religion, which was 10 times worse. So, he himself turned to the internet, with a sense and a hope that dreams can come true. And that love can be more than a four letter word. He didn't worry much when the first couple of contacts came out to be duds. All he had to do was adjust his parameters a little, it wasn't like they were actually evil or anything, Just confused, maybe. Whatever, it wasn't his problem. So, adjust he did. And was patient. Every one that responded to him, he put his true self into his responses. "After all" he mused, "No reason for them to think I'm somebody else, I'll just be myself" So, he was. Some liked him, some didn't. It never amounted to anything, one way or the other. It seemed to be pretty much of a waste. So, he set a date to just give up on all that. Realistically, a feller can't live on his own dreams forever. He began to relax. It wouldn't be long before his "give up" date. Weeks, then days. With a sense of relief, he was down to the last day or two. "I've had a good run, it's time to move on"

"Hello" she said(actually, typed into the messenger window). I love your name. What does it mean?" 
Well, duh, what can "Lazarus" possibly mean? But he explained it to her anyway. She kept on talking and with every line of text, he just got that feeling "this is the one" or, more "THIS IS THE ONE" all capital letters. Everything about her was perfect. Within 5 minutes, he thought he was in love. Within 10 minutes he knew she lived 20 minutes away. And within 2 hours, it was a done deal. And he knew, he just knew that she was the one he was born for, the one and only, the forever one. I almost gave up, he told her. She, too, admitted that she was on the verge of giving up forever. He felt a strange "togetherness" in both of them having been on the verge of giving up their quest for a life mate, then having found each other at the last moment. 

Sometimes when things seems too good to be real, they actually are. 

I'll try to finish this tonight or tomorrow, I got something that needs attending to.


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## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

zong... ahem. nice that you've left us on the edge of our seats, as it were, but I must take issue: A whole first installment, and yet no mention of a toaster?? Tsk.


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## sustainabilly (Jun 20, 2012)

zong said:


> Boy! You been messing with those doors again?


Don Juan teaches that traveling the path to Mescalino will bring Mr. and Mrs Harger together.


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## maverickxxx (Jan 25, 2011)

Well as a lot of stories start out ill tell a little about myself. I don't have a prestigious education my use of big words comes from the computers ability to auto correct some words otherwise I just change the whole sentence structure to avoid using that word. I'm not idiot savant no mercenary no super powers nothing. I m an artist I don't paint play an instrument write poetry n I don't even consider my self one. I just draw lines n connect dots.
I'm not good but not bad either. I create for both sides. As with any super conspiracy nothing is as it seems.
My most recent balance is through helping the NRA they don't know it yet n I won't tell them they won't even know of me. Life is run by balance an at this point in civilization the pendulum swings much harder an faster till it gets reset n starts over agin. 
There can be no balance between good citizens government an criminals if good citizens have no means of protection. That's what keeps the balance. There's always going to be evil just as there's always good. 
My career? Well I'm an investor kind of inside trader not like Wall Street guy more like govt guy insider I use world events to manipulate markets. I've compiled a list from voting records polling data through out the entire nation to come up with influential people that voted against advocated against protested against etc... Gun control but more importantly no guns. Through IRS records I can statistically produce the people most likely to have money n sell this to Russian an Mexican mafias hey they are already doing evil so try n use it for good? Hey a lot of these people are already fluoride docile with the combanation of gm food n mix of diazepan Xanax n whatever else govt control of people in cites was easy. I'm still amazed people believe altering your body n mind expands consciousness being free of everything is truth!
Any way the fluoride docile have reproduced n out populated the rural masses to upset the balance n it's gotta be reset on this issue before its unchanagble till pendulum resets.
The pendulum I refer to is when civazation resets to prevent further advances. Look at Mayans Egyptians at point of dominating the world etc... Mankind at its peek an nothing just reset start over till they get it right with the balance. There's a lot more I can tell about this but later.


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## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

Good to see you, mav. 

I don't know whether to kick you out for the sake of your sanity or offer you a healthy draught of holiday cheer. But it's still nice to see you! Hope all is well with you and your little one.


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## Raven12 (Mar 5, 2011)

Well, if he is looking for phone or cyber sex, then this is the place to be.


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## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

_The years passed. _

_Chelle took her time with her grieving process over Alexanderâs death â as if she could hasten it, she often thought to herself with a wry, unconscious twist to her lips. She didnât have to fret about money or children or much of anything. Because her home had burned and sheâd lost everything once, she and Alex had been prudent about planning for their future â events known and unknown. So a generous amount of life insurance had always been maintained. Carefully invested, the money provided her with sufficient income to do mostly as she pleased. But she felt herself aimless, wishing for purpose to fill the enormous void left by her departed husband. She redecorated the house, threw herself into gardening projects, took classes, pottered in the kitchen. For all that, she had lost her reason to live. _

_It was commonly assumed she would remarry in due course, as she was young for a widow. More than anything, she missed the easy intimacy of her loving marriage. Not just the physical intimacy, though that, to be sure. But the moment of amusement shared across a crowded table of friends when her eyes twinkled with Alexâs as they cued together on a silent, private joke, or the feel of his arms snaking easily around her waist as she stood at the sink doing dishes. She ached for the long walks in the woods which seemed somehow less satisfying when she embarked on them alone. She remember with longing the evenings they shared sitting, talking and laughing in front of an intimate, crackling fire, exploring the depth of each otherâs eyes and mouths. She missed his lousy jokes, the sound of his laughter, making him special dinners and the joy of buying him gifts. Now his birthday was just another day, again, to the rest of the world. She pined for the whole landscape of their togetherness._

_Her friends were good and kind. They came around often and never forgot to include her in their social gatherings even long after Alexâs death. She loved them like family, immensely grateful for the opportunities to remain the social creature which she naturally was. But they didnât realize, couldnât understand how sometimes being in a crowded room was far lonelier than anywhere else in the world. She wasnât averse to meeting someone new, but Alex was a tough act to follow. She understood that the ideal nature of her relationship with him was a hindrance, because it set a high bar for anything that might follow. Perhaps impossibly high. A bitter irony._

_It wasnât that she expected to find another Alex. She had no illusions of that kind. But even meeting someone with whom she could forge a relationship that was different but equally satisfying was likely wishful thinking. So she filled her hours as best she could, volunteered at the local library, visited museums, attended functions and entertained her friends. On one or two occasions she met an interesting man and dated him. But somehow it all seemed empty and frustratingly pointless. She mourned the loss of her little family of two and had made her peace with a lifetime of solitude â even if she didnât relish it._

_From time to time, she would remove the lethal pie from a hidden recess down low in her freezer, where it was difficult to see, with full intent to dispose of it. But in each instance she resolved to shove it down the garbage disposal, she would hearken back to that surreal, excruciating Friday afternoon. Suddenly, the pie became her last remaining link to Alex, a dreadful souvenir but precious for all that. She would think, maybe not today, and the pie would go hastily back into the freezer. She felt sure one day her internal fortitude would not fail her. She would get rid of it._

_Thoughts of Alex and their final day together were never far. After the call to Dr. Maguire, the process became clinical and impersonal to everyone but her. Dr. Maguire arrived, pronounced a time and manner of death (the actual medical language used was unintelligible to her, but she understood it translated into complications from the cancer). There was no autopsy as she had predicted. In accordance with his wishes, Alex was cremated and his ashes scattered by Chelle alone on the date of their wedding anniversary, on a desolate but meaningful beach they had gone to as often as they could steal away to it. She kept a thimbleful of his ashes to mix with her own upon the occasion of her own death so they could be scattered together, intermingled for all time. She sometimes wondered to whom this task would fall, who would be around to carry out her wishes. Probably no one. It was a depressing thought. _

_Another thought stole into her mind one day, more shocking: She had gotten away with a crime. She had aided in the killing of her husband. Thatâs how the law would view it, anyway. The notion seemed incredible, but it was true all the same._

_She sat one Thursday morning in her favored neighborhood coffee house, staring now and then through a damp, slightly fogged window at the rain and scribbling out a couple quick notes to old friends as she took her time over a warming cup of coffee with milk. It was a funky old place within walking distance of her home. Quiet clatter and conversation surrounded her, a safe, warm cocoon to ride out the latest storm. Deep in thought, she hardly noticed a presence standing next to her, until he cleared his throat. Startled, she glanced up. It was a man. He stood, vaguely hesitant with her soft, brown winter wrap made from alpaca wool hanging like a dead marmot in his hand._

_âThis, ahhh, was on the floor behind your chair,â he said. âI didnât think youâd want it to get dirty.â_

_She smiled a little, automatically, nodded and said, âThanks. Thatâs kind of you.â_

_He smiled back and took a chance with the meager encouragement she offered. âI hope you donât mind my asking, but do you live around here? I see you in here quite a bit.â_

_She hesitated, wondering for how long she had been on his radar. Her answer was circumspect: âI donât live far, no. You?â_

_âActually, I work nearby,â he said. âI live about 40 minutes out of town.â_

_A conversation ensued between them. He said he had a one-man office in the neighborhood to conduct his business as a small independent excavator â not an unusual line of work for the area. There was never a shortage of excavation jobs here, with all the rain and destructive running water. People were constantly in need of it. She asked him what that was like for employment and if it suited him. He grinned and said it was better than being stuck in an office all day and reasoned he must like it, because heâd done it for long enough. She asked whereabouts he lived, and he shared the name of a more rural area in their county. They exchanged a few pleasantries about the stretch of endless rain they had recently endured. Their conversation flowed in a natural, easy manner._

_She took stock of him as they talked. He was tall, perhaps a couple inches past six feet. Not quite as tall as Alex. His hands did look as if he preferred rough work, so that part of what heâd shared seemed true â not that she had any reason to doubt him. She liked that. He had a ready smile that was a bit off kilter, one corner of his mouth pulling down instead of up. She found it a little jarring but not unattractive. Though she would later be unable to recall their color, his eyes were direct, full of laugh lines and looked easily into hers. Not a man afraid of making a connection, she thought. She liked that, too._

_After a few more moments of their idle conversation, she asked, âSoâ¦ whatâs your name?â_

_âIâm Russell,â he said, sticking out one of his callused paws for a shake. âRussell Barnes. And you are..?â_

_âIâm Chelle,â she replied. âNice meeting you.â She took his hand and shook it briefly._

_He took a step back, seemed reluctant to leave and, keeping his eyes on her, seemed to weigh a decision. Then made it: âWould you mind if I asked to see you again? I mean, are you free to do that?â_

_âI think I would like that, Russell,â she said, this time with a more definite smile. âAnd yes, Iâm free.â She gave him her phone number._


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## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

Raven12 said:


> Well, if he is looking for phone or cyber sex, then this is the place to be.


Is it? My, the things I keep learning about ST!


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## Raven12 (Mar 5, 2011)

I'm surprised there aren't more men in this forum. They don't know what they are missing.


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## Raven12 (Mar 5, 2011)

Continue with the stories...I have a few but can not share them...he he he

goodnight


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## WhyNot (Jun 21, 2011)

Been a long time since I've written a regular story. Currently I am writing epic poems....which are stories but not the same I guess. Anyway here is an excerpt of something I've been working on too long. Taken out of context of course, to make it more interesting. 
--------------------------------------------

I am. 
The pillar of fire; the That which is and all men fear to be. 
I am.
From the depths of the Universe, all that there is.
Bring me. Feel me. See me. 
I am the fear that is in me. I am power. I am force. I am all that is held. 
Be me.

I have been that pillar of fire.
I have laid my hand upon men as they look into death.
I have compelled.
I have driven.
I have been and will always be.

To shake a mans heart at the touch of brow, to compel, to fear; to fear and be compelled. Strike down! Man! Strike down!
I have been that inferno, that despair, that treachery.

That within. That without that is within. Within me, be me. 

For every guide there is a told, for every told there is a lie. To lie and to tell the truth. Lie, and tell the truth! 

Red and yellow cloaks dance at the Gates. Over a fire of golden hues (he) dances to the monks and tells the lie that is upon their tattered pates. 

An event. A plate. To treat, Divine. 

All went through their hearts, it is my treason they wish upon hearts of those men when I touch their brow.

When I was that pillar of fire the Buddah was ashamed at his actions toward man. There was an amount of fear he portrayed about the future of man, He felt man was not deserving of the future because he saw man's failings. He saw man's deceptions, his fall from grace, his temptations, his race, the lies, the anger, the sexual desire as all things he could not let go into the fire. He was told by his own conjurations the fallacy in his deeds. But neither man nor spirit nor conscious kept him from his treacherous means. Lo the power of man! Lo the grace in his hand! He shall never find and always be an Earthly bind. 

And when I slapped his face all he could do was cry. Cry as he threw the keys into the fire. Cry as he saw the future of man as nothing but ashes. There will be wars, there will be famine...there will be no thing left from the certain expiring of Faith. 

Do you know what has been done? Do you know why I am so angry? A sun of god! A pillar of man! A Divine and Inspired Spirit? How low, how low ... just how low can you holy go? 

So there now, it is done and the world will suffer for it. Is this your outcome, Holy Man? Is this where you make your weeping stand? In front of my fire and weeping your heart, knowing you have sealed the fate of mankind? WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU WHO TAKES THIS STEP? WHO ARE YOU THAT MAKES THIS FATE? 

I cannot look upon you again... you have lost your spine and you are not a man ascended. Ascended? To where? To where have you gone? Leading them on just to here and then leaving them? This is not your intended purpose. This is not what you were to be...how dare you condemn them when you were to set them free!

My Pillar of Fire shall burn, within me and without. When the time comes again I will spring from within, burn without, and you shall NOT make this mistake again.


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## sherry in Maine (Nov 22, 2007)

I am sure this needs editing, as I am typing this as a stream of consciousness...lots of holiday stuff going on here, so maybe I'll edit it later, or maybe not. I hope you can give some good critique, when I was a kid, I wanted to be a writer bad, but after I joined the army & wrote a few things, I drifted away from it and restarted again after another 15 or so years... then family came along, and I was too busy to really think or do anything but raise kids.




one long sleepless night, he dragged himself out of bed; clung to bannister as he made is way down the stairs, step by drugged step. The pain patch she had affixed to his arm a few hours ago didn't work. The cancer crabs were eating him alive and he knew he couldn't stand much more.
He gazed on all of the pies, cookies and bread his family had made for the cold weather; could he just pour the poison on something and eat it?
The thought of eating anything was impossible; he could hardly put a bite in his mouth of anything these days. 
A flood of anger, misery and resentment filled his mouth and he leaned against the counter, pulled down the flour, salt, sugar. Grasped the other items needed to make the pie just the way he wanted. He wanted to take them all with him; they didn't understand what he was going through! He would show them! They said they loved him, they said they didn't want him to die. He didn't believe a ---- thing they said- all liars! 
In his delerium he mixed & made the crust as he'd learned during his years working at his father's bakery. The filling he poured in, a jar of mincemeat pie he'd made a few months ago, before his body had turned against him. He topped it with poison, something he'd kept next to him for a while. (his long deceased father stood next to him, egging him on, jeering at him, angering him with the same things he'd said to him in his youth, 'not good enough!' 'you failed!' )
He slid the pie- so heavy!- into the preheated oven. 
All of his delerium infused strength deserted him and he collapsed on the floor.


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## Guest (Dec 24, 2012)

At first he could hardly stand to be away from her. He went to her house, and would stay 22 hours a day, just going home to check on everything, shave, shower, change, and come straight back. Eventually he had several changes of clothes at her house, and only went home twice a week. But, somehow, as his connection to her should have been growing stronger, her interest in him was fading. As always, after a few weeks, people often refer to events from their past for the second, or third time. After all, that particular event fits this particular conversation. He always wondered about the "You've already told me that" so many people throw out. Do they listen to a song only once? The woman watched the same movie every few days, for crying out loud. Oddly enough, when she started referring to events from her own past for the second or third time, they always had a slightly different meaning. Eventually he realized that she was not reporting the events, but her definition of the underlying meaning of the events, which differed according to context. "How weird," he thought, "that she can't let anything stand on its own merits, but has to read a meaning into everything, and a different meaning every time she remembers it. This is a habit that will never change." And he knew that everything he was doing and saying would one day be interpreted to have a hidden meaning. Her view of life was based on a basic deceit, that nobody actually said what they meant, and that everybody had a hidden agenda for everything. An old proverb has it that a man does not look behind doors unless he's accustomed to standing behind doors. So, Lazarus needed to start looking for her deceits and agendas as well. He thought about that for about a minute and the sad realization came to him that no matter what he said, did, or understood, one day he'd be another of her stories, changing with every telling, and that his best bet was to get out now, with as little pain as possible. Even at that, so many little questions were answering themselves. The realization of her thought process stripped away the mystery and every word, every act, every glance lay exposed as duplicitous. "I am in a train wreck and don't even know it," he mused.

Later, he realized that she didn't even notice his hesitation and careful wording(being absolutely positive to make his statements as unambiguous as possible). And why would she notice, since she didn't live in the here and now, and what he did or said would only take on meaning, and at that, the meaning she would ascribe to it, in her later retellings. She was talking about her husband's leaving. One time she had claimed he left her for another woman. One time she claimed he left her because she was smarter than he was and he couldn't stand it. Once he left because he waited for the kids to grow up, and he hadn't cared for her in years anyway. Inevitably, he knew, the husband would have left because he was on drugs, he drank too much, he had a mental disease, or whatever best fit the conversation at hand. "He left because you didn't listen to him" Lazarus thought. No matter. the woman wouldn't have even blinked at the actual facts. 

That night, as they had sex(he couldn't even consider it "making love" any more) he realized another of her duplicities. It had been there all along, he was just so full of the newness of her that he never noticed. Sex was the only thing she really enjoyed about him. But not physically, some how, it was some kind of emotional pleasure. Maybe she really did love him? No matter. Since the spell had broken and he was wide awake, he knew beyond any reasonable doubt that he just needed out. He had been through something unpleasantly similar some years ago. He knew that it wouldn't hurt her, as soon as he walked out the door, she'd be back on whichever website he'd first met her, and have somebody else interested in her by the time he got home. He had been to a whole lot of the dating websites and knew exactly how the action ran at each one. Some were pretty generic, some pretty specific. Some were just downright freaky. He wished that he'd just walked away from the whole effort to find a partner a day before he met her. But he hadn't, and now being involved, had a duty to treat her as good as he would want to be treated. So, no way to just walk out with no explanation. And impossible to explain her to herself, she had somehow built a wall around herself and would never be able to see inside. He was in a real jam. It seemed to be part of his genetic makeup to try to "stick to it" But he knew it would end ugly. It always does.

The next morning, as he lay in bed thinking, he decided that he was going to try his best to understand her, as if somehow that would help. As days turned into weeks, the trying just didn't help at all. He eased away from the 22 hours a day to 4 or 5 hours a couple times a week, maybe one overnight. She neither demanded more or demanded less, indeed she didn't even seem to notice the difference. Although he felt a great deal of (very cautious)tenderness toward her, he envisioned her as not really having much of a personality. Emotionally they became distant. He got to the point that, when he was at her house, he looked for things to do. The commode ran constantly, he fixed that. One outlet kept shorting out, he replaced that. A biggie: the garage door was slightly uneven, he fixed that, and even installed an electric garage door opener for her. She was appreciative of his efforts. Maybe things might work out after all, not in the way he had hoped, but in some way. Or not. She began calling him when something needed fixing. Leaving stuff on the kitchen table when he was coming over. One day she wanted him to change the oil in her brother's car. Of course, the brother didn't have enough sense to get the right oil, so Lazarus went by the Auto Zone, bought the oil and filter, and went on to her house. She and her brother stayed in the house chatting while he changed the brother's oil in the rain. When he went in, cleaned up, and told them he was through, the brother left. Without reimbursing him for the oil. Could it possibly get worse? Uhh, yeah.


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## sustainabilly (Jun 20, 2012)

This thread was a great idea! I really enjoy the installment stories. They're like hearing about events in a friend's life. This friend is one who I know pretty well, yet they have a certain unexpectedness about them which never ceases to surprise me.


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## Guest (Dec 25, 2012)

The mother of invention

He actually had more solitude when he was with her than when he was at home, alone. Not only was he alone when in the kitchen, messing with her eternally broke appliances, along with those of everybody in her family and everybody she knew. She must be running an ad on Craigslist "Broke kitchen appliances wanted" or something. But, he was even more alone when she was in the room with him, and mostly, alone whenever he was in bed with her. More than just alone, he actually felt less of a person because of her indifference. "I really got to get out of this. This is the unhealthiest thing I've ever been involved in" He had read a lot, talked to a lot of people. He knew there were many couples who had even less of a relationship than he was having, some who actually came away every day a little less of a person. "That's about to happen to me" he was thinking. One of the few times that they had a physical relationship, he was thinking how little effort she put into it, almost machine-like. Which gave him some pretty good ideas.

Lazarus awoke the next morning, thinking over his ideas from the night before. He liked them. It was almost like a new lease on life. Something to do, a challenge, something that would never disappoint him.... heck yea, he could get behind that! Thinking it over logically, he knew that he was going to have to have a model to work with, you can't just dive into something like this, you have to get your toe wet, so to speak. A day or 2 at looking at all the tools at his disposal, he thought he was ready to get started. Only one thing he needed, and he knew where to get it. A little explaining, a lot of kidding around and he had exactly the one missing ingredient. And he was ready. Poetic justice, he was thinking, poetic justice. "I'm gonna make the prototype as a gift for her. She'll never know what the whole story is, and it'll be a great gag gift." She'd laugh. He still loved to make her laugh. 

He called her, "Hey, I want to come over" "OK" So, he was on his way. He got there, a little small talk, after a bit he went into the kitchen to work on her broke appliances. She had even dragged in a chair from somewhere that had a leg off it. It only needs some carpenters glue, but I don't have any. He stuck the parts all back together, it was pretty tight, but it still needed glue. "Yeah, this won't be any problem, I'll go out later and get some glue for it" he told her, She went on back about her business. He always wondered exactly what she was doing when he wasn't in the room with her, but apparently she just watched TV a whole lot. Still, she never came to talk to him while he was fixing things for her, she explained that she didn't want to break his concentration. Whatever. He had everything he needed in his toolbox, and he was ready to rock and roll. "This is going to be great," he thought. "Too bad I'll never be able to tell this to anybody, it's going to be unique. Completely unique".


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## Guest (Dec 26, 2012)

Descent into Madness

He took the viagra pill he'd talked his friend out of. Got everything ready. While he was waiting, he'd might as well fix something. Toaster, maybe, it couldn't be very complicated. He plugged it in, nothing. Unplugged it, took it apart. Yeah, just about what you could figure. The element was burned. He took out his Leatherman, the grandson of the old Swiss Army knife. Twisted together the element ends. Plugged it back in. Worked perfect. I'll put this thing back together in a minute. He could feel the pill kicking in. He put a pan on the stove and proceeded to start melting the candles he had brought. "Once I get this right, I'm going to buy wax in bulk. Different colors. make these things by the hundreds and sell them on Ebay. Personalized, molded candles. This has been a great idea." He got the plaster out, the water in a bowl, and covered the corner of the table with a sheet of tinfoil he planned to do his work on. It would be easiest to just fold it up and throw away the scraps than to try to clean plaster and wax off the table. The Viagra that he'd cajoled from his buddy was raging. He mixed up the plaster of paris he'd brought to make his cast with. He wasn't sure how long plaster of paris took to set up, but he knew it was pretty fast. 5 minutes, maybe. He had his notes on "Casting wax in a plaster mold" He was as ready as he's ever be. 

It felt stupid, he never had thought about how it might feel. But, After a few minutes, he guessed the plaster mold was about set up. Trouble was, the viagra hadn't stopped working. Not only that, but the plaster set up so fast that it put off heat. He hadn't really considered that. 

"What in the world are you doing?" 

He didn't even remember her ever coming in the kitchen, ever. That's why he used it for a workroom, it had never been used for a kitchen. He turned, involuntarily, slow motion, fast thinking. 

There's no real reason to go into much detail. A toaster with the case off, still plugged in, innards exposed, a sheet of tinfoil, fluttering from the door having been opened. A pan of boiling wax on the stove, a plaster cast of his unmentionable in one hand, the unmentionable, under the effect of 100 mg of Viagra in the other, and the unmistakeable realization that this wasn't nearly as good an idea as he had thought it would be.

Later, he ask why she had come into the kitchen. She told him, and showed him that the entire house was on close circuit surveillance. Part of her agreement with the witness protection program. She had laughed hysterically, nonstop ever since he, the tinfoil, and the exposed toaster made contact. She also explained that everybody at the United States Federal Witness Protection Program(somehow it came out of her mouth capitalized, too) would be watching that over and over. He didn't care. During that brief moment, he had the lifechanging experience he needed to break away from her. Oddly, she seemed more tender and more approachable than ever. 

"Is there anything I can do for you, anything you want? Anything you like?" She smiled, invitingly.

His pupils were still dilated, too much light coming in, he could see everything way too clearly. Plus the tingling down below. He knew exactly what he wanted, now and forever.
he looked at her, perfectly content for the first time in months.
"Yeah. I like toast"

[ame]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BILAFuSi-i0[/ame]


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## foxfiredidit (Apr 15, 2003)

Thanks to everyone who contributed to this thread. I really enjoyed catching up tonight. Good stuff. I hope y'all will continue with the rest of the story, or at least write another one.


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## sherry in Maine (Nov 22, 2007)

Collapsing, he fell against the kitchen chairs, creating a racket that awoke the whole house. 
Bedroom lights blinked on- hurried bare feet slipped & tripped on their descent to the 1st floor.
No one noticed at first. The ambulance was called, he was again loaded in, a lightweight, aged bag of bones, eyes glittering with pain, narcotics and maybe the beginning of the souls ascent out of the body.
In the silence & emptiness of the kitchen, they noticed the smell of something baking. They noticed the flour strewn kitchen, the whiteness of the mess left behind. Contrasted with the blood on the floor next to the chair that he'd hit his head on as he fell.
Each took a task in silence, returning the kitchen to a semblance of order. It masked the chaos and disorder that had plagued their souls for months.
The pie was removed from the oven, set aside to cool.
The darkness outdoors began to wane and birds began to sing an ocasional song.
Surveying all the holiday baking on the counter, his wife asked the children if they wanted anything to eat. She'd forgotten about 'death pie', matter of fact, dismissed his plans as drugged ramblings at the very beginning. 
It was not unusual for him to attempt to make food for his family. It had been his habit to cook for them a few nights a week, as far back as the children could remember.

His two children, both teens, a boy and a girl knew nothing about death pie. They only knew their love for their father, and the unbearable unspeakable pain he had been through. 
They lie paralyzed with fear/sadness late at night when his screams of pain pierced their sleep, and caused them to pull the covers over their heads in a futile attempt to re enter sleep, escape reality, shut out the awfulness of a world they wanted no part of.
Everyone chose the freshly baked pie, though no one felt like eating. They took small bites, and perhaps felt as if they were taking in a small piece of their father, a last small handmade piece.
As they ate the poison, the phone rang. It continued ringing for quite a while before it stopped.


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## sustainabilly (Jun 20, 2012)

I was wondering if anyone would write in that kind of outcome.


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## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

ROFL, well, all I can say is, DMTA (Demented Minds Think Alike). Sure glad I worked on THIS all night!!!

_The relationship progressed in fits and starts. Russell was often busy for days out of town on excavating jobs, and that suited Chelle. It gave her time to work through mixed emotions: Feelings of betrayal to Alex, unwarranted though they were, coupled with unrestrained joy over her newfound happiness. Their dates were impromptu and offbeat, time stolen together when they could manage it. A walk along the river, quick excursions to the market to shop for dinner ingredients. Sometimes they took in a movie, but most often, they returned to their coffee house roots and talked. And talked. She found herself thinking of him in many moments, and it always made her smile._

_She soon learned that in addition to his busy job, Russell was a dedicated father to two delightful children from a previous marriage. Chelle adored the kids from the first time she met them. Rhonda Rae was gentle, softly blonde and delicate, just six, smiling and talkative. Benjamin was a four-year-old boy who had begun to interact solidly with the world around him. He had watchful, solemn eyes but with a smile that ambushed his face like a pineapple splattering on the road. Chelle would do almost anything to make him laugh. She was as charmed by them as she was with Russell, feeling herself so fortunate to have been granted this extraordinary instant family._

_ Russellâs relationship with his ex-wife, Annie, was a rare one in that it was completely amiable. Chelle was relieved. She felt it spoke volumes about who Russell was as a person. Annie didnât mind that her children were forming a bond with Chelle; in fact, they discussed it once in a brief phone conversation._

_âChelle, Iâm pleased youâre getting to know the kids,â Annie said. âIt makes it so much easier for them if you and I can get along.â_

_âIâm glad we DO get along,â Chelle agreed. âThanks for sharing them with me and not being weird about it. They are so precious.â_

_Annie shared a story about Benjamin proudly putting his shoes on backwards._

_They laughed together and as time went on, Chelle and Annie drew together as co-parents. Russell was occasionally uneasy over what they found to talk about, but he overcame his wariness to let the friendship between his ex-wife and his current girlfriend blossom. _

_Chelleâs life gradually returned to a renewed state of bliss and love. She and Russell married one glimmering August day because they could think of no reason not to. It was a spur of the moment decision made more on the basis of when Annie was free to look after the children than anything else. They slid away for a brief honeymoon at Lake Tahoe, laughing at the clichÃ© nature of it, and Chelle later struggled with embarrassment to explain to friends about the reddened, scabbed spot on her chin that had resulted from their hours of kissing and lovemaking. The lives of two meshed seamlessly into a single entity of daily comfort and contentment. They loved each other, as much as two people could. Chelle was grateful every moment of every day for the gift of her second chance at happiness. It was rare, and she knew it._

_More and more, the children became part of their lives. Annie took an opportunity to spend the winter in Europe, pursuing her career as an architect. She was glad to leave the children in the excellent care of her ex-husband and his new wife. Chelle could simply not believe her good fortune. She had always wanted children. After Alexâs death, it seemed she would not meet someone in time to have them. Now, she longer wanted any children other than Rhonda Rae and Benjamin, could not imagine a life without them in it. They accepted Chelle into their lives as naturally as breathing. Because Chelle and Annie had no animosity between them, the children were free to love Chelle without fear of guilt or repercussions._

_Russellâs business grew. He hired a man to help but was still required to be on job sites out of town from time to time. Chelle was content to fill her days caring for the children. On weekends, they did the usual things: The park, the zoo. During the week, Chelle continued to volunteer at the library, but most of her time was now taken up with making her home environment as perfect as possible for her new family. What was life but memories? She strove to make them grand._

_Christmas approached. She was overcome with a desire to make it especially memorable. It had been such a long time since she had celebrated Christmas with any genuine enthusiasm. The gifts, the decorations, the food. A marathon day of shopping was in order. She called her neighborâs daughter, 16-year-old Pamela, who looked after the kids while Chelle volunteered at the library. She asked if Pamela would mind looking after the children for a long afternoon. They fixed a day and time._

_Chelle reveled in her tasks. She got caught up in the bustling happiness of the holiday. Everywhere she looked, families were laughing together as they picked out special gifts, ornaments and trinkets for their celebrations. She watched in quiet amusement as children stood in line with their parents at the local mall to meet with Santa Claus, whisper in his ear their fervent wishes for presents. Some screamed in fear, and she couldnât help it â she laughed. It was all part of the holiday celebration she remembered._

_She returned home, breathless and eager, her car filled with surprises all carefully chosen. She could hardly wait to get busy with the baking and the decorating. She thought of cherished holidays past, the warm memories rising in her like the scent of yeasty bread baking. She eased in quiet steps through the back door into her kitchen, a stealthy pack mule with her packages. She heard the television blaring from the den and hastened to hide her purchases so as not to spoil any of the surprises she had planned._

_As she moved through the kitchen, her eyes fell on the sideboard. And the pie. The long-forgotten pie. The pie she should have rid down the garbage disposal a hundred times but hadnât. Only it wasnât the same pie; it was a much eaten version of the same pie._

_Chelle shrieked, dropped her packages to the floor in a discordant crash. She rushed to the den. There, she found an appalling tableau. Pamela, the children, all cold to her desperate touch. The empty plates set on the coffee and end tables told the grim tale while the television droned mindlessly on. Chelle screeched her misery as she rushed from one corpse to the next, shaking each in its turn and pleading through her whimpering tears for each to awaken, hoping against hope for a sign of life. She pulled Benjamin, sweetest boy, to her heart in a hard hug and howled. But there was nothing. Their bodies remained still, lifeless. Her mind exploded._

_Slowly, numbly, she made her way back to the kitchen, as she had so many years before after Alex had died. A sense of ghastly irony burbled up from inside her, caused her to vomit on the immaculate kitchen floor. Two pieces of the pie remained. In a terrible daze, she placed one on a plate, set it on a mat at the kitchen table with a napkin and a fork and a note scrawled for Russell. âI love you more than life, and I am so sorry,â it said. She returned to the last piece of pie in the plate. And picked up a fork._

Now I'll have to work on an alternate ending.


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## sustainabilly (Jun 20, 2012)

I get chills just thinking about something as devastating as those endings. Reminds me of the kind of plots from Gothic Lit. class back in H.S.


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## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

Well, I had two story lines in mind for the ending and this was one... if I have time, I'll play with the other. Maybe less H.S. and a better choice.  This one was either a) preordained; or b) too obvious! Either way, my own red pen says... "Needs work."


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## sustainabilly (Jun 20, 2012)

Raeven. It's good stuff (both versions) even if it _was_ a potentially foregone conclusion. It's possible that one of the drawbacks of reading alot is that one's memory can dip into a rather large cauldron full of plot choices.

It isn't like you two were wearing the same dress or anything.


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## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

sustainabilly said:


> Raeven. It's good stuff (both versions) even if it _was_ a potentially foregone conclusion. It's possible that one of the drawbacks of reading alot is that one's memory can dip into a rather large cauldron full of plot choices.
> 
> It isn't like you two were wearing the same dress or anything.


<gasp!> Shet yo' mouf!!!! The very IDEA!!!

And yeah, we were!! Which I thought was pretty funny!!! If it embarrassed me, I wouldn't have posted it, just rewritten the other ending and no one the wiser.


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## sustainabilly (Jun 20, 2012)

Raeven said:


> Well, I had two story lines in mind for the ending and this was one... if I have time, I'll play with the other. *Maybe less H.S.* and a better choice.  This one was either a) preordained; or b) too obvious! Either way, my own red pen says... "Needs work."


I didn't mean written by high schoolers. I was referring to the classic gothic authors like Melville, Hawthorne, and Shelley.


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## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

I was shooting for Dostoevsky.


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## sustainabilly (Jun 20, 2012)

Setting the bar pretty high, huh? I try to keep it in reach for me. Like, I think he was talking about me here, "The cleverest of all, in my opinion, is the man who calls himself a fool at least once a month." Fyodor Dostoevsky.

Pretty sure on the fool part. Don't know about the clever part though. 
​


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## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

All jesting aside, Karl, I am a mediocre writer at best -- and I mean that most sincerely. I accept that and it has been gratifying to stretch my mental muscles a bit in that way. Pure confection!

I have personally very much enjoyed zong's challenge to us to showcase our little efforts. Some have been very impressive! It's fun to share these intimate ramblings, because I believe all writing is intensely intimate to the person who is baring his or her soul, and all writing is autobiographical to one degree or another. Which, when you think about it, is a little scary in the case of Sherry and me. 

I hope the thread will carry on for awhile longer and everyone will contribute in whatever way they feel moved to do so.


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## sherry in Maine (Nov 22, 2007)

well, though I dont compare myself to any famous, or good, or famous/good writer, I do remember reading that Stephen King was addicted to cocaine or some other drug during the 80s. Often wonder if that's how he came up with those wierd crazy monster things he wrote about....you know, those were his personal demons-maybe?


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## sherry in Maine (Nov 22, 2007)

I have enjoyed reading everyone's stories, and other creative writings.
Have also enjoyed re reading everyone's stories & writings.
Lot of creative juice percolating here on this forum.
Haven't tried my hand in a long time. Of course my offering is just a shaky few words written in free moments, usually late at night or early a.m.
I used to love writing, and thought I'd die if I didn't get to 'be' a published writer. (do you remember your teen years?)


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## sherry in Maine (Nov 22, 2007)

The young hip couple were watching him through their top of the line, highly priced binoculars.
'what's that old coot doing now?' Tiffany said to Tristan, as they lowered their 'nocs' in unison. 
Both late 20s and dressed in their Calvin Klein 'Better Dressed Low Country People' outfits, no one would mistake them for anything but what they were- two youngster - know it alls, who had so much to learn! The 'sheen' of being young and stupid hadn't quite left them yet, they didn't recognize that fact that 'wet behind the ears' was a phrase that suited them better than 'MBA graduates'

Tiffany and Tristan had started out as a couple in the big city, and because of the down turn of the economy that they'd studied so well in college, lost their jobs and taken refuge in the well appointed small house in the tide water, low country area.
They were too good to take any job nearby,(flipping burgers? Cutting grass?) and lived off of their rapidly dwindling funds. They had both decided that they'd rather steal vegetables & fruit from the old fart who lived nearby than raise food themselves. They even got lucky sometimes and stole eggs, too. 

During one of their 'foraging' raids on his neatly kept/well worked land, they spotted him talking to a tree. There were no other people around, and snickering at him as quietly as possible, they crept through the dried corn stalks slowly, as not to give themselves away. The corn had long been harvested by the man, he'd grown some extry for the deer, too. 

Deer weren't the only recipients of the stolen corn...Though these 2 had a sense of self importance they also had a sense of entitlement. They 'knew' Stealing was Wrong, but that old ******* wasn't going to eat all that corn, or those plums, or those collards that he grew mass quantities of.....

That's how they'd become acquainted with his presence, over the last few months. They'd come over and steal quite openly, unaware he'd been watching them. Once there'd been a confrontation, and he had told them to keep their stolen vegetables, but to ask him next time, before taking. His words had been accompanied by anger, profanity and some moonshine related ramblings. Ever since then, the two immature idiots had kept watch on him, ridiculing him to each other, and watching him daily through their glasses. No sense of shame ever visited their thoughts.

The man's long frame was covered in overalls and an old tshirt. Beside him sat a bushell basket full of produce that he had grown and overwintered in his small shack of a greenhouse.He had removed his tattered jacket temporarily, in an attempt to climb the tree, get a better view of those dang squirrels.
'I see you in there!' He shouted to a hole in the pin oak tree.
'think ya'll 'ud taste good in my stewpot of greens! ' He continued glaring at the hole in the tree.
The mild weather belied the fact that the man's lonely Thanksgiving day had passed, and Christmas was very nearby.
He stopped to light up a 'roll your own' and inhaled deeply. He was a master gardener, had acumulated experience, knowledge& love of all things growing. 
He especially loved his home grown weed, and lovingly harvested pounds of it each year, drying it in his old tobacco barn, along with other helpful and tasty herbs.
Those squirrels had invaded his barn repeatedly and gotten into his dried corn, a supply he used to make his favorite drink- moonshine... The still was hidden way out back, away from the tax men, law men, beaurocrats, and idiots. How dare these rodents steal his fuel! How dare they deprive him of his 'mellow'! The next thing you know, they'd be chewing on the leaves drying in the barn!
He had to eradicate them. He loved him some squirrel, all done up wi' greens, bacon and cornbread... yum! His mouth watered slightly as he dreamt of how it would taste...

xxxxxxxxxx
hope this is ok; when I can I'll wrap it up.
I know it's predictable. Just goofing around.


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## sherry in Maine (Nov 22, 2007)

furthermore; Raeven, though our endings were similar because we both chose the same plot line Zong outlined, yours was different than mine.
There isn't any need to be embarrassed.
I'm not good. I haven't done anything creative for years and years.

I guess you could compare it to wearing the same dress, we each brought our own 'talents' to the fabric/style of the garment.


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## Tommyice (Dec 5, 2010)

I've finally finished reading all of the stories. WOW! They are all fantastic. 

Now about that leather-bound set......


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## sherry in Maine (Nov 22, 2007)

He couldn't help himself; Tristan started snickering, making the dried cornstalks rustle against each other. Tiffany 'shushed' him, but began to giggle herself.

'He gonna git hisself sum squirrel stuuuuuuwww' she drawled, 'an' a mess o' greeeens' Their scorn & derisive humor was soon cut short by the 'ping' from a .22 rifle shot just over their heads.
'Ah see you all!' he shouted, not enraged, but high annoyed to see those thieves on his property --again! 'you all git! You rascals aint stealin' f'om me no mo'e' H shot a couple more times into the air, and saw the dried stalks moving again, in the opposite direction. Satisfied, he turned back to the problem at hand- the other thieves.... those two squirrels.
He knew it was the same two; there were plenty around, but those two seemed to be the main characters in his squirrel drama. The male- he called him Chip- was a very large grey squirrel, whose leanness and agility showed that he might be good leader/provider. His tail was half bitten off, perhaps some battle that he'd won or lost, JimBob wasn't sure.The one he considered female, he called Dale. Her coat was soft and extra furry. It looked like a good winter coat for a squirrel, and it didn't have those scars and lumps of past battles, like Chips' did. Her grey tail was extra large, looked extremely soft and touchable. He knew what that kind of soft felt like. His imagination was pretty good, except for naming the squirrels.

He left them and entered the old tobacco barn out back of his garden. It had been built well before civil war times, and had stood the test of time and weather. Strong, sturdy, well ventilated, dark and cool. He loved being in there, reclining against a pile of hay. He admired the herbs he'd harvested, and were drying in bundles hanging from the rafters. He'd tried keeping the dried corn in containers with lids, but somehow the '***** or some other animals kept opening them. He'd tried hanging it in big sturdy bags, but nothing was rodent proof that he'd come across.
He pulled a flask of homemade liquor from one of those containers. Out of another came a box of homegrown 'roll your owns'. JimBob settled against some old hay, and lit himself a cig. Carefully, he made sure the match was completely cold before tucking it into his pocket. He sucked down a big gulp of his corn drink. 
Loneliness dwelt in his heart; he wanted a woman for his own to love, but was bitter about his last relationship. The only way he could get through these lonely times were working with his plants, making/drinking shine and smoking weed. 
Women! He needed one- was afraid to find one- too soon to look for another. He was too bitter about the last. he bragged to hisself that he'd never let another get close to him....in his drunken & stoned ramblinghe didn't realize that all of that false bravado was just another way of cutting off his nose to spite his smooth shaven face......

xxxxxxxxxxxxx
this isn't edited, obviously. I'll get back later, or tell me it stinks and I'll quit.


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## sherry in Maine (Nov 22, 2007)

'heyeyeyeyeyeyey' chittered Dale. 'hey hey!! hey!hey!human!human!!' 'chipchipchppppphffhfhfhfhfh' she sputtered to Chip, in a hurry to leave the barn, which had been nursing a small fire since the man had fallen into a sleep/stupor made up of corn/weed effluvia..... They looked down on the fellow, who'd started the fire with his personal brand cig, sprawled out all comfy in the hay...
Running to a stash, she barely remembered placing there (indeed squirrels have very short term memory) she began to hurl her treasured winter food at the recumbent man. Soon Chip and Dale were pelting the guy with acorns, walnuts, seeds, pine cones, and small pretty rocks they'd gathered. It certainly encouraged the fire to grow larger, snapping and crackling like a merry dance of two happy people.
In desperation the squirrels did something they'd never done before- they ran down the supports of the barn and jumped on the feller's face, over and over, enough to bring him closer to the surface of consciousness. 'Hunh?' he awoke to the flames, hastily beat them out with his ragged jacket, size 15eeee steel toed boots and hands. He then rushed for a bucket of water to pour out the embers, and finishing it with a bucket of soil from his greenhouse.

Sitting, warily watching where the flames had been,lest it restart, he wondered what had caused him to awaken. Looking around, he saw no one. Not those yuppies, he'd decided. An almighty being?
'It was US you slack jawed fool!' shouted Dale. 'it was US!' 

Hearing noises, he looked up above, and saw the 2 squirrels, the ones he'd been thinking of stewing. Slowly it came to him, that his rescuers - what?- really?- had been 2 pesky, thieving squirrels? Slowly he raised the .22, he had a very clear shot of them, could still have some good meat & broth ..... 
Stunned, the two rodents gazed at him. 'run!' said Chip, and dashed away, his partial tail held high. Dale soon skittered after him; what a no account human being she'd saved! 
Slowly, thinking more clearly, he put down the rifle.
'Merry Christmas' he said to them, hidden in the rafters. 'I wont shoot you, go ahead and live.' he walked out of the barn, satisfied the fire was out completely.
'Stay out of my corn' he directed, and with a wave of his smoke covered hand, he whispered 'and happy new year, you little turds'
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
OK Zong, I'm done.
I know I wasn't too original in phrasing, but everything was written in a hurry.
Perhaps if there is any more challenges,I can do better.
School starts on Wednesday, but we have had a pretty good holiday vacation, with only a couple challenging days.


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