Friday's Whims of the Time Traveler 10.1: November 2009
Writing Exercise #5
by Belinda Roddie
Story #1 - A Motor/Engine Starting Up - 200 words
The phone rings twice. Pick it up. Pick it up, damn you. Pick up the phone.
“Who is it?”
“It’s Jane.”
Damn it. “What do you want?”
“I want to talk to you.”
“Oh, is that why you called? What a shock.”
“Just bear with me.”
“What do you want? Tell me the truth.”
“I want Sam.”
“What?”
“I want my son back.”
Damn it. Why did I have to pick up the phone? Why was I so dense? Why? For the love of God, why?
“You can’t have him.”
“What?”
“The judge was on my side. You can’t have Sam back.”
“I’ll take you back to court.”
“Try me.”
“I’ll win this time.”
“Try me.”
There’s a pause on her side. No words. I don’t hear her breathe. Talk, damn it. Say at least one word, Jane!
“I’ll see you in court, then.”
“I won’t come.”
“You’ll have to come.”
“I won’t.”
“Bye, Glenn.”
She hangs up on me. I wish I had not picked up. I get some wine and fill a glass. Red wine. I hang on to those two words: I won’t. I won’t. I won’t. The wine feels cool on my hot lips.
Damn it.
Story #2 - A Suitcase Being Zipped Up - 300 words
Eventually Gretchen had to leave him. Hank was drinking a lot more. Much more than he had before. In the past, he drank little. Only one small glass each day. He went on to drink two. Three, four, five, it didn’t decrease. It only increased, glass by glass.
She left a note for him. She scribbled laments on binder paper. She opened her heart with granite. She used a number two pencil. A pencil, for crying out loud. Gretchen had never been very elegant.
Gretchen left the note by bottles. Specifically, by his empty gin bottles. She knew he’d eventually find it. He’d read it while still intoxicated. He’d laugh about it loudly, heartily. Then he’d collapse on the couch. Snoring, dry noises in his throat. Until he’d wake up, finally sober. Then he’d be able to understand.
Her suitcase squeaked when pried open. Gretchen filled it with sepia photographs. Four bundles of spare clothing sets. Towels and bath supplies and lotions. She closed the suitcase with sobs. The wheels of the suitcase rattled. They bounced on the cracked linoleum. Gretchen dragged it to the couch. She sat to catch her breath.
And then he came home drunk. He wobbled, holding an empty bottle. Gretchen knew it was her husband. Knew before he opened the door. He stared at her, eyes brimming. He did not notice the suitcase.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
Gretchen did not respond to him. His slurred speech hounded her ears. “I asked you a question, sweetheart.”
“Why do you suddenly care, Hank?”
Her words tasted strange to her. They were salty, and bitter, too. Words mixed with fat, heavy tears. Hank didn’t notice her crying, smirking.
“Where’s my dinner?” he demanded loudly.
Gretchen silently rose to her feet. Hank was speechless as she disappeared.
Story #3 - Swords Clashing - 300 words
Bernard stared at his bloody hands. He could barely remember how it had happened. It had been done so quickly in his muddled rage. He saw the severed head on the table and retched. Brown bile mingled with the crimson and stained the table purple.
Done by a single swing of the hatchet. The victim hadn’t felt a thing. His body lay crumpled in the chair like a cigarette smashed into an ashtray. Bernard saw that it was just a huddled mass of ligaments and muscles. A body that was once so active was now useless.
Bernard cleaned his fingers on the dead man’s coat sleeve. Then he seized the head by the stray hairs on the whitening scalp. He lifted it high enough into the air so that the slits of the eyes in the bloodless face stared into his own. Already the colors of the irises seemed to fade. It was like Bernard was staring into an abyss.
He didn’t hesitate. He groped for his cigarette lighter that lay beside the axe with its blade still bloody and buried into the splintering wood. Bernard let the head slide like a wet rag from his grasp. He didn’t listen to the sloppy thud it made when it landed on the floor. Instead he held the lighter in front of his eyes while his thumb slipped across the switch. Then he let it drop with the flame still flickering onto the bastard’s face.
The resulting flames shrieked and nipped at Bernard as he wrenched the axe from its wooden prison. He brushed the splinters from the blade and fed them to the swelling inferno. He then scraped his heel against the floor as he turned and left the new circle of Hell to burn its new face into the moonlight.
The work you see here was a writing exercise from a course I took in college called "Writing the Novel." It has not been edited nor modified since November of 2009.
by Belinda Roddie
Story #1 - A Motor/Engine Starting Up - 200 words
The phone rings twice. Pick it up. Pick it up, damn you. Pick up the phone.
“Who is it?”
“It’s Jane.”
Damn it. “What do you want?”
“I want to talk to you.”
“Oh, is that why you called? What a shock.”
“Just bear with me.”
“What do you want? Tell me the truth.”
“I want Sam.”
“What?”
“I want my son back.”
Damn it. Why did I have to pick up the phone? Why was I so dense? Why? For the love of God, why?
“You can’t have him.”
“What?”
“The judge was on my side. You can’t have Sam back.”
“I’ll take you back to court.”
“Try me.”
“I’ll win this time.”
“Try me.”
There’s a pause on her side. No words. I don’t hear her breathe. Talk, damn it. Say at least one word, Jane!
“I’ll see you in court, then.”
“I won’t come.”
“You’ll have to come.”
“I won’t.”
“Bye, Glenn.”
She hangs up on me. I wish I had not picked up. I get some wine and fill a glass. Red wine. I hang on to those two words: I won’t. I won’t. I won’t. The wine feels cool on my hot lips.
Damn it.
Story #2 - A Suitcase Being Zipped Up - 300 words
Eventually Gretchen had to leave him. Hank was drinking a lot more. Much more than he had before. In the past, he drank little. Only one small glass each day. He went on to drink two. Three, four, five, it didn’t decrease. It only increased, glass by glass.
She left a note for him. She scribbled laments on binder paper. She opened her heart with granite. She used a number two pencil. A pencil, for crying out loud. Gretchen had never been very elegant.
Gretchen left the note by bottles. Specifically, by his empty gin bottles. She knew he’d eventually find it. He’d read it while still intoxicated. He’d laugh about it loudly, heartily. Then he’d collapse on the couch. Snoring, dry noises in his throat. Until he’d wake up, finally sober. Then he’d be able to understand.
Her suitcase squeaked when pried open. Gretchen filled it with sepia photographs. Four bundles of spare clothing sets. Towels and bath supplies and lotions. She closed the suitcase with sobs. The wheels of the suitcase rattled. They bounced on the cracked linoleum. Gretchen dragged it to the couch. She sat to catch her breath.
And then he came home drunk. He wobbled, holding an empty bottle. Gretchen knew it was her husband. Knew before he opened the door. He stared at her, eyes brimming. He did not notice the suitcase.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
Gretchen did not respond to him. His slurred speech hounded her ears. “I asked you a question, sweetheart.”
“Why do you suddenly care, Hank?”
Her words tasted strange to her. They were salty, and bitter, too. Words mixed with fat, heavy tears. Hank didn’t notice her crying, smirking.
“Where’s my dinner?” he demanded loudly.
Gretchen silently rose to her feet. Hank was speechless as she disappeared.
Story #3 - Swords Clashing - 300 words
Bernard stared at his bloody hands. He could barely remember how it had happened. It had been done so quickly in his muddled rage. He saw the severed head on the table and retched. Brown bile mingled with the crimson and stained the table purple.
Done by a single swing of the hatchet. The victim hadn’t felt a thing. His body lay crumpled in the chair like a cigarette smashed into an ashtray. Bernard saw that it was just a huddled mass of ligaments and muscles. A body that was once so active was now useless.
Bernard cleaned his fingers on the dead man’s coat sleeve. Then he seized the head by the stray hairs on the whitening scalp. He lifted it high enough into the air so that the slits of the eyes in the bloodless face stared into his own. Already the colors of the irises seemed to fade. It was like Bernard was staring into an abyss.
He didn’t hesitate. He groped for his cigarette lighter that lay beside the axe with its blade still bloody and buried into the splintering wood. Bernard let the head slide like a wet rag from his grasp. He didn’t listen to the sloppy thud it made when it landed on the floor. Instead he held the lighter in front of his eyes while his thumb slipped across the switch. Then he let it drop with the flame still flickering onto the bastard’s face.
The resulting flames shrieked and nipped at Bernard as he wrenched the axe from its wooden prison. He brushed the splinters from the blade and fed them to the swelling inferno. He then scraped his heel against the floor as he turned and left the new circle of Hell to burn its new face into the moonlight.
The work you see here was a writing exercise from a course I took in college called "Writing the Novel." It has not been edited nor modified since November of 2009.
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