| Squid Blog Day-to-Day with Squiddy |  |
| Squid Blog Day-to-Day with Squiddy | |
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "shimmer". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Shimmer- Squiddy Geiger - January 05, 2013
Brandon trudged through the snow towards home, his thoughts filled with the new semester that was coming. New classes that would bring new professors and new challenges. It worried him but he was looking forward to it, too. First week nerves, and it was still a weekend away.
The Christmas break had been great, a good relaxing time with family, the occasional party with friends, and most importantly, plenty of time with Rebecca. He smiled as he thought of her, as he always did. Deep in thought, it was nearly a minute before he noticed, out of the corner of his eye, the shimmer keeping pace with him.
He stopped, and it stopped. He looked towards it and it moved, never leaving the corner of his eye. He started walking again, and it followed, just at the edge of his vision. It reminded him of the shimmery glittery light of the teleporters on Star Trek - the original series, not the later ones.
He tried flipping his head and turning very quickly, but it was no use. He couldn't look directly at it. He tried spinning around the other way, but the same thing happened. It spun with him. Whatever it was, it was fast and it wasn't far, because it never went behind any objects as it spun with him. Brandon was just starting to think it was a problem with his eye when it growled.
It didn't growl at him, it growled, very softly, as someone went by in the other direction. Well, it was sort of a growl, with a soft whistling sound in it. Weird, hard to describe, really. The other person didn't seem to hear. He heard the growl several more times before he arrived home.
By the time he got home, he had deduced that the growl came when people passed too close to him. If they stayed at least 15 feet from him, it was fine. Less than 15 feet and the shimmer growled. He was thinking about this as he opened the door, and his roommate, Ryan, shook his hand to wish him Happy New Year. It was the last thing Ryan ever did.
The shimmer left no trace...
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "stellar". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Stellar - Squiddy Geiger - January 01, 2013
So the day began on a sour note. Jeff removed the saxophone's reed and fiddled with it then put it back in. Ah, that was much better. He played his set with enthusiasm, and when it was done, he walked to the bar for a drink.
There had been many sour notes, in his career, but tonight had been good. Lots of applause at the end of the set, not just polite clapping here and there. Perhaps the best of his career. He sipped at his drink, a tap on his shoulder waking him from his reverie.
He turned to see a short pinch-faced man with graying hair. "Yes? Can I help you?"
"Jeff, have you forgotten me? I met you in Mazatlan two years ago. Walter Messing. I'm with Zlotky Records." The man presented his card. "I listened to you and told you you had potential, but that you weren't quite ready. Well, I'm still not quite sure, but tonight was spectacular, and if you drop by my office on Monday, I'm ready to make you an offer."
Jeff stared at him for a moment, mouth slightly open. He finally realized he must look like a fool, and closed it, then found his voice. "You're serious? Yes I remember you now." He did, but only vaguely - he'd been on the booze then, it was no wonder the guy had said he wasn't ready. He took the card. "Yes, I remember. Wow, I wasn't, uh, I wasn't expecting this, but wow, yes. Thank you."
"Good, be there at 11, and bring your lawyer. If you don't have one, don't worry, it's pretty straightforward." He laughed. "I'd suggest you probably want one, but for goodness sake, don't tell my boss I said so." He whispered in low tones "He thinks lawyers are the bane of the businessman, but really, you don't want to sign without one. Tonight was a great show, man. I'm looking forward to working with you." The man finished his drink and walked out.
Jeff looked around in a daze. Did that just happen? He looked at the card. It seemed legit, he'd definitely talked to the guy in Mazatlan. He drained his own drink, grabbed his stuff and went home. Milly would be thrilled! Finally, some good news. He looked up at the stars as he walked, wondering if they were finally giving him a break.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "feather". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Feather- Squiddy Geiger - October 04, 2012
Fluff and feather, feather and fluff
It's all so delightful, wonderful stuff
The world is filled with living wonder
Must be protected from deadly plunder
Small and helpless, helpless and small
So few have seen very many at all
Hiding themselves away, you see
Afraid of the world of you and me
Those that had no fear, it seems
Are now found only in dreams
Some so few they shan't survive
Others with luck we will revive
Too few the people striving to save
Our wild heritage on land and wave
We can but fight to save a few
The world's diversity wasted in stew
Scale and skin, skin and scale
In some markets, it's all on sale
Protected by "science" in the east
They'd rather eat than watch the beast
Feather and fluff, fluff and feather
Our world's endangered, can they weather
Pressure and challenges from progress
Should we value them any less?
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "thunder". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
(yes, this is the second work entitled "Thunder" - and is in no way assoicated with the other one)
Thunder- Squiddy Geiger - September 27, 2012
Crack of sound released from the heavens after flash of light
Filling the world with terrific energy and sending
Children and pets scurry for shelter
As the world shakes and all
Around feel the power
Of the thunderous
Clash of Titans
Causes fear
until the
echoes
slowly
fade
and
all
is
1
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "sunrise". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Sunrise- Squiddy Geiger - September 25, 2012
Ulrich listened to the silence, savouring it. No traffic, no honking horns, no shouting or yelling of angry passersby. There was noise, but it was natural and muted, and he was content to just lie there, listening.
The fire was out, he'd have to start it again, but that wasn't a problem. For now, he just enjoyed the approaching dawn, a few distant birds serenading him. The lean-to he'd made last night had protected him when it had rained, but the crisp mountain air was cool but free of rain now. Through the opening in the lean-to, he watched the horizon lighten, as dawn approached. This had always been his favourite time, as a new day was born.
The birds in the nearby trees awoke and start to reply to the more distant serenade, and a thin strip of orange appeared above the horizon, and grew imperceptibly as the sun approached, the strip widening to a band, the birdsong growing louder. In the increased light, his breath was visible now, vapours quickly dissipating in the air. He stayed snuggled in his sleeping bag, the cold air contrasting with the comforting warmth inside the bag.
In the distance, on the lake, a loon called, a beautiful haunting cry that always gave him shivers, even in summer. The world around him was awake now, and it was nearly time to get up, but he resisted, until finally the sun peeked over the horizon, a beautiful blazing, blinding yellow-orange. He unzipped the bag and rolled out, quickly pulling on his clothes. He prepped the wood and kindling in the makeshift fire pit, and watched the sunrise become daylight as he started the fire.
Sometimes at night, he missed the city. Then, as the sun rose, he remembered why he had left, and all thought of return to civilization was banished for another day.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "reflect". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Reflect- Squiddy Geiger - September 20, 2012
Danny muttered wetly as he slogged through the rain. If it wasn't bad enough that he'd had a crappy day at work, the fucking heavens had decided to take a leak on him. Yes, the gods hated him, and today was no exception.
Three years with the company, and where was he? Three years of promises, three years of admonishments to wait, three years of bullshit. Where was he? right where he'd started, doing the same job, day after day. Sure, the names on the phone changed, but the work was always the same. "Tech support, Danny speaking. How may I help."
Rodney had been full of enthusiasm when he'd hired on. The company was growing, there was room for a keener like him. Hell, three years, and they still didn't have a benefit plan, and no sign of the stock options that had been dangled in front of him. Whenever he approached Rodney or Simone, it was always "We're working on it, but we still can't quite do it."
A fast moving car flew by close to the curb, hitting large puddle, showering him with muddy water. He just looked after it, unable to raise enough enthusiasm to shake a fist at it. His thoughts continued. "That's right. Even complete strangers dump on me. Why should they be any different?"
Six months ago, he'd talked to Rodney, and had been promised that things would change. Oh, they had, but only that his title was now "Support Analyst" instead of "Support Technician." Because "analyst being a much more impressive word than "technician", of course.
"Tomorrow," he thought. "Tomorrow I'll make a formal request for improvement." He kicked at a puddle, uncaring now, soaked to the bone. "Yes, and if they don't improve things, I'm gone. Six months to make changes. Not a day more." Another car splashed him, and he flipped the driver off. "Six months..."
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "random". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Random- Squiddy Geiger - September 17, 2012
The man had to be crazy. That was the only explanation Zain could think of as he listened to his rantings. ZilAnna was smiling as she listened, but Zain wasn't amused. He'd tried to leave, but she wouldn't budge, said she wanted to hear more.
"And if you think about it," the man continued, "Zlomy really was a great man, even if he did eat three breakfasts. Come on, it's the most important meal of the day, so why not eat it again, and even a third time?" Zain just shook his head, but his wife continued to smile as she listened.
"I ate breakfast, lunch and supper faithfully for years, but never seemed to get anywhere. Then I took up Zlomy's teachings, and that included at least two breakfasts a day, sometimes more. And now look at me, I'm a successful street preacher with a following of," he paused dramatically, looking around," several. You too can be successful if you follow Zlomy's example."
"But what if you live with someone who refuses to let you eat an extra breakfast?" ZilAnna asked.
The man laughed. "You eat a second lunch, instead. Zlomy teaches that lunches are a good substitute for missed breakfasts, and in a pinch, an extra supper works, but not too often, they tend to be too big - it's recommended that you eat an extra supper no more than twice a month."
"Where does it say that?" another man asked.
"It's in Musings 15:3, and mentioned again in Mayhem 21:9. But don't get too hung up on that, because the standard three meals isn't unhealthy, just unhelpful. if you can't slip in your extra breakfast today, make sure you do tomorrow.. That concludes the rant for today. Now I'd like to read a passage from Malingering 94:1-3:"
"May you be half an hour in Heaven
Before the Devil knows you're dead
If you like pina colada, stick to your mate
Find out who he or she is, remember, you wed
"The little old man from Nantucket
Reads a lot, gets angry and only
Talks to you when he needs something
Be kind and humour him anyway.
"Salad and enchiladas are a good
Dietary source of food of some kind
Eat them, and you will be full
Don't eat, and you will suffer.
The man closed his book and looked around expectantly, holding his hat out. ZilAnna dropped some money in, as did three others. He looked expectantly at Zain, who just shook his head, and grabbed his wife's arm. "Can we go, please?" he hissed. She nodded and they walked slowly away, arm in arm.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "carnival". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Carnival- Squiddy Geiger - September 15, 2012
Carnival time! Brendon could hardly wait. It was the single most exciting day of the year, and it was today! Now! He wanted to get to the opening festivities, but there was so much left to do. Chiyo did it on purpose, he was sure of it. He didn't like Brendon, but this was going too far.
The work was piled up, but he slogged through it, and whittled it down, until finally he moved the last box, carefully shoving it into place. He checked the time - yes he could still make it if he hurried. He locked up quickly, ran home, splashed water under his arms and on his face in homage to showering, then hurried to the Carnival.
He arrived to see that others were still going in, and sighed with relief - it hadn't started yet. As he stood in line to enter, he waved to a few friends also in line. The excitement was palpable as he sat at a table in the back - far from the good seats but still better than the one last year - he'd bought his ticket earlier this year. After a few minutes, Monsieur Beauchamp, the editor of the local paper, came out to start the festivities. He held out his arms to signal for quiet. At last he had it and he started to speak.
"I know you're all very excited and want to get this rolling, so i won't keep you waiting too long. We have a new butcher this year. Mister Donovan, as you know, retired last year and I am happy to announce that Darcy Redman has consented to take his duties, so please, " he he waved for a young man in the front row to stand. "Please welcome Darcy aboard."
After a pause to let the applause die down, he continued. "Very well, we have a fantastic menu, lots of entertainment for this year's Carnival, so let's get to it!" There was thunderous applause as the carts with the meats were rolled in, the dishes uncovered, displaying the delicacies upon them. Brendon watched them being delivered to other tables, and waited for this table's feast to be delivered. When it was, he smiled, recognizing the dish. It was that nice young girl who had been hitchhiking and had foolishly accepted a ride from Mister Olsen. This would be a lovely meal. His mouth watered as the dish was carved.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "transform". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Transform- Squiddy Geiger - September 11, 2012
If
The page
Is blank
You must
Transform
Your thoughts
To words
And then you will learn
Just how much is in
Your brain
It will
Amaze
Delight
Anger
Amuse
Reward
you
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "unwind". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Unwind- Squiddy Geiger - September 10, 2012
Slowly as he watches here
The bubbles rising in his beer
His heart is broken and aching
Through actions of his own making
He made a mistake, so foolish, he
It angered her, caused her to flee
She'd heard him out, two days later
Thought his betrayal all the greater
He'd gone berserk - well, for him at least
Quaffing the yield of hops and yeast
For others this might seem quite mild
For him five beers was really quite wild
Now that he was sober and caffeine filled
He considered just how much he'd swilled
His aching head was not his friend
The noise in the house? would it end?
But even as he blamed the beer
An idea formed, it caught his ear
His anger ebbed, he could unwind
And realize he'd been truly unkind
Too late now, she'd taken her leave
Naught to do now, but sit and grieve
The loss of a love beyond compare
Take him back? she would not dare
Now he sat and drowned his pain
In kinder ways, with more to gain
He would not get her back, it's true
But someday soon, he'd begin anew
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "imaginary". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Imaginary- Squiddy Geiger - September 08, 2012
The image was dark, but he could almost make it out. Maybe. he wasn't sure. He peered at it, but just couldn't tell with any certainty. Another failure in his Project. But dammit, he was going to prove the little bastards were real, one way or another.
The Project was several years old now and had cost him a fortune in specialized equipment, but so far, nothing. He'd seen the Pixies, he'd chased them, he was once even bitten by one, but none of his special equipment could photograph or record them. And they mocked him for it, taunting him incessantly. But he'd show them.
As he looked at the last picture from the night before, he blinked. Was that..? It was, oh my fucking god, it was! He stared at it. A Pixie, Mistylight, maybe, he wasn't sure. Yes, it was Mistylight, there was no doubt. He sat back, and laughed. He had them now, proof of Pixies.
He'd be famous and they'd be exposed. And he'd have his revenge on them for all that they'd done ot him over the years. So much damage, so much cost, so many failed dreams. He didn't know why they hated him, but they did, they taunted him, tormented him. Well that would end now.
He returned to the computer, ready to hunt for more proof - one little pic that was hard to see, that wouldn't do, but now he knew he was on the right track. He had the right technology, perfect for the job. As he prepared his equipment, he felt a tapping on his shoulder. He jumped and turned to see Mistylight floating at eye level. he reached for her but missed, not surprisingly.
As he chased her, he became aware of more Pixies. Hundreds of them appeared, filling his den. They moved in slowly, until there was nothing to be seen of him under the layer of Pixies. He screamed and fell silent. Several of the Pixies flew to the mouse and moved it, one of them jumping on the delete key, another jumping on Enter to accept the deletion. The other Pixies removed all evidence of the body.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "smoke". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Smoke- Squiddy Geiger - September 06, 2012
At first it's just a hint
A suggestion of a something
A trick of the senses, perhaps
But then it comes again
An odour, then it hides away
As the air moves past
Dismissed as a figment
Of imagination and fear
It comes again an third time
Stronger now, then a wisp
Of smoke that tickles you
Setting off primal alarms
The wisp becomes a whiff
The the whiff grows until
It cannot be waved off
Smoke must be investigated
Drawn to the source
Fear fighting the fascination
The source is discovered
A plume of smoke pours in
The mind bellows for escape
The way is blocked - what now
Terror seeks the exit
Cool air fills the lungs
Shock overwhelms relief
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "claw". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Claw- Squiddy Geiger - September 05, 2012
Soundly asleep, there is a touch, a nudge
You bat it away, refusing to budge
The touch becomes a niggle
Something has made you wiggle
You ignore the intrusion, will it away
The dream is too lovely, no, not today
The intrusion becomes an annoyance
Something has tainted the dreamy dance
You force your eyes to stay shut
The annoyance has landed on your gut
You resist too long, the patting paw
Which is now a very sharp claw
You open your eyes, sitting upright
Adrenaline rush as you regain sight
Your aging feline demanding food
Valuing your skin, you feed the old dude
Your cat, finally obeyed, is thinking thus
"I don't understand the morning fuss
I give him a chance to save his skin
Feed me faster, you'll never win."
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "mission". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Mission - Squiddy Geiger - September 04, 2012
Nothing to say
Must
Say
Something
Words won't come
Must
Break
Spell
Lack of inspiration
Find
Your
Muse
Empty, blank screen
Beg
the
Gods
Plunge the depths
Of
Your
Mind
Your Mission, Jim
Should
You
Accept
Find the key
Words
Will
Follow
Fill the screen
Tell
Your
Story
Expel the story
Bare
Your
Soul
Write
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "calm". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Calm - Squiddy Geiger - September 03, 2012
The accident happened in slow motion. Jerry stood at the corner, watching in horror as the blue pickup went through the stop sign. The old beat up old Chevy was already in the intersection but moving slowly, compared to the truck. The old man barely started to turn his head when the truck hit his door, blocking Jerry's view of him as the door and the front fender caved in under the momentum of the larger vehicle.
The front of the truck started to buckle and collapse, as it was designed to do, to try to absorb the energy of the collision. Glass shattered, and the driver of the pickup was thrown forward - Jerry saw his head hit the windshield. Glass flew everywhere, and the awful sound of the impact hit Jerry as the Chevy was pushed sideways, bits exploding off of it and the front end of the truck. The two came to rest in a mangled tangle on the corner opposite Jerry. As he watched, bits settled around the two vehicles, and there was silence.
In that moment of shocked silence, a calm fell, before the adrenaline hit him and he rushed over to the vehicles. He surveyed the situation slowly., checking the car first. It was obvious the old man was beyond help. He checked the pickup and sighed - no, there was no help for this one, either. He'd never seen anything like it and hoped he never would again.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile phone and dialed 911. After reporting the collision, he sat on the curb and waited, the appearance of calm falling over the scene again. That night he would have nightmares, the first of many, but for now, if he didn't look at the vehicles, he was able to maintain a semblance of calm. It wouldn't last.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "choke". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Choke- Squiddy Geiger - August 30, 2012
I think that I shall never see
An artichoke that pleases me
They're far too much like scales
Yet this does not affect their sales
I think that I shall never know
A rutabaga, but maybe so
The name is wrong, as you can tell
Even if it is fun to spell
I think that I shall never eat
A dessert dish that tastes of feet
It may have happened there on Friends
To complete the writer's comic ends
I think that I shall never take
Another job where I must rake
Two summers spent in this way
Much too lazy now, today
I think that I shall never write
An ode to Choke, it would be trite
The word beguiles, I cannot tend
My fields of words, this has to end
I think that I have finished now
No mention of dog, or pig, or cow
My nonsense poem, does it please you?
No? Well too bloody bad, you snob.
Er, I mean:
If not then I shall bid you adieu.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "deja vu". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Deja Vu- Squiddy Geiger - August 29, 2012
Sierra put the key in the car lock, wondering if it would surprise her yet again. She set her packages in the back seat, then sat in preparation for the Test: a deep breath, held for five seconds, then she turned the key. The car sputtered to life reluctantly, shuddering and whining. It backfired twice for good measure.
She sighed with relief, and put the car into reverse, backing out of the stall carefully. Another long day of painful work in a call centre, yelled at by all and sundry. It would feel good to get home. She'd taken a steak out of the freezer and put it in the fridge, to celebrate the arrival of the weekend.
Tomorrow, she'd work on her resumé. She needed to get out of this job, and there was nowhere to go inside the company. Time to jump ship. Again. Tonight, however, she'd celebrate. Steak, a nice red wine, some good music and a book. She'd unwind in style. She'd been looking forward to it all day, and in five more minutes, she'd be home.
The song on the radio, a nameless tune from the soulless 90s, was annoying her. She switched stations, settling on an 80s song she'd hated in the 80s but had since come to love. Her mind wandered, reminding her of foolish fun with her high school friends, none of whom had liked this song, either. She wondered if they, too, liked it now.
She pulled into a stall in the parking lot and turned the key off, cutting the song off in mid-word. The car, however, shuddered and sputtered for another thirty seconds before it finally died.
She got out and gathered her things and walked away, arriving at her destination. As she put the key into the car lock, she wondered if it would surprise her yet again. She put her packages in the back seat, then sat in preparation for the Test.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "fly". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Fly- Squiddy Geiger - August 27, 2012
Floating. The sensation was odd, not what he expected. Mother had warned him to expect some nausea, but there was none, just - floating. It wasn't quite the same as swimming, but he could feel a similarity to it.
"Just keep your head up to start, Braden, and you'll be fine," she'd said, but he rolled slowly over in the air, relishing the odd sensations. He put out an arm slowly, and slowed his rotation, then kicked with his feet and flopped over into a rather ungainly forward roll, letting himself tumble several times before stopping, coming to a clumsy halt.
"See, Miriam?" his father almost shouted. "He's a natural, look at that somersault!" His father kicked back and floated lazily over to where Braden had been experimenting. "It took me a few days of practice to show the control you already have! By the end of the week, you'll be ready for outdoor work. In a month, you'll be a pro!" He turned back to Miriam, smiling. "Won't he, Miriam? I can feel it!"
"Ok, Braden," his mother laughed. "That's enough for tonight, and don't let me catch you practicing unsupervised, not until at least next week." She flew over and kissed his forehead. "You do seem to have a degree of talent, but you just learned the spell, without the modifiers. Plus, we don't know how stable your casting is." She pointed to the floor. "Down you go."
"Yes, Mom," Braden said reluctantly, as his hand flicked in a close approximation of the gesture used for 'down' that he'd seen used by others many times. He landed on his rear with a loud thud, and an indignant "ow!". He got up and rubbed his injured pride, then brightened visibly, wishing it was tomorrow already.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "fathom". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Fathom- Squiddy Geiger - August 23, 2012
Jerad pondered the mysteries of the universe while he ate his lunch, on a break from the boredom of his job. His days were spent watching the line and occasionally pulling imperfect pieces off it and tossing them in boxes to be examined and, if possible, fixed and sent to market anyway. Sometimes the fixes were cosmetic; the flaw was still there, but hidden. Oh well, not his problem.
He played with his food, and as he played, an idea soared out of the mess on his plate. He grabbed at it, the idea still not completely formed in his mind, and scared it away. It had been good, a new process for the factory that would revolutionize the industry, he was certain - but as he realized it, the though dropped through the cracks at the bottom of his brain, and drained out.
It was the story of his life. He'd had a cure for the common cold once, but it fled into the night, as he was waking up. He'd found the answer to an ancient riddle that Humanity had been studying for centuries; it was snatched from him by a brain fart. His cure for cancer, obliterated by an untimely sneeze. The loss of this marvel of industrial technology, therefore, did not surprise Jerad in the least.
He had never been able to fathom the quirk of fate that had given him this imperfect genius. Supreme intellect, he consoled himself, was his; it was not his fault God had given him no way to capture the inspired ideas and development. It was what it was, he was who he was, a simple factory worker with great unknown ideas.
Tomorrow, maybe he'd discover the secret to World Peace. He looked forward to it. He finished his lunch and went back to the line, nodding to himself with satisfaction.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "shadow". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Shadow- Squiddy Geiger - August 22, 2012
Pretty in a subdued fashion
Hiding from the limelight
Friendly with all who address her
Never initiating conversation
Lively mind behind bright eyes
Filled with sad reticence
All who know her like her
Reticence brings consternation
Witty repartée when caught by surprise
Her armour out of place
She quickly covers, returning to
Her quiet contemplation
Loving tenderness reserved
For her four-legged feline friend
Who never asks what ails her
No need for examination
Wiser than her years should show
She alone knows the reason
What shadow crossed her path
Bringing such isolation
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "crush". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Crush- Squiddy Geiger - August 13, 2012
Orin smiled thinking about the new girl in town. She was perfect. In every way, she was perfection, and she would be his. He'd known it the moment he'd seen her outside Murphy's Hardware. He had known there was a new girl staying with the McKeons - Mrs. McKeons' niece or something, but he'd never thought she'd be so perfect.
He'd started across the street to meet her then, but she'd been met by her cousins; he pretended to have remembered something and turned back, walking home quickly. He'd seen her many times since then, but always with someone; he needed her alone.
When he'd seen her two days later at the Five and Dime, she'd smiled at him as she walked past. She was talking to Jimmy McKeon, but she still smiled at him. He'd almost died, hoping she didn't see his blush. He was biding his time, waiting for a chance to catch her alone. He wasn't stalking her, really. Just following her movements around town, watching her closely. But not stalking her, no.
He'd almost run into her on Thursday in the Shop'n'Save, and had mumbled a "sorry" as he hurried off. She'd been with Mrs. McKeon. She'd frowned slightly, which made his heart drop, but only for a moment, because then she'd smiled again, as she turned away. Or maybe he'd imagined it; he wasn't sure now.
It wasn't until two weeks later, after many close calls, and a lot of frustration, that he finally caught her alone. She was at the library, he'd seen her go in alone. He followed a short time later, and there she was, alone. He smiled and moved around through the stacks, looking for a vantage point. He found one, and, while she wasn't looking, snapped a picture. He hurried out.
At home, he carefully hooked the camera to his computer, and tapped impatiently for the software to recognize his device. He created a folder, and called it "Sharon", then copied the pictures to the folder. At last, she was his. He opened his slideshow software, and watched the faces of his true loves as they floated briefly in front of him.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "smoke". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Smoke- Squiddy Geiger - August 04, 2012
Watching the time, keeping careful track
Racing to get things done in time
Hoping the hours will somehow turn back
Finishing the project would be sublime
Hiding my tracks, taking my time
Choosing my words carefully
Planning the demise of a dirty slime
Cackling over his proposed end, gleefully
A distraction placed carefully over here
Smoke and mirrors arrayed about the room
Knowing he'll show without any fear
To bask in short lived glory? Nay, pending doom
I laugh and I smile, so filled with joy
My plans are coming together, my intuition
Tells me the best way my trap to deploy
As my machinations soon will come to fruition
Something in here perhaps, to wet his whistle?
No, he'll suspect that, poison too easy
So food is out, as he'll suspect the gristle
I can't do anything obvious, but perhaps sleazy?
So my planning continues, at fever pitch
My preparations extensive, so far as I can see
Nearly done, I'll soon fix that son of a bitch
Oh fuck! what's that? He's come for me!
Something I should have learned long before
The moral of my story, now that I'm dead
If you get so lost in planning, lock the door
Your enemy is coming to take your head
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "wound". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Wound- Squiddy Geiger - August 01, 2012
Oliver fretted. It wasn't fair that he had to wait here "guarding the house" while the rest went out to have fun. He wasn't the one who lost the damned key, why did he have to suffer for it? He should have been out there with the others, having a great time at the fair, but no, he was stuck here, protecting the house.
Protecting the house? From what? Everyone was at the fair. Except him. What the Hell was he supposed to do until they got back? Chores were all done, he'd read the few books in the house so many times, he could practically recite them. There was nothing to do! It just wasn't fair!
Emmett had lost the key, Emmett should have stayed here at the house to protect it. But of course, Father hadn't listened, he never listened to Oliver. When there was an extra chore to be done, did Emmett do it? No, Oliver did it. When there was a problem about the farm, did Emmett get blamed? No, Oliver got blamed. Everything was his fault and everything was his to do. Well, no more, Oliver would let Father know exactly what he thought of this, when they got home. He'd had enough and he would say exactly what was on his mind, despite the probable caning he'd get for talking back.
Oliver heard someone coming up the path, and waited, pacing, ready to unleash a torrent of hate. The door opened and Emmett walked in carrying a packet which he set on the table. "Father sent me back to guard the house for the afternoon. You're to go enjoy yourself at the Fair, and here are two apples to eat while you go! Now get out of here!"
Oliver's prepared blast, caught before it could start, redirected to his gut - his tightly wound spring broken. He meekly took the apples from his brother, smiling sheepishly, and headed out the door. He was going to the Fair! All thoughts of blasting his brother were gone as he closed the door behind him. What a wonderful day to be alive!
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "polish". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Polish- Squiddy Geiger - July 27, 2012
Harry carefully removed the dirt and dust from his shoes in preparation for the polish. Everything had to be just right. Get every speck of dust off, every iota of dirt. It was the first step in a process that would leave them gleaming perfectly.
Kill. That's what he had to do. He worked slowly and carefully, thinking as he went. To Kill. To deprive of life, to cause the death of. He spat on the cloth to remove a particularly troublesome bit of spot.
Plan. He always had a plan. His left shoe was clean, ready for the next step. He turned to the other shoe, examining it intently before starting work. The plan had to be perfect, leave nothing to chance. Just as he had left nothing to chance in the past, nor would he in the future. He removed the laces of the right shoe.
Execution. A funny word, that applied both to the act, and the process. He swore as he spotted some damage that could be hidden by polish; he'd still know it was there. That would rankle, he hated imperfection.
Escape. Get away cleanly, perhaps the most important part of the plan. if he buggered up the execution, he could still get away to safety, out of reach of extradition. He applied a thin layer of polish to each shoe, careful to fill the damaged area uniformly, to hide it.
Debriefing. He'd go over the events afterwards, analyzing what had happened. He might be alone, but he'd still debrief himself as thoroughly as any superior might debrief a subordinate. He buffed the shoes vigorously, careful to reach every spot, giving the shoes a uniform, high gloss shine. He inspected them carefully as he finished, touching up carefully here and there.
Perfect. He got up and placed them by the door, where they would be ready for his mission tomorrow. Nothing was left ever left to chance.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "bereft". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Bereft- Squiddy Geiger - July 26, 2012
"It was the bereft of times, it was the worst of times. The bereft things in life are free. A Bereft History of Time." Joe put down the pen, and sighed, then laughed sourly. The jokes were wearing thin; they weren't pushing back the despair quite so well anymore.
He'd tried, he really had. Years of writing, pouring his soul into the work, creating grand symphonies of imagination. Designing worlds, filling them with all manner of wondrous beings, and for what?
He picked up an envelope and pulled the letter out. He had not expected this, after months of rewrites working with his editor. "We regret to inform you that the project has been canceled. We feel your work is just not unique enough to sell."
Not unique enough? Sure there were similarities to any number of other works, but you couldn't find any book out there written in the past few years, in the Fantasy genre, that didn't bear some resemblance to other works!
The words had left him shaken, unable to think. He had drunk his entire liquor cabinet whilst watching bad television reruns on the oldies channels. Not that he remembered any of them. When he'd run out of booze, he'd continued to wallow. It felt good in a shitty kind of way, so he kept at it.
He returned to the page he'd been filling, nearly full of bastardized sayings. He started writing. "Mother knows bereft. Father knows bereft. Bereft friends. Bereft man. Some things are bereft left unsaid."
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "Torn". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Torn- Squiddy Geiger - July 25, 2012
As he sits in his house
Wondering what he has done
To be torn from his life
And left so completely
Alone and depressed
Hoping he might
Still have a chance to
Recover his dignity
Rebuild his career
Win back his family
Wishing forgiveness
Of friends and coworkers
His lonely vigil at the
Window a taste,
Perhaps how his
Future will unfold
Bottle to lips as he
Salutes the future
Bleak but it is his
to own
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "home". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Home- Squiddy Geiger - July 17, 2012
Where do you go at the end of the day?
When work has been done, you've had your say.
Where do you go to escape the rat race?
When your need to hide, or perhaps to save face.
You go where it is safe and familiar and good
You go where your mind can relax, as it should
You sit with a beer, or some mellow substance
Your mind lets go, escaping from circumstance
Here is the place full of welcome interaction
Here people fill you with loving satisfaction
Here you find fulfillment and joyful pleasure
Here are the good times without measure
Filled with the happiness that makes you return
Filled with the playfulness of jokes out of turn
Filled with the knowledge that you'll meet no harm
Filled with the happy shouts that greet you: "Norm!"
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "Confrontation". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Confrontation- Squiddy Geiger - July 17, 2012
Of course it was my plan
to spoil, nay ruin your evening
I simply wanted to help you see
The points you had been missing
Your point of view is all messed up
Your argument doesn't hold water
If you think this is the way to debate
Then a think, you'll need another
Philosophically your point was made
Without a thought for logic
It was almost as if you had
Used your notes from another topic
Your sentences were flowing
Your word choice, quite divine
Too bad there was no substance
Though your reputation was on the line
My turn to speak? at last I stood
I addressed the hall o'erflowing
And told them all what a fraud you were
And LOOK! Your underwear was showing!
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "twist". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Twist - Squiddy Geiger - July 16, 2012
Like it or not, Paul was here, and reluctantly standing in line for lottery tickets. Sure the jackpot was huge, but that didn't increase his chances of winning, just the depth of his disappointment when he didn't win. He ordered the tickets, and added the Extra.
He folded the tickets and placed them carefully in his wallet as he headed out the door. In another two hours, they'd be able to rip them up and start fretting about another week. In the meantime, he wanted a cold on, so he stopped in at Chelsea's on Eleventh. Marty saw him come in, and started pulling a pint, placing it in front of him as he sat down. Paul nodded his thanks, and watched the sports scores on the television above the bar. Neither said anything.
A few minutes later, his steak sandwich arrived, brought to him by Marissa, from the restaurant side. He nodded, she nodded back. Again, no words. After all these years, there was no need; Paul knew what he liked, and he stuck with it. As he'd told Zander, change is only good if you don't like what you have. He didn't need much, and he had all he needed. Zander, however, felt the need for more, which is why he picked up the tickets.
Three beer and a steak sandwich later, Marty switched over to the live lotto draw. Everyone in the room got out their tickets. Paul got his out, and carefully watched as first one, then two, then three numbers were drawn, and matched his numbers. Wow, ten bucks! Wait, a fourth? Fifty to a hundred bucks, maybe. When the fifth was drawn, he put his beer down. When the sixth was drawn, he stood up. When the seventh number on his ticket was drawn, he sighed.
Damn, now he'd have to go traveling. There was no way Zander would be happy to stay home now. Stupid random draws.
He downed his fourth beer and headed home.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "triskadekaphobia" (irrational fear of the number 13). This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Triskadekaphobia - Squiddy Geiger - July 15, 2012
"No! I'm not leaving my room and you can't make me!" The door slammed to make her point, and Darryl sighed and shook his head. It was the same on the 13th day of every month. He'd try to get her to go to school and she'd throw a fit, and he'd call her in as sick. If the school was aware of the pattern, he hadn't heard anything yet. Thank god it wasn't a Friday, or she'd be cowering in her closet.
He went back downstairs to make his lunch, sighing, wishing to Heaven that he could fix whatever had broken in his daughter. It had started two years before, in Grade 8. She hadn't come down for breakfast and when he'd investigated, she was bundled in bed, quivering with fear. He'd tried to get her out of bed, but it hadn't been possible. The farthest she'd stray from the safety of her room was into the bathroom; when done, she'd dart back to her sanctuary.
As he did every 13th, he longed for Mary's help in dealing with their child. Of course, he wished she could help with many aspects of raising Lana. She'd died when Lana was nine and it had been especially difficult the first two years, but had been better, much better, until this started. He was at a loss to know who to talk to about her. Maybe he'd talk to Dr. Fein on Monday.
He went to work, and then to his second job, getting home just before 11:30pm. He went upstairs to check on Lana, and found her sitting on the bed, surrounded by her stuffed animals, arrayed in protective formation around her, facing outwards. He smiled at her, kissed her forehead, and then sat to discuss things with her.
They talked about his day; work had been pretty good at first job, he'd had a commendation from a customer, so he was in a good mood for the rest of the day, even at job number two, which was boring as hell. If they didn't need the money so much, he'd quit; saving for Lana's University Fund was important to him.
Her day had been uneventful, other than being scared of everything that moved, every sound, every flash of light outside. He reassured her as best he could, and shortly after midnight, she fell into a deep, exhausted sleep. He turned off the light and slowly closed the door. Peace returned, for another month.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "accident". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Accident - Squiddy Geiger - July 13, 2012
He kept seeing her, everywhere he went
She was there at the supermarket
Again at the vet.
He saw her again the next night
as she exited the cinema
Still eating popcorn.
A week later he saw her in the park with friends
Walking their motley collection of dogs
Plastic bags in hand.
Several more times that week, their paths crossed
As they moved around the city
Living their lives.
One month after his first sighting of her
His car was sideswiped and pushed
Into a parked car.
The owner of the parked car arrived to
Survey the damage: it was her
At last, she had a name.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "glasses". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Glasses - Squiddy Geiger - July 13, 2012
Joe put on his glasses and opened his book, searching for the place he'd left off. His eyes blurred, then focused, but not quite right. He read, but couldn't place any of the stuff. He was sure he'd finished the chapter, but the last few paragraphs looked different. He checked the front of the book. Yes, right book.
His eyes blurred again, feeling focused but different, like a new pair of glasses, distinct but somehow wrong. He took his glasses off, and got the normally blurry world of his uncorrected vision. He put the glasses - an pair he'd owned for about two years - on again, and the sensation continued.
He tried reading again, but the story made no sense; he'd been reading about ranchers on the Canadian prairies, and this book was prattling on about the End being close. How the hell that fit in with the novel, he couldn't see.
"Phaedra, honey! Did you switch books on me?" he called to his wife in the other room. She came in to see what he wanted.
"I didn't touch your book, dear," she replied. "Let me see that." She read a bit, and shook her head. "This is right, I read it last week and it looks the same now. You're at the part where Bill is rounding up strays after the blizzard." She gave the book back and went into the other room again.
"What? Ok, fine," he said and started reading, but it was still the same weird stuff. He kept reading though, compelled by something. When the book addressed him by name, he dropped it. He picked it up again, and look at it.
<
Joe growled, and put the book down again. He went into the bathroom, a bit shaken, and splashed water on his face. He looked at his glasses, that didn't seem to feel right. There were some smudges on them, so he rinsed them and dried them, and went back to the living room.
He picked up the book again, and started reading, happily discovering that Bill was, indeed, rounding up stray cattle after the blizzard. He shook off the incident as a daydream and kept reading. He was deep in the next chapter, and didn't notice as he and the rest of the world blinked into nothingness.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "slither". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Slither - Squiddy Geiger - July 11, 2012
Sinuous, silent and sleek
It glides through the blades
Without apparent effort
Sliding, it appears then it fades
Its muscles expand and contract
As it powers itself through and around
Sometimes it is high up above
Often it is close to the ground
Mysterious and frightening
Star of legends, rarely good
Villain of ancient myths
Maligned and misunderstood
It slithers, cold blooded
Its motives often suspect
Of course it can represent danger
But not if you pay it respect
Sinuous, silent and sleek
It slithers forward through the grass
Pay attention, you foolish intruder
Or get bitten hard on the ass
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "chosen". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Chosen - Squiddy Geiger - July 10, 2012
Sam paused by the window, looking out briefly. Still no sign of anyone. He continued his pacing, willing it to be over. Why couldn't they decide already? No answer was forthcoming from his agitated brain.
It had been a week since the announcement that they'd narrowed the field to five names, and Larissa was on it. He didn't now if he could bear to have her go, but he couldn't bear to see the disappointed look if she wasn't Chosen.
He heard a sound from outside, hurried to the window, and sighed. It was just Hatfield arriving home across the street. His pacing continued. He wondered what was going through her head upstairs. He was agitated and it wasn't even his fate on the line.
The doorbell rang. Somehow in his agitation he'd missed another car arriving outside. He reached for the doorknob, paused, reached for it again, and paused again. He heard footsteps on the stairs as his daughter descended, and still he hesitated.
"Daddy! Open the door!" Larissa ordered. He glanced at her, then reached for the knob again, and turned it to greet the two people outside.
"Hello, Mr. Davis, Miss Davis," the tall gray haired man said. "I'm Irving Leach, and this," indicating his shorter, redheaded companion, "is Martin Wilson. We're here to give you the results of the Choosing." After a pause, he added. "May we come in?"
"Oh, of course, of course, gentlemen. Come in, please, have a seat." He gestured to the sitting area to the left. "May I get you anything?" he added as they sat.
"No, thank you, Mr. Davis," Wilson said. "We won't be here long." He pulled out an envelope, and passed it to Leach. "We're only here long enough to give you the results, then we must be on our way. You understand, I'm sure."
Sam looked from one to the other slowly, then nodded. "Yes, I suppose I do." He did, really. They had no desire to stick around in a home where much needed to be discussed, and affairs settled. "Please, don't keep us in suspense."
Leach nodded. "Very well, then," and unsealed the envelope. "Before I read this, you understand that I don't know if your daughter has been Chosen or not. We are chosen at random to deliver the news to the Finalists, and we don't know until we read this." Sam and Larissa nodded. He continued. "Very well, let me see here. Ah yes, Miss Davis. It would appear that you have indeed been Chosen! Congratulations!"
Leach and Wilson got up to shake hands. It was done. In a week's time, the Chosen would be left for the Dragon. It was an honour. A fitting sacrifice. And Sam would be rich.
He wept.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "control". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Control - Squiddy Geiger - July 09, 2012
Watch the clock, gauge the time,
Wonder if you'll survive till then
Work like crazy, get things done
Troop outside to smoke at ten?
No, not today for I have quit
I found the strength at last
I took control over my habit
What's this? my resolve, ebbing fast!
I sit up straight, in a cold sweat
Wondering what I'm going to do
My body shaking, covers wet
And realize none of it is true
For you see, my dear friends
It was one of those very odd dreams
I'm not quitting, the dream ends
I've never smoked, by any means
Well, ok, sure, I've smoked, it's true
But not the evil known as tobacco
And that's all I'll say, nothing more
Else the feds might show up at my door
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "joyous". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Joyous - Squiddy Geiger - July 04, 2012
"Walter? Walter!" the voice interrupted his reverie.
"What?! Yeah, ok, I'm here. What?" he asked, startled and a bit confused.
"Where were you, just now?" Don asked. "You weren't paying attention, that's not like you."
Walter just shook his head, it wasn't time. When Don pressed, he finally answered. "I got some good news, but I can't share it yet, ok?" When Don insisted, he added, "I told you, you'll have to wait. If you don't, I'm telling Irene about Vegas."
Don blanched. "You wouldn't!" then quickly added. "You would. Ok, ok, it's obviously something big and something important, but come on, threatening me with Vegas isn't fair!"
"No, but Irene sure would like to know," Walter laughed.
"No she wouldn't, she'd rather not know I went gambling in Nevada when I was supposed to be at a conference in Dallas," Don countered. "And besides, it's probably something obvious, like you guys are expecting or something." He saw the look on Walter's face. "Oh man, Walt. That's it?" When Walter nodded, he whooped. "That's wonderful news! Fantastic! Congratulations!"
"Shh! Keep it down, dammit!" Walt held a finger up to his lips. "Be quiet! We have not told our parents yet, and Brenda hasn't told Irene yet, so you absolutely cannot tell anyone. Especially your wife. She wants to tell her parents and my parents first, then you and Irene."
"Ok, ok, I won't tell anyone." At Walter's look, he added, "not even Irene. I promise! That's all you had to say, you idjit. This did not merit Vegas threats! That's for something like, if you were having an affair and I found out and threatened to tell, you would counter with Vegas."
They heard footsteps on the stairs, and waited for Brenda to come to the basement where they'd been shooting pool. She came in, a small, pretty woman in her late thirties. "Hey gorgeous, how are ya?" Don asked. His smile was wide. This was not unusual for him, but there was something different.
"What are you grinning about Don?" she asked.
"Don't I always grin when you come in the room, my secret crush?" he laughed. It was a running gag, since high school, when the four of them had gone on their first double date in Grade 11.
She looked from Don to Walter and back, suspiciously. Don was grinning, too. "What on Earth is going on- oh, Walter! You told him! You stupid jerk!"
"I didn't!" he protested. "He guessed!"
"I did!" Don confessed. "Come on, Brenda, this is huge news. You've been waiting to have this news all these years, do you really think he'd be able to keep it a secret from me or from Irene?" He walked over to her and hugged her, kissing her cheek. "You should call Irene now. Your parents can wait, Irene can't."
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "dance". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Dance- Squiddy Geiger - July 02, 2012
What came over me I did not know,
It hit me, I was surprised
I wasn't looking, just standing here
When I saw her I was mesmerized
It started like any chance meeting
She appeared, I talked to her
We talked briefly, or so it seemed
Until she departed several hours later
I thought of her so frequently
Over the next few weeks, a month or more
Then she reappeared and we picked up
Like she'd never gone out the door
I took her out to explore, to dance
We talked all night, what subject? any!
We felt the spark, and then again
We enjoy each other's company
The Dance goes on, we complement
Each other, like two halves of a whole
We don't really know where we're going
But we're enjoying the journey with no goal
The days and nights with each other
As we dance, as we grow together
Could last us a thousand nights
Or they could last us forever.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "delight". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Delight - Squiddy Geiger - June 25, 2012
Watching as she arrives,
The smile upon her lips,
The sparkle in her eyes,
The curve of her hips,
I listen to her laughter,
Brought forth by a silly jest
Her radiance fills the room
And brings out my very best
This vision and delight
Someday she will be mine
My heart is filled with joy
For she has come online
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "video". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Video - Squiddy Geiger - June 11, 2012
Zalman looked at his watch, and nodded with satisfaction. Almost time for the Arrival. He smiled, and checked his equipment again, even though he was quite certain it was all ready. The one time he didn't check again would be the one time he hadn't set things up correctly, and he wasn't taking chances with this story. It was too big to miss a payday of this magnitude.
He caught his breath as a car approached. Early by five minutes? No, most likely it was someone else - Peters prided himself on punctuality, which probably drove his security crazy. How do you protect a politician who never varied from his schedule or his plans. Of course, his security didn't know anyone knew about this little trip.
Something tickled at his brain, and he started recording video anyway. Just in time, it turned out, as the politician's car - not his official ride, but a friend's vehicle borrowed on these occasions - came into view. Zalman tracked the sports car as it approached, his hiding spot perfectly chosen. The car stopped and the man he was tracking stayed in the car while his bodyguard checked checked that nobody was lurking in ambush.
Zalman, cozy in his hiding spot, could clearly see Peters' face in the car, captured by the camera. When the security drone opened the door for him, the seasoned politician got out quickly, and went to the door. The camera zoomed in on the door, and the lurker was rewarded with a clear view of the woman who opened the door to let him in, and gasped in surprise.
He almost shouted for joy, but long years of discipline on the stake out kept him quiet, despite his excitement. Jackpot! One of the highest placed political leaders, and a very married, very popular movie star? He gloated. It was every paparazzi's dream and it was his, exclusively. He could retire on what they'd pay for this video.
He waited patiently. He needed the exit video as well. It would come, and it would add to his fortune.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "wish". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Wish - Squiddy Geiger - June 10, 2012
The sky was clear except for a few small clouds in the distance. Arnie laughed, a happy sound against the desolate surroundings. It surprised Mary. How could he be so upbeat under these circumstances?
"What on earth are you laughing about," she asked. Her scowl just made him laugh more. This made her scowl more. "Stop that! It's not funny."
"Sure it is," he countered. "We're in the middle of the badlands, running out of food and water, and have no idea where to get help, but it's not as bad as you think. Want to know why?"
"Why," she asked.
"Because there's something I know that you don't, of course." He tapped the pack in front of him on the ground with his foot. "I have a secret. Should have told you before, but it's not something to be taken lightly." His voice turned serious as he added. "There are consequences to misuse."
"What the hell are you talking about, Arnold William Hall?" she asked, a curious tinge in her voice.
"I'm talking about a Wish, of course," he replied. He saw the blank look on her face. "A Wish. It's something I got from my grandfather. He said it was ancient, and should be guarded carefully. He said it could save my life one day, and should not be abused. Only use it when things are clearly desperate."
"You mean like right now," Mary said.
"No," he shook his head, "this isn't desperate yet. We still have a bit of food, and we have water. If we run out of food and we can use it, but not before. We don't know where we are but we could find a road anytime."
"And if we use it before?" she asked.
He laughed. "Grandfather didn't say. He only said it didn't like to be trifled with, and if you did, you'd pay dearly. You'd live, but you'd lose something of value in return. He was very clear, there's no penalty if you truly have no other options."
"I say we try it now, Arnold. Seriously, if you really have something in there that can help us," she said as she reached for his pack, "then you should use it. Now."
Arnie stalled. "I shouldn't have mentioned it until it was truly desperate here. No, we will not do this yet. Period." He laughed. "Fortunately, you don't know what, in my pack, constitutes the Wish. However, a week from now, if we still aren't safe, then I promise, I'll risk the wrath of the Old Gods, as Grandpa called them, to save us. Ok?"
Mary knew better than to challenge that tone. She aquiesced. For now.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "thunder". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Thunder - Squiddy Geiger - May 30, 2012
Jerry sighed as the thunder reverberated. It had been very close. He heard a whine from nearby. He got up to go rescue poor Sam from where he was cowering in the next room. He knew he was in the next room because of the agitated scratching as the poor thing tried to go to ground, clawing anxiously at the tiled floor.
He went into the other room and snapped his fingers. At the sound, Sam froze, then looked at Jerry as if to say "I'm sorry, I can't help it." Jerry looked at the five year old Golden Retriever for a moment, then pointed to the door. The dog lowered his head and walked through to the living room, and lay on his bed. Jerry watched until he'd settled and calmed down, then petted him affectionately.
As he listened to the thunder, Jerry wished, as he often did, that the storms could be like they'd been when he was a boy, in West Africa. This storm might be upsetting the dog, but it was nothing compared to those. He remembered the nights when they'd been woken by thunderstorms that were so violent, the cracks and rumbles were constant. By a window, you could read from the constant flashes of lightning.
Still, this was enjoyable. Some people hated thunder, but he relished it. It was alive, and encompassing, as the rolling thunder washed over you, and through you. He loved how, under the right conditions, the hairs would stand up on his arms and neck, as another bolt built. When that happened, he knew it would be very very close, and he'd unplug his appliances and electronics. Just in case.
There, he thought, it's moving on. Sam was starting to relax as the rumbling became more distant. You could hear it, but it didn't rattle your bones anymore. The rain, however, was steady, a lovely source of white noise that soothed him. It had been a long day. He smiled, got up and signalled to the dog, who followed him as he went upstairs to bed, where the rain would lull him to sleep.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "horse". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Horse - Squiddy Geiger - May 30, 2012
The flow of time stopped, at least for awhile. Sensory input stopped, as well. David just was. Without form or function. He knew this wasn't normal, but he also knew it was completely wonderful, and freeing. Until it changed again. Suddenly time flew by, and he felt his toes returning, then sensation flowed up his legs and into his body, a wave of euphoria as it reached his head again.
As he fought to regain coherence, he noticed the clock, the hands racing around the face. That couldn't be right, could it? Time moved slowly, this wasn't possible. The clock kindly slowed down again, the hands moving at a normal pace. He thought.
He realized the tv was on, but try as he might, he could not understand the newscaster. He thought it was English, but meaning failed to register. It had to be English, he recognized the news reader. Bob? Rob? Local station, local news, but incomprehensible. He lost interest in it in favour of the clock again, which was moving at variable speeds now, very slowly, then a burst of speed, then slowly again.
"Fascinating, Captain," he heard himself say, with an odd echoing quality to it. He looked around, expecting to see Kirk. With the way things were going, it wouldn't have surprised him. No Kirk, just a poster of the cast of The Original Series, signed by all of them at the convention so long ago. He noticed idly that it was crooked. Weird.
He sat down, unsure of when he'd stood up. He leaned back in the chair, and fell asleep, a light, unrestful sleep plagued by imagery similar to what he'd been seeing while awake. When his roommate woke him and he discussed his night trip, he couldn't argue when Josh called him a horse's ass. He'd vowed never to do acid again after the first time.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "blue". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Blue - Squiddy Geiger - May 28, 2012
The inspector was growing tired of the interviews. It was always the same incomprehensible gibberish. They'd brought him in to solve a multiple homicide - well, that's what they called it, even though the victims weren't human. He scratched his head, hoping he'd interpreted things properly.
The witnesses and the suspect spoke English, sort of, but they kept substituting a strange word in place of so many things. He was told this was just how it was, and you had to go by context to see what they really meant. After 12 hours of this, his brain hurt. It was time to question the suspect, so he tossed out the cold coffee in his mug, got some fresh coffee, and entered the interrogation room.
He turned on the recorder. "This is Inspector Williams, in interrogation room 1. Please state your name for the record."
The diminutive blue suspect looked up at him, and stated "My smurf is Dopey Smurf.."
The Inspector sighed, then started with, "You are a suspect in the killing of 15 of your fellow Smurfs, er... Dopey. What do you have to say about this?"
Dopey shook his head. "I didn't smurf anyone! I didn't!"
"We have witnesses who say you did. They picked you out of a lineup, and positively identified you." He pointed to pictures of the deceased. "You were found with their blood on your hands. Are you denying you did this?"
Dopey looked at the pictures, then up at the Inspector. "Oh, you mean this. Of course I smurfing smurfed them, the smurfs! You would have too in my shoes. Smurf at me, I'm Dopey Smurf. There are how many male Smurfs and how many females? I'm a smurf, dammit. 83 years old and I've never smurfed anyone. Why? because getting to smurf Smurfette goes by seniority and popularity, and just how smurfing popular do you smurfing think I am? One smurfing girl Smurf for all of us boy Smurfs? Yes I know there's also Sassette Smurf and Nanny Smurf but they have each other, so there's only Smurfette for the boy Smurfs, and I'd smurfing had enough of this smurf! So yes, I smurfed them! All of them. I though maybe if I cut the line down a bit, I'd have a smurfing chance of ending my smurfity! And I'd smurfing do it again. I mean, have you seen how smurfing hot Smurfette is?!"
The Inspector sighed, and shut off the recorder. That was obviously a confession but nobody would understand what the smurfing little smurf had said. "Oh god, now i'm thinking like you, you little smurf. Get up. You're under arrest for the murders of fifteen of your fellow Smurfs."
When he finally got home, he turned on the news to see that Teddy Ruxpin had finally been exorcised.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "fire". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Fire- Squiddy Geiger - May 27, 2012
Fire.
Fascinating, mesmerizing
Entertaining, traumatizing
Flame.
Source of survival
Cause of destruction
Fire.
It fills us with fear
It fills us with warmth
Flame.
Warming, nourishing
Amusing, scarring
Fire.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "should". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Should - Squiddy Geiger - May 25, 2012
Should I?
Could I?
I don't know, does anybody care?
I wrack my brain with the decision
I wrestle with the pros and cons
Will I?
won't I?
The messages from left and right shoulder
Assail me with conflicting priorities
Forcing me to consider things I'd rather not
Dare I?
Did I?
The decision, was it made?
My brain exploded, the choice was forced
I had no control over it, that's my excuse
Do you?
Do they?
Care that I agonized over this
Believe that I made an honest effort
To chose the most appropriate path?
Could I?
Should I?
Letting life flow around me while I ignore the problem
Such a tempting solution it is, not taking a decision
But not really a solution at all, the problem unresolved
Should I?
I should!
I do make the momentous decision
A decision I will stick to once taken, Because
Even if it's not perfect, it was considered and accepted.
"Sunny side up, please."
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "choice". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Choice - Squiddy Geiger - May 24, 2012
The time was drawing closer, when he would have to decide. It wasn't fair, how could he decide something like this? Either way, he hurt someone. And either way, he would feel like a heel, even though the decision was being forced upon him by parents who should have decided themselves.
Technically, Sandra's claim was the stronger. Their parents had made the pact soon after the two were born, and if not for a technicality when he was 12, his parents would never have made the second agreement. They'd been certain the contract with Sandra's parents had been nullified.
Apparently, this was not the case. And this played havoc the second set of plans, with Aliyah's parents. If not for Sandra's parents, he would be married to Aliyah already; two weeks before the wedding, they had made a case for their original contract. It had gone before a judge, who had said both were valid claims, and it had fallen to Andrew to decide which girl he would marry. The court-imposed deadline for a decision was now only four hours away.
Andrew thought about the two girls. Sandra was pretty, and seemed pleasant enough. She'd gotten good grades in school and was now in her second year of University. He'd only met her a couple of times; once, when they'd celebrated the betrothal at 12, and again last week. He'd enjoyed talking to her, but spend his life with her? Help!
Aliyah was lovely, and funny, and the one time he'd met her had been very pleasant indeed. She was not in school; after high school, she took a break for two years to travel. She professed not to know what she wanted to take yet, so had taken a job in an office for the time being.
Should it be Sandra, or Aliyah? He couldn't decide! He had been thinking for weeks now, and his head was going to explode! The funny thing was, before all of this had blown up, he was prepared, quite happily so, to marry Aliyah. it had been the plan since he was 12. Even though he had never met her.
Maybe he should just run away for a couple years, as Aliyah had done. See the world, put life - and these decisions - on hold.
He sat quietly and drank his coffee, at an impasse.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "spot". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Spot - Squiddy Geiger - May 23, 2012
Brian glared at the intruder, a look that in other universes caused instant and very painful death, but which here merely conveyed a message of dislike. The glare continued for some minutes.
"What the hell is wrong with you, Brian?" Karl asked.
Brian looked at Karl, then nodded toward the intruder. "You know what's wrong. Look!"
Karl looked over at Simon. He sighed. "Seriously, Brian? God, you're worse than Sheldon Cooper, and he's a goddamn fictional character!" He sighed again. "He wants you to move, Simon. You're in his spot."
Simon laughed, then saw Karl's look. "Oh, you're serious? Does this guy have all of Dr. Cooper's other foibles? And, more to the point - do you put up with them, despite the fact that living with such a person would be possible only in a fictional tv setting?"
"Yes, he's just as bad, but in his defense, he's my cousin, he's rich, and he doesn't charge me rent." He laughed. "I think this is an acceptable exchange, for now. Actually, I shouldn't have invited you over - this is already starting off better than the last time I had a friend over. You at least managed to sit, before the hissy fit started. Last time, we hadn't even taken our coats off before Sheldon's Clone lost it. So, consider yourself lucky."
He looked at Brian, then added, "and if you like that seat, sit there. Brian can deal with it for one night."
The police never found the bodies. Brian told them Karl and Simon had left shortly after 8pm, but had not said where they were going.
His spot was safe.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "bark". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Bark - Squiddy Geiger - May 22, 2012
The gate was open, and Rex was nowhere to be seen. I cursed under my breath, grabbed my jacket and the leash, and went out in search of the blasted dog. As always, it fell to me, even though I didn't like the yappy little mutt.
I knew his route, but I didn't know how long he'd been out, so I walked quickly around the block, checking yards and in bushes, then headed down the alley. No sign of him. Ok, farther afield. Next block over, same search pattern and no dog. Now the park.
As I entered the park, he started to bark. It was an odd bark, excited and fast, I'd never heard it before. It was coming from the other end of the park. As I pushed through the trees, other barks joined his, a veritable chorus of yaps and howls and barks.
I came out into the open, and stopped, staring. There was a circle of a dozen or more dogs around an object about the size of a small truck. The dogs were circling it, staring at it. As I approached, more dogs were arriving and joining them.
The ship (for that's what it was) was a silver cylinder, on its side. It was featureless, nothing marred its perfectly smooth, shiny surface. Until, of course, a crack appeared, and a hiss as of escaping air. The crack grew, until a door appeared.
A small shaggy figure appeared, and skittered down the ramp to the ground, where it sat staring at the circled dogs, who stopped moving. The six-legged entity raised an appendage and waved it, as it intoned something in a language that sounded almost like it should make sense, but didn't.
I approached, watching. I was behind it as it tried again, the same words, with the same frustrating lack of meaning. There was still no response from the watching canines. The being turned towards the door and beckoned. Fourteen dogs of various sizes came bounding out. I recognized two of them from recent "lost dog" posters.
The dogs raced into the group of waiting dogs, and a melee of excited, happy butt-sniffing ensued, the being forgotten. The latter, at this, turned and walked back into the vessel. The door closed behind him with a solid "k-chunk", and the vessel started to glow. Without a sound, it lifted from the ground quiety, and zipped off into the sky.
I told nobody. Neither did Rex.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "draw". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Draw - Squiddy Geiger - May 21, 2012
Myron worked the paper deftly, the colour from his assortment of pastels filling the whitespace, building the scene. He whistled softly as he worked, a habit he'd picked up early on. It helped him, the song an odd amalgamation of songs from his youth, along with atonal nonsense when he concentrated particularly hard.
The work was coming well. Stacy would like this one, he was sure of it. From time to time he glanced over at a picture, but mostly he was able to do it from memory. It would be perfect, he was sure of that. It always was, and Stacy was never disappointed. It was why she was still with him. Certainly, it wasn't his looks or his money. He had only his talent, and she appreciated it.
No, he took that back. She was the only one who truly knew what his abilities were. He'd been afraid to show anyone what he could do, until that fateful day six years ago. He'd drawn her the necklace, and she'd praised it, and him, and they'd been together ever since.
For other people, he only used pencil. Shades of gray, no colour. With her he let his genius free, and it rewarded them both. He'd never been happier, and she thrived on his work.
At last, he was done. He studied it carefully, checking for imperfections. There, that was wrong, he thought, as he made imperceptible changes to the design. He was very careful with the paper as, judging it to be done, he took it and placed it into an envelope. Time to deliver it. He left the studio for the ten minute drive home.
Stacy smiled as he came in. She returned his kiss happily as he handed her the envelope. She weighed it in her hands carefully, then opened it, pulling the contents onto the coffee table: the blank white sheet of paper, and the two dozen diamonds of varying sizes, from half a carat up to 2 carats. As always, perfect, and just as she had requested. Such a unique and special talent.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "time". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Time - Squiddy Geiger - May 20, 2012
A whistle blew. "TIME!"
The players looked over at their respective coaches to see who had called the timeout. Nobody had, it seemed. Jerry sighed. "Great," he mumbled. "Another Patron Saint time out." The others just laughed.
Jerry sighed again as one of his players disappeared, and was replaced by a complete stranger. He frowned at the player, who of course had no idea why Jerry was frowning. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the strip of paper that explained what the new player's name was and his strengths and weaknesses.
Nobody else noticed the substitution. In their eyes, the game was contiguous. Only Jerry clung to a timeline that transected those of his players. The Patron Saint ensured this was so. He gave his orders to the players around him, just before the whistle blew to end the timeout.
Play went on, with five more players flickering and being replaced, once in mid-play. As was the norm, they finished the game as victors. And once again, Jerry refused to discuss the game. All he said, as they entered the locker room was, "Great game, boys!"
He desperately wanted to discuss the game, but couldn't. Nobody else had seen the game Jerry had seen. Paul Santos, the Patron Saint of the school athletics program, had seen to that. Jerry hated it, but couldn't say anything because, well - who would believe him? As far as they were concerned, the same players who started the game had finished the game.
One of these times, he'd stand up to Santos. One of these days, he'd get to see a full game played, and remember it the way everyone else did.
Not today, though. Not today.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "mutilate". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Mutilate - Squiddy Geiger - May 19, 2012
The old doll was torn and mutilated, showing distinct signs of abuse. Brittnee seemed to be very careless with it; she'd take it everywhere with her, but dropped it, threw it, kicked it, and squished it regularly. Josh was concerned, he'd never seen her treat any of her things in such a manner.
"Don't you like your doll," he'd finally asked about a week after he'd first noticed the behaviour. "She's beautiful, why are you so mean to her?"
Brittnee looked at him for a moment, then laughed. "Sarah likes it, Dad! She's a maskasist!"
Josh corrected her. "You mean a masochist, and where did you hear that word?"
The 12 year old was evasive. "Oh, I don't know. Someone at school, maybe?"
"Well I don't want you using it, and your doll is not a masochist. Stop treating her like that, or I'll take her away." He sighed. "Go do your homework, please. Supper will be ready in an hour."
Brittnee went upstairs obediently, and sat down to do her homework. Josh checked in on her a few minutes later, to find that she was working away on some problem or another. He nodded in satisfaction. He also noted that the doll was propped in a sitting position on the desk.
The girl heard the door close behind her, and smiled at the doll. "Have you learned not to steal another girl's boyfriend yet, Sarah? No? Not yet?" she asked, as she stuck a needle into the doll's shoulder. "Maybe this will help."
Across town in St Anthony's Hospital, a figure wrapped in bandages and encased in multiple casts shrieked in agony, and the nurses rushed in to assist her. They upped her pain medication; it looked to be another rough night for Sarah Wannamaker.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "butterball". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Butterball- Squiddy Geiger - May 18, 2012
Butterball sputtered and died. Joe tried starting her again, but her starter motor whirred and clicked, and fell silent. It wasn't a surprise, really. He'd been neglecting her. He'd take a look after work, when he had time. He'd take the other car instead, even though he preferred to drive Butterball.
She was his first car, purchased when he was seventeen, with the money he'd saved carefully for months. $500 represented a lot of late nights at the drive thru, selling people food of questionable quality.
It was a lot of money for a car that didn't even run, but it was a project. His father had said he would help where needed, but that Joe should do the majority of the work. "A man needs to know how a car works," he'd said.
Joe could fix the car, as he had many times over the years, but it wasn't as much fun as those first years. . It had been fine as a teen to spend umpteen zillion hours in the garage, away from the sun. Now it was just a chore.
He kicked the tire of his beloved 1971 Volkswagen Super Beetle. It was the first year they'd made them, and by the time he got his, it was 15 years old and in terrible shape, but he'd loved it. It was his cousin Bill who'd given the car her name: Butterball. He said she looked like a turkey, ready to be cooked. That, of course, was when she'd been rusty and brownish-red.
By the time he was done with her, she was almost perfect inside and out. A beautiful shiny dark blue, and with all original parts. Dad had done more than just help with the work, he'd sprung for much needed - and expensive - parts as gifts for birthdays and Christmas.
Joe sighed, and headed over to the Toyota in the garage. Reliable but decidedly less interesting than Butterball, the Corolla didn't even have a name, or a personality. It was a tool, to get him from A to B. Butterball was a force, an entity. Temperamental and noisy and lovely and underpowered and fun to drive. Maybe this was good. Maybe it was what Joe needed. Some quality time with an old friend.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "revenge". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]
Revenge- Squiddy Geiger - May 10, 2012
Shock and dismay
Disappointment and anger
Feeling betrayed
Heartsick, despondent.
So many years together
Shared goals and compromise
All thrown away with - it appears
Without a single regret.
The anger and resentment
Fester inside, growing still
Until finally one night as you
Lie in bed, an idea comes to you
You reject it at first because
You aren't like that
Hurt and betrayed, yes but
You aren't like that
But as the time passes
A shift in your thinking
The plan becomes clearer
As you plot your revenge
Now that you've decided
Nothing else matters
You make plans and change plans
And change them again
The world takes notice
But thinks your cheerful smile
Is because you are over it
But that's part of your plan
You plot and you plot
And you know this is right
The day finally dawns
You spring the trap with glee
In the end you realize
It doesn't make things better
And now your friends
Are disappointed in you
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "illicit". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]
Illicit- Squiddy Geiger - May 05, 2012
She smiled and nodded, radiant and full of joy whenever she was with him. She looked forward to her time with him, despite the circumstances. When their time together was over, she left reluctantly, counting the minutes to the following Wednesday encounter.
Her days were filled with daydreams about him. Dreams of him being able to spend more time with her. Dreams of truly being together. Dreams of a life in the open, without fear of discovery. She knew it was unlikely to happen, but still she dreamed.
The Handlers were efficient, and everywhere. It was a miracle Wednesdays happened at all. They had appointments in the same building, and had arranged for them to be extended, at least on paper. Their therapists understood, and encouraged the relationship. Yes, they paid for a double session each that didn't actually happen, but it was worth it. If the Handlers discovered the deception, it would mean ruin for her, and prison for him.
She was a Synth. Human and Synth relationships were forbidden, but how could they resist? They both felt it. She'd see him at functions where mixing was acceptable, but the Law forbade touching, unless it was required to prevent injury or death.
He had a plan, though. There was no way to tell a Synth from a Human; the tattoo on a Synth's hand was the only way. He said he knew someone who could remove her tattoo. For a price, of course. With that, and forged documents, they could leave the country, and head to a country that did not outlaw their relationship.
It was not her fault that her parents were scientists in a lab, and she'd started life in a dish. She was as human as anyone else. If she could escape to Europe, she could live freely, and marry him. It was their shared dream. But first, they had to save up the money. And stay undiscovered, of course.
The need for secrecy was stressful, but almost two years of this, she was something of an expert at it. At teh beginning, she'd made mistakes, but had been fortunate that those she was speaking with hadn't noticed. He was just as stressed, but thought they should have enough money in another six months.
Until then, she would keep her head down, and the facade up.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "lost". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]
Lost- Squiddy Geiger - May 04, 2012
"Dammit!" she thought, as she rummaged through the apartment, searching. It had to be here somewhere, but where? She searched each room quickly, one after the other, in desperation, but did not find it.
She wasn't prepared to go without. People would notice. They always did, when someone lost it. Misplaced it, she corrected herself. She hadn't lost it, it was here, somewhere, and she would find it. She had to find it, there was no alternative.
Well, there was an alternative, of course. She could _not_ find it, and go through the rest of her life without it, taunted and teased, and snickered at behind her back. Her uncle had lost his, and never recovered from the loss. It had haunted him, and she did not want to end up like him. She couldn't face that, so she redoubled her efforts.
It wasn't in the house, so she ran to the garage to check there, realizing at the last moment that this house didn't have a garage. Heavens, it was happening already! She could feel it. She tried the garden shed instead. Thankfully, that was a real part of this property. Five minutes later, empty handed, she sighed.
It was time for work, and she wouldn't help anything by missing work, no matter how much she might feel like it right now. Depression was starting to displace her fear. She found her purse and keys, and went out front to the car. As she was about to start it, she heard a noise from the glove compartment, and opened it; she yelped happily as she caught her mind, and quickly restored it to its proper place.
Life was good, after all.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "flame". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]
Flame- Squiddy Geiger - May 02, 2012
"The difference is, I'm also lazy." There was silence as after his declaration. He looked around.
"That's not exactly a revelation, Ted," Alana laughed. "We've known you a long time. And lazy isn't the right word. Selectively lazy, perhaps? When you like something and are interested, you'll go until you collapse."
Ted laughed and winked, "you should know, dear." Alana smiled, and the other two at the table also laughed. They finished their coffees and said goodnight, one couple taking their car, the other walking home.
Alana tested Ted as they walked. "You know what Saturday is, don't you?"
"Of course I do, it's the day after tomorrow," he replied, then laughed as she frowned at him. "And it's the fifteenth anniversary of our first date. Do you really think I'd forget that? Not a chance. Fifteen years, and I let six of them get away from me. How stupid was I?"
"Do you want me to answer that?" she asked him, laughing. She snuggled close as they walked.
"Well," he allowed, "I did let you get away for awhile, but I came to my senses and tracked you down." He shook his head. "and for nine years, you have been the single most important being in my universe." He made a face. "Uhhh, too sappy? Let me try again."
"No!" she commanded, laughing. "I like it when you get sappy. When Sally announced that my old flame was in town, and looking for me, I never thought we'd end up together. I was still mad at you."
"But I grew on you!"
"Yes," she laughed. "Doc McWilliams says he has something for that, though. So behave, or..."
"Yes, dear," he said as he kissed her. "I'm your old flame, your new flame, your forever flame." He smiled. "And don't you forget it..."
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "spring". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]
Spring- Squiddy Geiger - April 27, 2012
Yes, it's that time of year again. Spring. You know, the season everyone anticipates all winter, certain it will end their Winter Blues. The time housekeepers wait for so they can clean house, as if doing it daily isn't enough. The time when thoughts supposedly turn to romance and... other things.
Until, of course, reality sets in and the weather turns foul, and you get a month straight of overcast and rain. You know the sun is up there somewhere, you just can't see it. You vaguely remember it as round and warm, but see no evidence of its existence.
It's cold as hell in the morning when you leave for work, so you dress warmly. You wish for warmth but it never seems to arrive. The cold and rain drags on, and soon you're feeling more depressed than in the deepest darkest days of winter
And just when you think you can bear it no more, at last, the sun appears, and like magic, your mood lifts, and the world is right again. The sun shines, flowers blossom, your neighbours get rowdy on the balcony, and the world is as it should be.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "hollow". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]
Hollow- Squiddy Geiger - April 25, 2012
The page was empty. God, I hated that, but I loved it, too. The fear and dread of drawing a blank, mixed with the wonder of a completely open sheet, knowing your writing could take you anywhere; no boundaries had been set yet, anything and everything was still allowed.
Unfortunately, I was drawing a blank on this occasion. It didn't bother me as much as it used to, though. I used to get angry and frustrated when the words wouldn't come, but now, it was ok. I knew if I just let my mind wander for a bit, it would find something to start us off.
My thoughts flitted here and there, searching for inspiration. Nothing yet, move on, keep moving. Until they headed into more hazardous territory, and I was lost. Now I couldn't write, because I'd fallen into the pit, remembering a time long past. A time with her.
I wallowed in lost love. I gorged myself on self pity. I went over all I had lost when she left. She'd ripped my heart out, she'd stomped on it, and then kicked it into a corner. I suffered as I'd suffered then. I'd thought myself safe from this, but I'd been fooling myself.
After what seemed like hours, but proved to be less than one, I stared at the page again. It seemed to taunt me now. It dared me to find something to write about, but I could not. My mind was empty, my heart hollow and barren. I hated myself for feeling this way.
Then, my Muse spoke to me. I nodded, and smiled at her. This was it. I would rip her out of my mind, and banish her to the written page. She would never ambush me again. I started to type, and the words flowed, and as they flowed, the hollow was replaced with contentment. Before I knew it, it was morning, and the pages had been filled.
The hollow was gone.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "green". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]
Green - Squiddy Geiger - April 25, 2012
Pierre watched sourly as the two cavorted on the beach. Chasing each other, pawing at each other, kissing. I twas disgusting. And it had been going on all week.
He wished he'd never introduced them. Celia was a beautiful girl, full of life and so incredibly smart. Larry was a nice guy, or he would not be friends with him, but really, he wouldn't wish him on anyone, he was hardly a catch.
That hadn't stopped Celia from falling for him almost immediately. She'd even asked him about Larry after they'd first met, and he'd been diplomatic. Perhaps too diplomatic, since she hadn't gotten the message that he was bad news.
"Hey, Pierre! Come swimming with us!" Celia shouted. "The water is great!" He waved, smiling, but shook his head, no. "Oh come on, spoil sport," she insisted, but he did not get up.
Pierre started to fantasize about ways to keep them apart. Each method more bizarre and fantastic than the previous one. He especially liked the idea of getting Larry transferred to one of the company's East Coast offices - with a promotion, of course, as incentive. It would require a lot of pulled strings, but he could do it.
It was when he got to the ideas that involved death and dismemberment of his erstwhile friend that he realized something was wrong. Understanding took hold of him: he was jealous! The Green Eyes Monster had a firm hold of him, and was helping him plot against his best friend!
The worst of it? He hadn't even realized he loved Celia, but it was true, and now it was driving him crazy that he'd not known it, and had not acted upon it.
He got up, waved to the two of them in the water, and shouted "I'm going for a walk!" He needed to think. A good long hard think.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "missing". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]
Missing - Squiddy Geiger - April 24, 2012
I had it all planned. I knew exactly what I was going to do, when I was going to do it, and how it would be accomplished. It was all going to be so perfect.
And then you came along.
You appeared in a flash, you rampaged through my emotions, then disappeared. Without so much as a word. You left me broken and empty. And I got so far off track that I don't know if I can get where I was headed.
Oh, please don't misunderstand, I loved every minute of our misadventures, and yes, it was my fault I let things slide to be with you. I know this. So I don't blame you for any of this; I wish merely to explain, and by explaining, perhaps understand things better myself.
While we played, a year of carefully built foundations leading to the next phase of my plan were thrown aside. The planning had gone smoothly, the building had been easy and successful. It may take longer this time, or, if the Gods are kind, it will go faster. I don't know which.
I have my friends to help me. They're good friends, and they'll guide me when necessary, and kick me mentally when it is needed, as they always have. I have good friends. They allowed me to ignore them for you, and accepted me back when it was over.
I hope you are well where you've gone, that your journeys are fulfilling, and that you find what you are seeking. There is a piece missing from my soul now. It will always be missing, even as I build around it and find other things to replace it. No, not replace. Nothing can replace you. But I will grow and prosper again soon, even while I miss you.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "shelter". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Shelter- Squiddy Geiger - April 23, 2012
Life hits, I need a break
I can't face another day
Life hits, I need to breathe
I want to walk away
I turn to you, you pick me up
You brush away the dirt
I turn to you, you cheer me up
You shelter me from hurt
You're always there, you keep me sane
When life has left me drained
You're always there, you dress my wounds
When life has left me battered
With the slightest touch, you heal me
Your hands a form of balm
With the softest word, you cure me
Your voice the source of calm
Life hits, but that's ok
You help me face the day
Life hits, but I can breathe
No need to walk away
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "valve". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Thread- Squiddy Geiger - April 22, 2012
The room was cold, despite being full of people, not quite sardine-close, but full. The blizzard howled around them, a banshee screaming to be granted admittance.
They'd gathered in this building when the highway had become impassable. The police had directed them here, the only shelter for miles, and it had been a welcome respite from the weather, at least at first.
Greg and his family had arrived to find the building was full already, but they'd found a corner to settle into, using their bags and jackets to make the floor comfortable. It had been cramped, but comfortable enough, until a few hours later they noticed it was starting to get cool in the building.
A few people had gone into the services room to discover that the heating system was out. The culprit was soon found; a valve had seized, and there was no way to fix it. Without it, the system would not work, and there was no replacement. It was on the list of parts that had been ordered, but weren't due to arrive for another few days.
Now, two days later, it was damned cold inside. Better than the minus forty outside, but if the weather didn't let up soon, it could be disastrous. Greg was worried, but he kept a positive attitude for the kids. Mary knew him well enough to know it was a mask.
In the wee hours of the third day, it seemed to let up a bit. The howls and thumps weren't so intense or prolonged. Greg started to hope it might be over soon. He watched through the dimmed light as someone else, curious about the storm, went to the door and pushed it open to peek out. The man disappeared, and the howling started again, as intense as ever.
Greg couldn't be sure if he'd really seen the long clawed hand as the man was pulled through. The door slammed shut again behind him. He blinked, and hoped he was dreaming. If he wasn't, it would be another very long, very cold day.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "thread". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Thread- Squiddy Geiger - April 20, 2012
Evan studied the screen for awhile, hoping to find a pattern. Nothing stood out; nothing made an impression. It had to be here somewhere, or he'd be screwed.
Lila paced up and down behind him as he worked. The note had been precise: figure out what the rest of the message meant, or they would execute Annette. It could be a bluff, but he had no way of knowing. He had no idea who they were, or what they wanted, other than what had been in the message.
Annette was their daughter. She was in Grade Six and should have been in school, but when the note arrived, Lila called the school. They'd told her that Jason had called to say she was sick. She was not in school. Jason, of course, had not called. He'd been with Lila since Anette left teh house for school. They had not yet called the police because the time limit was short - he had another 45 minutes to figure things out.
Jason scanned the work, and tried to remember what he'd learned about cryptology over the years. He scanned the page, looking for patterns. Was it a simple substitution or complex? could he just go by them being offset by a set amount? It had to be simple. An hour to break a complex code was impossible.
He did a search online for decryption pages, and found what he was looking for - a page you could copy and paste into, that would decrypt. He pasted the entire message in, and was rewarded. It was further instructions, including a phone number to call, each number written out long form: two-zero-one five-five-five seven-three-one-six. He grabbed the phone and dialled it quickly.
A recording came on, with a URL to go to, and instructions on how to find the next set of instructions. Pick the tenth, fourteenth, and twenty-fifth words in the first paragraph, then the first, seventh and eighth in the second paragraph, and so-on. He had to call back three times to get the message to play again while he wrote feverishly.
The deadline for getting through it to the next bit was only five minutes away, so he worked quickly. It was an email address to send message to, consisting solely of the word 'hurry'. By his watch, he made it with a minute to spare, but god help them if the email was delayed anywhere!
Through six more roadblocks he fought to keep up, until the last, another puzzle, defeated him. He deciphered it only to read: "We're sorry, you have already missed this deadline. However, you've been good sports so Annette's location will be relayed to you in one hour. Please accept our gratitude in playing The Game."
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "elastic". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Elastic- Squiddy Geiger - March 28, 2012
Mr. Wist looked around thoughtfully. There was too much to be done, and he didn't know where to start. He sat quietly and drank his coffee, knowing he needed to start, but without a plan of attack, the prospect was daunting.
He got up as someone knocked at the door. He looked through the security peephole at a tall young man in his twenties, a heavy build, slightly dishevelled, standing passively on the other side of the door. He put the chain on, unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door slightly.
"Yes? Can I help you?" he asked.
"Yeah, uh, can I you know, use your phone?" The stranger seemed agitated, possibly because of nervousness or agitation, but there was something, he couldn't put his finger on it, that screamed 'DANGER!" Mr. Wist left the chain on.
"I'm sorry, it's out of order," he lied. "Try down the block, there's a payphone there on the corner." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a quarter. "Here, use this if you need it." He reached out towards the opening, and the stranger's hand darted forward, grabbing at his arm. He pulled back in surprise, and tried to push teh door closed, but the man's foot was in it.
"Oh gramps, you shouldn't have done that," the man pushed on the door, but it had a surprisingly good chain. "Now you have to pay."
As Mr. Wist watched in horror, the man pressed into the opening, his face and body squeezing, thinning. The face and body deformed bonelessly. Mr. Wist gasped, and backed away from the door, as the man made it through. He moved quickly and Mr. Wist ran but wasn't fast enough as the man tripped him. He bumped his head against the wall.
"Oh yes, you'll do, gramps," the stranger said happily, as his mouth opened wide. He slid it down over the top of Mr. Wist's head, as Mr. Wist watched helplessly. The lips moved down over the body, the throat opening wide in turn. The tough part was when the shoulders entered, the elastic mouth and throat working slowly to engulf.
Some three hours later, Mr. Wist's feet disappeared, and the stranger lay quietly on the floor as the juices got to work inside him.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "gas". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Gas- Squiddy Geiger - March 25, 2012
Odourless, colourless, all around us
Gas sustains us, or smothers us
Or immolates us, or aids us
Or on windy days pushes us
Or energizes us
It entertains us, it delights us
Or for certain pranksters, offends us
The wrong gas poisons us
But always gas is around us
The absence of gas kills us
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "leap". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Leap- Squiddy Geiger - March 24, 2012
James pressed himself against the cold brick fearfully. How the hell had he gotten himself into this mess? Everything had seemed to progress perfectly, exactly as he'd hoped, and yet here he was. Alone, abandoned by the woman he'd given up everything for. Alone, five stories above the cold hard pavement, on a cold hard ledge.
He'd left his wife of fifteen years for her. It was true, the love had gone out of their marriage but there had still been affection. The excitement had gone, but there was still, occasionally, fun. The wonder had gone, but there was comfortable familiarity. And he'd thrown it all away, for her.
She'd dazzled him. She'd flattered him. She'd cajoled him into thinking she really was the one for him. That she was so much better than his wife. That they would live happily ever after. He'd resisted temptation before. He'd resisted similar flattery and whispered promises. Why hadn't he resisted this time? What was it about her that had made him take the leap this time?
It didn't matter now, he thought bitterly. He had given in to her. He'd left his wife. And that had lost him many of his friends, who sided with his wife. Indirectly, it had lost him his job. It had lost him the respect of family and friends. And finally, it had cost him his self respect, when she'd finally tossed him aside like an old toy.
It was cold, up here on the ledge, just as it was cold wherever he went lately. His apartment was cold and empty. His accounts were empty. His heart was empty. He could not see hope. He could not see a future. He sighed, whispered a final "I'm sorry", unheard by his wife, and took the final leap.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "purge". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]
Purge- Squiddy Geiger - March 18, 2012
Xander spent the afternoon removing things from the house, boxing them up to be put in storage. Anything with a connection to her was removed. Joint purchases, gifts, things she'd liked. All too painful to keep around. Perhaps one day he'd be able to have them around again, but right now, he couldn't function with them in the house.
As he boxed things up, he'd find his eyes watering, on the verge of crying. He never actually broke down in tears, but it was close a few times. Not that he though crying was unmanly - he'd cried the night she died. He'd cried at the funeral. Not sob, no, but he had done nothing to hide the tears. He didn't want to cry anymore, but he knew some reminder of a shared experience could do it. So for now, he purged the house of reminders.
The trip to the hospital after he'd gotten the call had been agony, the fear and worry causing physical pains in his chest. When he'd arrived and the doctor had taken him aside, he'd known, before Dr. Lewis had said a word. When she'd said the words, daggers had sliced his insides. By the time her parents had arrived, shock had set in; he'd gone through the motions. When his sister had arrived, she took charge of him, got him home safely.
She'd helped him with the arrangements, too. The shock had lasted a long time. He was not used to grief; he'd never lost anyone close before, and hadn't been ready for it. He'd always questioned the need for funerals, but understood now. It had helped him say goodbye, but he wasn't done grieving, and until this phase was done, he didn't want reminders.
He was trying to purge the grief by purging the reminders. Others might not understand, but it was what he needed to do for now. He sighed, and continued sorting and boxing; there was much to do yet.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "response". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]
Response - Squiddy Geiger - March 16, 2012
"The answer", said the man, is "42"
"The question", said the man, is "The meaning
Of Life, the Universe, and Everything."
"That's stupid", was the response
"42 has nothing to do with Life, the Universe,
and everything," and you know it
"I'm aware", said the man, laughing quietly,
"It's a flawed equation, in a flawed simulation."
The man turned his back on his inquisitor,
And continued to play World of Warcraft.
His interrogator tapped on his shoulder
But got no response; play went on.
In response to Dear Reader's lack of enthusiasm
For my response to tonight's prompt, I give you:
Nothing. My mind is a blank page, a void from which
Nothing will come forth. I cannot respond intelligently.
Nothing is there for me to give you, so Nonsense
Is the result. For this I apologize, Dear Reader.
Goodnight.
(with apologies to the late Douglas Adams)
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "bury". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]
Bury- Squiddy Geiger - March 10, 2012
The blood dripped slowly from the body's fingertips, into a pool on the ground, as if waiting for the next indignity to be bestowed upon it. The only sounds were the deep breathing of the other man present, and the sound of shovel hitting ground, and dirt being thrown clear.
Allan looked down at the scene, a disconnect between what he saw and what he 'knew' was real. That couldn't be him lying in the trunk, arm dangling over the edge, the blood starting to congeal, not dripping as quickly now. He looked at the man digging the hole. Digging his grave, he corrected himself, as he realized what the scene really showed him.
Dave was sweating profusely now. He wasn't in the best of shape and digging a grave was taking its toll on him now. Allan laughed. Dave paid no heed. Clearly, the living could not hear the dead. Strange. The events that had led here weren't clear in his mind. All he could remember was an argument over Alicia, but nothing definite, and he had no idea how he'd gotten in the trunk, let alone dead.
As he watched, David finished the hole, and climbed out. It was about four feet deep. Not the kind of grave Allan had hoped for, when he went, but enough to keep wildlife away. He watched as Dave dusted himself off a bit, then looked at the body a bit greenly. He didn't seem to be doing well, and clearly wasn't happy about moving the body from the car to the hole.
Finally Dave leaned over the body and grabbed it to lift it out. Good, the bastard was having trouble. Allan had been a large man. Too much enjoyment of food, and not enough exercise. He was happy about that now, make Dave suffer. Allan's body didn't seem to want to budge, and Dave pulled hard. As he did so, his face contorted and he grabbed at his left shoulder, and fell backwards, into the hole. His head hit a rock, as he landed head first in the hole.
Allan laughed again, as he watched a shimmery, translucent Dave climb out of the hole, the normal Dave still lying in a crumpled heap at the bottom. Ah, justice was served. "Over here, you bastard."
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "delusion". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]
Delusion - Squiddy Geiger - March 08, 2012
Delusions, illusions, mirrors and smoke
The writer can fool you, see if he won't
He leads you to see what you've never known
He leads you to learn while entertaining
Their delusions grab you, give you hope
Their confusion and fears a constant
Reminder of the world of joy around you
Or the world of fear that you hope to avoid
Mere words on paper - or a screen now
Can build you a world that has never been
Save in the mind of the deluded soul
That begged for release, their child of sorts
The writers take their children and shape them
Cajoling them along, or struggling to guide them
As they rush off in all directions, heedless
Of their creators' intent, outlines forgotten
Characters take on a life of their own
Surprising everyone as they rush off
Leading the writers to places unknown
But in the end it works, the story is whole
The writers think they have control of the story
But it is rarely so, the characters do
The writers do their bidding, in the end
Poor deluded souls, they claim it as their own
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "treasured". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]
Treasured- Squiddy Geiger - March 08, 2012
Jules treasured the time with his family, but sometimes, he just wished they'd leave him the hell alone. Times like this, when they found some new thing to quarrel about, and would tear at it tenaciously, nobody willing to be the first to back away. Tonight, however, was particularly exasperating. He had no idea what they were fighting about. Something to do with a video game, but it was beyond his comprehension. He'd tried to get into the gaming thing, but they left him feeling nothing; he'd much rather read a good book, and create the world in his own imagination, rather than play in someone else's depiction of it.
"You asshole! If I had a Portal Gun here right now, you'd be fallling to your death right now," Simon shouted.
"Yeah? Well if I had a BFG9000, you'd have been disintegrated years ago, so shut the hell up," Rebecca retorted.
Jules sighed and stepped between them - when bodily harm was threatened, even virtual bodily harm, it was time to call an end to the family drama. "Both of you, enough! Simon, go take out the garbage. Becky, you have homework, I believe. Get upstairs now. I don't want to see you until supper is ready."
"But Dad!" they said in unison, then glared at each other. They saw the look on Jules' face and thought better of it, each heading in the direction he'd indicated. He signed. Yes, he treasured his time with them, but it wasn't always easy. But even with the drama, it was worth it in the end. The conflict always ended. For a time.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "pulse". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]
Pulse - Squiddy Geiger - March 07, 2012
There once was a punster named Squiddy
Whose wordplay would make you quite giddy
He smiled as he said
Without turning his head
"My rhymes make me bigger than Fiddy!"
The mollusc you know and love from Canada
Will pun almost anything he can, uhuh
He says without thinking
Puns strongly stinking
It raises his pulse as he puns - tada!
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "bind". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]
Bind- Squiddy Geiger - March 06, 2012
Stewart sighed, having given up the struggle as futile. The ropes were tight, and it seems they'd been tied in such a way as to become tighter if he struggled. The pain was still tolerable, but he knew if they got any tighter, he'd be in serious trouble. He sat quietly, waiting for the next phase to begin. Whatever it was, he hoped it would bring relief to his aching wrists and ankles, but he doubted it.
He couldn't see his watch, behind his back, so his estimate of five or six hours here would have to do. The room had no windows, just the bare light in the middle of the ceiling, no shade or cover to diffuse the harsh glare. The rough cement walls, cold in the stark illumination, offered no clue to where he was or if anyone else was around; there was no sound beyond his breathing and the steady drip from the ceiling in the corner behind him, the black plastic bucket nearly full.
After another half hour or so, he started to laugh bitterly. It was his own fault he was here. If he'd just done as Wallace had instructed, if he had not crossed him, he would not be in this bind now. It would have been easy, just take the package from A to B, and get paid. But no, he couldn't do that. He had to be snoopy, see what was in it. When he'd delivered the package, the recipient had seen that it was not properly sealed, and had pulled a gun. Stewart had no choice, he defended himself. His bad luck that Wallace's wife was in the next room, right where that second bullet ripped through the wall.
He sighed again. He had run, but somehow they'd tracked him down. Wallace's wife had survived, he was told, but Wallace might kill him for it. The man he'd killed, Wallace would probably understand that - it was self defence, but put his wife in hospital? He heard a noise, someone was coming. Whatever was in store for him, he was about to find out. Life, as he'd long known, was a bitch. The door would open, and fate would come find him.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "curse". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]
Curse - Squiddy Geiger - March 05, 2012
First it was the Lindens
And their lackadaisical attitude
Plotting against me and
Killing my work with neglect
And their typical lack of care
That wasn't a big deal really
I got mad and swore at them
But life went on, and there
Was no permanent damage done
Lost words of import to me alone
Now I am in mortal danger
Stalked by Nature herself
My computer threatened
My vision diminished at times
The threats directed at my very soul!
Whoever the idiot was that
Crashed into the power pole
And caused my computer crash
When the lights flickered?
Merely a conduit for the curse
Nature has placed upon me
I forgive you, lousy driver
I forgive you
I still want you to rot in
The fiery pits of Hell but
I forgive you.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "mad". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]
Mad - Squiddy Geiger - March 04, 2012
Did it drive you mad
When the movie was bad
When the ending was sad
And your dad wore plaid?
Did it make you mad
When your teacher had
You stay behind, your blad
Der bursting, what a cad!
Mad as the world is
With strange and frightening
Things, making you yearn
for the simple days of yore
Until you realize they were neither
Simpler nor better, only different
Very complex and frightening things
Happened then; not to mention all the death.
Mad at the world, you strike out
At everyone, realizing only too late
That the one you really hurt
Is yourself, friendless and alone.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "shriek". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]
Shriek - Squiddy Geiger - March 03, 2012
The moon was bright overhead as Joe walked, allowing him to see his way through the late night along the pathway. This did not lessen his anxiety; the forest was dark, and full of strange sounds. He hurried as quickly as his exhausted legs would carry him. He'd run for a time, but it wasn't possible to maintain that speed, and he knew it.
His heart still raced. The shriek had been close by, he was sure of that, but he'd been unsure, because of the strange way sound carried at night, just which way it had come from. He was fairly sure it wasn't the way he was headed, and he wanted to get as far away from it as possible.
He was was nearly out of the forest - about a mile from home - when a figure stepped out in front of him. A large, muscular man a good deal taller than him blocked his way.
"What's your hurry, my friend?" the man asked. "You look like you've seen a ghost." He was smiling as he said it.
"Uhhh, no, uh, no sir. I haven't seen anything. But I am late and need to get home." Joe didn't mention the shriek. It seemed best not to.
"Do you, now? Is that a fact?" the man asked. "And you're sure nothing frightened you? I've heard there are dangerous things about in the forest, monsters waiting to eat you, or worse." He tried to look concerned, but his smile belied his true feelings.
"You didn't, perhaps, hear something? I've heard strange things in the forest." He laughed. "They always sound scarier than they are, you know."
"No! Someone shrieked!" Joe retorted, then caught himself. He became aware of others coming out of the forest around him.
"Shriek?" a female voice behind him asked. "I never shrieked, I screamed with joy! Little brat!"
Joe turned to face the voice and saw a beautiful woman, not much bigger than himself, and two men, nearly as tall as the first man, but not as large. "You made that noise? Why? You scared me!"
The first man laughed again. "Just as she was supposed to, my friend. Nobody shrieked tonight." He paused, then added slowly, "at least, not yet."
Joe bolted, trying to dodge around the man, who caught him easily.
"Oh no, little rabbit, not so fast. There's going to be some shrieking tonight. Yolanda demands it, don't you, dear?" The man looked at Yolanda, who nodded, smiling, a small knife appearing magically in her hand.
The four of them moved back into the forest with their prey. There were indeed shrieks that night. Too many to count.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "fable". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]
Fable - Squiddy Geiger - March 02, 2012
The dark skinned Elves
Watched the proceedings
With delight as the non-Fae
Scrambled to find escape
They'd heard stories of
The Dark Elves all their lives
But to meet them was laughable
They existed only in Fable
But now they learnt otherwise
The Drow were here, and those
Who were nearest pushed back
Against those who were behind
There was much gnashing of teeth
And screaming and panic
Until finally, Slethawyn raised her hands
And gestured for silence
The humans slowly calmed
When they saw there was no attack
And listened as she spoke
With finesse and tact
"We are the Drow - Dark Elves
You have heard stories of how
Vicious and bloody minded we are
But this is not the truth, far from it
"We come to you as old friends
Who have been too long parted
Once Drow and Human lived
Side by side, in peace and harmony
"Then the Troubles came, and
We were forced into hiding
And in time, became the stuff
Of legends, tall tales, and fables
"Now we are back, to claim what is ours
No, not land or treasure
But the right to move freely
Amid our friendships of old"
The old Drow beside her nodded
And smiled as she sat down
"An excellent speech but humans
Have changed; will they understand?
"They didn't during the Troubles
What makes you think they will now?
If this effort at elightenment
Should fail - and it will
"There will be nowhere for the Drow
To run; like the rest of the Fae, doomed
We seal our fate tonight, you know
But like you, I hope for the best."
The assembled humans watched
Waiting to see what else would occur
They finally sent a delegation
To where the Drow sat calmly.
The leader, a man, said quietly
"You say you are Elves, and you mean
Us no harm, but how can we be
Sure that you mean what you say?
"The people of Earth will not sit quietly
While you usurp their place in the world
But should you go back on your word
WE will hunt you, you know this to be true."
The Drow nodded. "Tis very true
What you say, and we know you can kill
We've been watching you closely
Since we went into hiding, and still
"We know what you can do, but we
Also know you are capable of great
Acts of compassion, and we trust
You will understand and enjoy"
The meeting concluded, a first step
Toward the coming together of friends
The groundwork was set for this
But much was yet to be done
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "collide". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]
Collide - Squiddy Geiger - March 01, 2012
"It's no use, I can't budge it. And if we can't get in there, we can't stop this bastard." Andrew was shaking but kept most of the fear out of his voice. "Nothing we can do from out here."
Suddenly, his face lit up and he walked over to the emergency axe on the wall, and broke the glass. Carefully, he removed it, preventing glass from cutting him. He walked over to the conduit along the wall, along the top, and swung the axe. It collided with a glancing blow and bounced off, careening wildly before he got control of it.
The others backed away, and he swung again, more carefully this time. It connected, and cut into the conduit. He swung again, and again, each one biting deeper into the large metal pipe, until finally it was breached. He swung three more times, and was rewarded with a shower of sparks, and was very happy the handle was wooden.
He surveyed the effect, and decided more was needed, so he kept swinging. More sparks and arcing as the metal head of the axe conducted the electrical power through it, leaving deposits of metal on one side, and big pits of depleted metal in the other side.
He finally stopped swinging when it was obvious there were no remaining intact cables or wires in the conduit - all had been sheared. "Mackay can't do anything without power. Stopped before he's begun." He sat on the ground, axe across his lap, and waited for the madman to come out of the control room. Nothing he could do in there, and the secondary controls in the bunker 50 miles away would take over. All was well.
"Sorry folks, no more suspense or drama here. Move along please."
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "Ice Cream". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]
Ice Cream - Squiddy Geiger - February 29, 2012
It is blistering hot
The sun high in the sky
As I walk down to the corner
to get some relief
As I approach, I see the crowd
Milling and filling the shop
Yes, it is normal, and all is well
My Favourite Ice Cream Shoppe is open
The building is old,
The fixtures are charming
The number of choices
Is really quite fantastic
I stand in the long line
Anticipating my purchase
What will I get this time?
What flavour, of the many?
I pay for my purchase
I walk up and down
The selection is vast
And difficult to choose
What about pistachio?
No, maybe grape
Or perhaps Neapolitan
Or simply vanilla
How can I possibly choose
There are too many choices
So many delicious flavours
All of them beckoning
At last, in desperation
I settle for my favourite
It has been a few weeks
"I'll have two scoops of Tiger Tail"
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "Rush". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]
Rush - Squiddy Geiger - February 28, 2012
Rush, rush, everywhere in a hurry
Never taking time to see the sights
Scramble, scramble, must get done
Missing the beauty left and right.
Rush, rush, living in the fast lane
Forgetting the little things in life
Helter skelter through the day
Small delays causing strife
Saunter, saunter, smell the roses
See the world as it really seems
Slow, slow, in quiet contemplation
Make the best of natures dreams
Rush, rush, ignore the world
Even when it gives you beauty
Stop, stop, don't miss the world as it really is because you're too stupid to realize it doesn't get better than this and all your running around acquiring things is so much smoke and mirrors and you -
- oh, excuse me
Stop, stop, don't miss the world
As it would wish for you to be.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "spark". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]
Spark - Squiddy Geiger - February 27, 2012
The mood in the house had been tense all day. Everyone was angry with everyone. Nobody had a reason, they just were. Or rather, they had the same reason, they were stir crazy. All of them had been victims of the sniping that had taken place all day; harsh words were said, without thought or care of the damage they did.
They'd been snowed in a week ago, and such close proximity with no way to escape, four people together in such a tiny cabin, unable to avoid one another. It had started that morning when one of the men had taken the women to task for tying up the bathroom for so much time, before the men had even been able to pee. It had simmered, with small outbreaks of argument throughout the day. By the time dinner arrived - cooked sullenly by the women, unhappy the men refused to help with such "menial tasks".
After dinner, it worsened. The two women asked the men to clear up and do the dishes. After a half hour of argument over why they should or should not do so, one of the men agreed, the other still refused, and sat with a beer by the fire. Both women and the other man glared at him.
The final straw - the spark that ignited the powder keg - came when the dishes were done, and the one who had done them grabbed a beer and sat down, at which point the other, already up to four beers, made a comment about being pussy-whipped and letting the women wall on him. In an instant, they were locked in battle, exchanging vicious blows.
The fight was savage, each landing hard, damaging punches, followed by wrestling and slamming against furniture and walls. The women pleaded for them to stop, but neither heard. The blows ended when the lazy man fell back and his hand landed on the handle of the fireplace poker. The result was inevitable.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "Connection". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Connection - Squiddy Geiger - February 25, 2012
The drab little house on the drab street garnered little attention, and the drab little man in the drab little house liked it that way. Occasionally, someone might say hi as he came or went, but mostly they ignored him, if they saw him at all.
What they didn't know was just how little drab applied to what was going on inside the house. In every room there was computer equipment, with monitors displaying information, and blinking lights on communications arrays in cabinets, receiving vast amounts of information which the computers crunched, and spit out again, the results zipping off to locations all over the world.
This unprepossessing man was instrumental in supplying information to individuals of questionable or suspect loyalties and affiliations. He had gone out of his way to build his network quietly and efficiently. He hid the massive power usage and data connectivity by owning several other houses in the neighborhood, and rerouting their power and data connections to this house.
He also used various means to mask the true locations of each of the data sources coming into the house - each appeared, to a casual observer, to be in a different country altogether. The resources behind him were quite well funded, and allowed this to function. His clients did not know his identity, and did not know his location. Even if they had, it was in their interests to keep the secret anyway.
The man had a cover job, which he worked from home, allowing him complete freedom. Nobody ever checked on him, and he was free to keep his system up and running. The Connection, as his clients referred to him, was always there. He made sure of this.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "trace". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Trace - Squiddy Geiger - February 21, 2012
It occurred to Ted that this would be a good time to acknowledge the presence of the two men waiting patiently in the other room. He opened the door, poked his head through and nodded to them, then closed the door again. They could wait. Although on second thought, he wasn't sure the older of the two was all that patient.
Wallace was not a good man to keep waiting, but Wallace knew he was the best, so Ted wasn't too worried. He'd found people before, many times, but this time was different. This man had put Wallace's wife in hospital, and killed another man. This time it was personal, and Wallace had made sure Ted knew it.
Ted did know, however, that if the unlikely should happen, and he was unable to find Stewart Plandon, he would suffer. So he would just do his normal great job. He turned back to his computer, and combed through information. Any information, all information, it was there somewhere, the tiny tidbit that would point to the whereabouts of one Charlie Jones. Ted was patient. Ted would find him.
The traces he'd put on various leads started to pay off. He knew Jones was in Alabama. He'd moved fast. He sent off some queries to contacts, and waited. It was just as well his wife and kids were away this weekend, because with the pressure on him, Ted wasn't sure Wallace would keep up the pretense all that well.
He went into the other room, and sat in the chair opposite the one Wallace was in. He waited until Wallace nodded, then spoke quietly. "I'm narrowing it down, I know generally where he is, but I probably won't be able to give you an exact location until tomorrow, morning maybe, most likely in the afternoon. But it looks like he's in Huntsville."
"Are you sure?" Wallace asked, equally quietly.
"Yes, no doubt he's there now. He may go elsewhere, but I doubt it, he has some college buddies there, I'm checking them out now - discreetly, as always. You'll have your answer tomorrow."
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "steam". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Steam - Squiddy Geiger - February 20, 2012
Mitchell wiped the sweat out of his eyes, and leaned back against the wooden wall. His eyes closed briefly as he thought about how good for him this was supposed to be. He wondered what drugs the person who invented the sauna had been on. He'd promised Marcy he'd do this, so here he was, dying a slow death.
He got up and dipped the ladle into the bucket, and poured some water on the hot stones, causing a burst of steam. He did it again three more times, like she'd told him to do. Why he listened to her, he wasn't sure at first, but he noticed it did feel a bit better with the steam in the air. He sat down again.
He'd set the alarm clock outside the door - the steam in here would kill it - to make sure he didn't stay longer than necessary. He'd heard of people staying too long and dying or being injured. He wasn't sure it was true, but he wasn't taking any chances, either.
God, wasn't the time up yet? It felt like he'd been in here for hours already, but it couldn't be that long. He sighed, and wiped the sweat away again. He was glad he'd had some water to drink before he came in here. The steam was almost gone, so he poured more water on, and sat again.
He rubbed his arm, which was starting to prickle a bit. Was this normal? Is this what it was supposed to feel like? He should have made Marcy come in with him. He wanted to quit, get out now, but he'd promised to stay the full time. He kept his promises, always. God, this didn't feel good.
His head was starting to hurt, not badly, but this certainly couldn't be a good sign. He stood up, went to the door, then turned around again and sat down. No, he'd wait for the alarm. But he was damned if he'd do this again, it was stupid. He growled to himself about how he'd tell Marcy off, tell her what a stupid idea this had been.
Suddenly the alarm went off outside the door. He got up, turned off the heater, and opened the door. The blast of cool air hit him, and he gasped, held his breath briefly, then let it out, relaxing. When he went upstairs he raved to Marcy about how wonderful he felt, why hadn't she told him about it before. He vowed to sauna every day.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "cross". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Cross - Squiddy Geiger - February 19, 2012
Zeb watched the proceedings quietly. The wind from the fan above him proved ineffective in taking the edge off the heat. He grew bored with Court TV, and flipped channels, stopping briefly on one or another, but only to move on again. He sipped his cold but rapidly warming beer. His mind wandered back to the fight that had put him in this fleabag motel in the middle of a heatwave.
He'd gotten home from work to new locks on the door to his house, and a note telling him he could not come in, with a copy of a restraining order attached to it that said he could not come within 100 feet of the house. He took the note and the order, and picked up the two bags she'd packed for him, sitting on the step.
He couldn't afford a real hotel - not until payday - so he'd ended up here. He'd called his best friend, Karl, who said he sympathized but couldn't offer him a bed because the in-laws were in town, so here he was, in the Flea Bite Inn, watching crappy television on a crappy television. He'd made the rounds of the channels and was back watching Court TV.
He should have been angry, but he wasn't. As Karl had told him on the phone - it had only been a matter of time. His friends had all warned him not to marry her, but he hadn't listened. He'd made a few mistakes, nothing serious, but she got angry each time, out of proportion to the sins, and it was always the same - she'd say in a quiet, controlled voice: "You'll be sorry you if you cross me one more time."
He hadn't worried about it. They'd always gone on, the grievance forgotten until the next time. Now, it seemed, he'd done it. He'd crossed her once too often. The worst of it was, he had no idea what he'd done, this time. He couldn't reach her.
He'd tried to call her, but it went to the answering machine. By now, all their friends would know, because of the machine. He'd called, and gotten "If you're not Zeb, please leave a message. If you're Zeb, I told you you'd be sorry if you cross me again."
He finished his beer and grabbed another one, and wondered idly if the poor schlub on Court TV had crossed someone. It didn't matter, and he started surfing channels again.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "satin". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Satin - Squiddy Geiger - February 18, 2012
Yannick snickered. The boy had been here five minutes and already he'd made a fool of himself, making statements that were easily refuted as nonsense, and telling jokes more suited to grade school. The boy had been soundly chastised, and was now sitting alone in the corner. Easier pickings, later.
Yannick stood, and called the meeting to order. He took the roll call and was pleased to see fewer than 10% of the members were missing. The minutes were read, the agenda was given, and several items added to it. His mind drifted. It was so much drivel and after this long, he could lead the meeting while his mind was occupied with much more important things. Like how he and Satin were going to have fun with the boy, later.
Satin, such a wonderful girl. His companion. She'd been with him far longer than any of the others had been. Most died quickly and violently, defending him when they were discovered, that he might get away. Satin was different. She was smarter. They'd never been discovered; they'd traveled at will. It had been a fateful day when he'd turned her. He smiled, then hid it quickly, realizing it didn't quite fit the mood of the meeting. Careful, old man, he thought to himself.
At last the meeting was over, and the members milled about, discussing trivia over beer or pop paid for by the slush fund. If these men, knew. If he were discovered by this Catholic mens group he was part of. Delicious. It had been Satin's idea to hide in plain sight. And they were careful never to dine on the members or their families
The boy would be an exception. He was a new arrival and had no family here. He was a student. An easy target, who would miss him. Satin had picked him out herself. She would intercept him on his way home. He didn't have a car, so he would be walking. After dinner, ravenous lovemaking would end the glorious night. He couldn't wait to get home, but as leader, he was always last to leave.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "Mischief". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Mischief - Squiddy Geiger - February 16, 2012
She hid the food, she pulled some hair
She wrote upon the walls
She told bad jokes, she filched my pen
She made prank telephone calls
She stole your lunch, she broke the keyboard
She skated through the halls
She keyed his car, she tripped the teacher
She gave the dog ex-lax
She broke her chair, she flushed while you showered
She changed your income tax
She ran the battery down, she jimmied the lock
She would not let you relax
When she's around, she causes headaches and
The going is usually rough
When she's around, she won't let you down
She makes life extra tough
When she's around, you wish she wasn't
She's known by name: Mischief
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "Strip". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Strip - Squiddy Geiger - February 15, 2012
Concentration, sweat beading on his brow,
The controls tight in his grip, his
Knuckles white with concentration
Where is the strip, it should be here
He shouts in frustration, searching, searching
Scanning the horizon, desperate to find it
Low on fuel, and out of other options
He must find this strip and land, to save his
Passengers and crew - it's what he's trained to do
At last his copilot shouts and points, the strip
Is off to the left, and he fights the controls to
Bring the lumbering old beast around.
The weather is bad, but not the worst
He's landed under much more dangerous
Conditions but always with extra fuel aboard
How did this happen? who cares, right now
His job is to get all on the ground again
Safely and securely, and preferably in one piece
Time enough for recriminations once
The investigation is complete. For now he
Sweats and fights the plane as they approach
The strip is little more than grass, flat but
Fully fuctional. The landing at best be bumpy
At worst? He tries not to think on that.
At last, almost down, he flares the plane, and
Fights to keep her steady, and then the wheels
touch, bounce once, then bounce and roll on steady
The passengers are completely still as the
Flight Crew bring her to a safe and final stop
On grass, then a sigh and relieved cheering.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "Blur". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Blur - Squiddy Geiger - February 14, 2012
Harry blinked. Great, now he was seeing things. He shook his head and went back to his book, reading the last paragraph over again before he continued. He blinked again; something had definitely moved.
He got up and put his book down on the coffee table. He looked around carefully, but saw nothing. He stood still, waiting. Something was there, and he was going to find it. One minute passed, then five more.
A blur, out of the corner of his eye, but when he turned, again, nothing. It was like a hint of movement, indistinct. A memory. Like when his cat had passed away - he'd seen Fester's big black butterball self everywhere, and nowhere, for weeks afterwards. But this was different because it was not Fester's memory, he knew that. Something was there, it just wasn't there when he looked at it.
A movement from the other side caught him off guard, only this time it preceded a searing pain in his leg as he collapsed onto his left side. he grabbed his leg, which now ended just below the knee. He gaped at it in disbelief, then fumbled for his belt, realizing he needed to do something to stop the blood. What blood? it stopped just below the knee and was perfectly cauterized.
Another movement, and pain took his right arm at the shoulder. He looked as it too was gone, the wound cauterized as well, but this time not perfectly, and a small amount of blood seeped through. His head started to get woozy, and his body was cold. He recognized shock, but couldn't move, paralyzed by the fear and shock.
The next blur took his right leg, above the knee, then his left at the hip. His screams of course were unheard. He was alone in the house, the nearest neighbor almost a mile away. At the end, as his eyes started to glaze over, they saw the blur as it coalesced into fangs and a gaping mouth, that paused, then moved again quickly and his life stopped abruptly.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "Dubious". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Dubious - Squiddy Geiger - February 11, 2012
Inconsequential, trivial
Lacking in serious qualities
Minor, without substance
An experience of dubious value
You try your best, you fail
No matter how you struggle
Your efforts muted by mediocrity
Treated as the triviality it is
You put up with it as long
As you can, the barbs, the jabs,
The jokes at your expense
Until one day, you can take no more
You march into the office,
Demanding to see the boss,
You fling an envelope down
And say "Enough, two weeks to go!"
The boss looks up mildly from
Behind his big oak desk, and says
"Oh, that's ok, my friend, you see
Your efforts were dubious at best."
You look at him and fantasize
That his head explodes completely
But keep yourself in control
And leave the office serenely
You leave the building,
Heading home. You see his car
Is parked right next to yours.
Flat tires? Oh yes, he'll notice.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "Fine". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Fine - Squiddy Geiger - February 07, 2012
The work was painstaking, mindnumbingly so, but it was worth it. Ultimately, their discoveries would revolutionize thought on the history of the ancient Waslav Dynasty. Of this, Aaron was quite sure. He just wished sometimes that it would go a bit faster.
He was working the grid location known as J12, an area that included sand in a densely packed, almost concrete-like conglomeration that forced him to remove small bits of the sand structure slowly and very carefully, then sweep it away with the brush, careful to make sure there were no tiny artifacts in what was removed, hoping to find bigger artifacts, the ones that brought fame. Tiny artifacts might prove a theory, but people remembered the cool stuff. The big, beautiful, spectacular finds made the news. The little stuff made the obscure journals of his profession.
Half of this level was done, and they'd only found small indicators that anything interesting might be here; hints at something important, a big find, but nothing yet to prove their hypothesis - that Waslav the Seventh had indeed lived here, rather than in the capital at Porcaba. He sighed, pausing a moment, then went back to the painstaking removal of the fine dust and sand.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "case". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Case - Squiddy Geiger - February 05, 2012
Case is very important when you're
Writing in the English language
If you ignore the rules of case
It brings on feelings of umbrage
In the people who must read
Your unduly tainted miscarriage
of literary creation.
Unless, of course, you make a career
Of this lack of respect for the rules
e.e. cummings is perhaps the best known
Of the mavericks who twisted the rules
Creating a world quickly and easily
Recognized, but not emulated in general
His character a cockroach unable to reach
the shift key and the letter he desired
Case is very important when you're
Creating a work of literary genius
You still need to follow the rules
To make the reading that much easier
A work without proper use of case
Like a work without proper punctuation
Leaves the reader annoyed and vowing
Not to support the writer further
DoN't Do It Or I WiLl
PuNcH yOuR lIgHtS oUt!
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "Shadows". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Shadows - Squiddy Geiger - February 04, 2012
Night falls, darkness reigns
Obscured sources of light
play over the darkness
Highlighting some things
hiding others
A perfect playground for The Beast.
She leaves the security of home
Heading to a friend's for coffee
and maybe for cards
Heedless of the danger
hidden in the shadows
A perfect target for The Beast.
He follows, watching carefully
Timing his movements from shadow
to obscuring shadow
Each move bringing him closer
to his prey
so close he can smell her now.
She stops, sensing something
A feeling of being followed
as she walks quickly
Through the chill of the evening
towards more safety
She listens, shrugs, and continues.
The Beast pauses, then follows again
Heart racing with the anticipation
of the kill
Almost there as she enters a deep
patch of shadows
Never exiting, a victim of The Beast.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "solar". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Solar - Squiddy Geiger - February 04, 2012
Dan kicked the console angrily. Stupid piece of shite never worked right in the first place. And now he was stuck out here. He should never have left with it - should have listened to Molly and upgraded. As always, she was right.
He sighed, and went to the other room to calm down. Working angry wasn't going to help. And as scary as it was, he had to admit the view was spectacular - the sun towards which he was being dragged was gorgeous, solar flares shooting above the surface. His ship's dampers made the view bearable; and even through the filters, the colours and the mayhem of the surface were amazing.
The fact that long before he reached the surface, his shields would fail and his ship destroyed were worrisome, but if he couldn't get the console repaired, he had other issues to worry about. He sat and watched the show for awhile. It calmed him, as always.
He thought about Molly. Dear sweet Molly. Whom he might never see again, and who would wonder how things had ended so badly. If he got the damned thing working and made it home, he'd do his best to make things right. It had been a stupid argument, and much of the blame was his, if not all. He sighed again - he was sighing a lot today - and got up to work on the console again.
He whistled while he worked. Thinking of Molly had cheered him up, as it always did. He could fix it. He had to fix it. He would fix it. He was not going to die out here, an insignificant speck in an incredibly huge tableau of solar beauty.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by a picture we were shown. This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Influenza - Squiddy Geiger - January 29, 2012
Patrick listened to the shuffling as the monster approached down the hall, the shuffling dragging feet, the wheezy wet breathing sounds preceding it. He sighed, knowing there was no escape.
The monster turned the corner; he saw it in all its majestic horror: streaming eyes and nose, blotchy red face with drool coming from one corner of the mouth. Hands clutched bits of tissue dripping with foetid, infectious waste.
The beast shuffled forward, hunched over, moaning with every step. Patrick waited patiently for it to arrive, for the inevitable. Finally it stopped in front of him. The horror spoke.
"Dad, I'm still sick. I don't have to go to school today, do I?" followed by a spasm of coughing.
"No, son. You didn't need to get out of bed," Patrick replied. "I was coming to check on you in a few minutes." He carefully placed the used tissues in a bowl and handed the boy some fresh tissues. "Go back to bed. I'll be there in a few minutes with some ginger ale for you and maybe some crackers, see if you can keep those down now."
Another coughing fit, followed by "Ok, Dad, but I'm missing a quiz today - and Miss Stelk doesn't give makeup quizzes even if you're sick."
"I know, but don't you worry about that," he said. "Get yourself back into bed, ok? That's an order."
The horror turned and shuffled off, with a muffled and wet sounding "ok, Dad," as it went. It coughed several times along the way. Patrick made a mental note to scour the floors. God, he hated sick days.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "ignorant". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Ignorant - Squiddy Geiger - January 27, 2012
The man with the hole in his head
Where reason should be, where
Knowledge would live
Wilfully chooses not to fill
The crevices where
Stupidity sneaks in
Working hard to avoid learning
About anything wondrous and new
Seeing only different
Or evil, threatening and crude
The man with the hole in his head
Where beauty would be, where
Reason should live
Sees strangers as dangerous
Difference as something to be
Stomped out, or repelled as
You would repel boarders
The man with the hole in his head
Where acceptance should be, where
Welcoming love would live
Is walled off from true knowledge
In a citadel built by the ignorant
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "stolen". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Stolen - Squiddy Geiger - January 26, 2012
My heart was placid
Waiting for action
My heart was lonely
Waiting for completion
My heart was empty
Waiting to be filled
My heart was sad
Waiting for joy
I walked along the busy street
Minding my own business
Bothering nobody
When suddenly I was accosted
By a beauty
who stole my heart
My heart is alive
My heart is complete
My heart is full
My heart is joyful
My heart is stolen
My heart is found
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "blue moon". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out]
[NOTE: read yesterday's wave, "Unlikely", first]
Blue Moon - Squiddy Geiger - January 25, 2012
Yesterday had been Unlikely. Today was Impossible.
Steve had always wondered where the term came from. Now he knew. All over town, people were talking about it, everyone knew about it; all they had to do was look up.
The moon was an incredible marine blue, with cyan highlights. It was gorgeous, and quite frankly, scary as hell, because nobody seemed to know why it was blue, or when it would stop being blue. Except Steve.
This morning, he'd seen the weird old man again. Steve was driving to work, and the man had materialized in the passenger seat. "Hello again, boy," he'd said. Steve had pulled over quickly and stopped.
"Who the hell are you and what the hell are you doing in my car?" he demanded. "And how the hell do you disappear and reappear like that?"
"All in good time, Young Skywalker, all in good time," the man laughed. "Ultimately, you will learn why we are here. And what we want. Oh, don't look like that - there's nothing to worry about, we're here to help.
"We have something for you to do - much more important than taking a cheque into the bank, Steve. And it is of great importance to my people and yours. No, nothing bad, I promise." The old man smiled. "I have to go again, but I'll see you tomorrow."
He started to fade. Steve yelled for him to stop, but he didn't. Just as he was about to disappear again, he shouted - just barely audible "Once in a Blue Moon, boy... once in a Blue Moon..." and was gone.
Steve understood now.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "unlikely". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out]
Unlikely - Squiddy Geiger - January 24, 2012
Steve was having an Unlikely Day. It was unlikely he'd get pulled over in a random police check, but he was. It was unlikely he'd misplace his car keys which had made him already late, but he had. It was unlikely that he'd turn left instead of right at the intersection, but he did.
When he realized his error, he'd stopped, waiting for a chance to pull a u-turn. That's when the old man had tapped on his window, making a gesture to roll it down. As unlikely as it seemed, given he was already late, he had.
"Young man, can you direct me to the First Bank of Pradorville?" the old man had asked. It was the way he was going, so he told the man to get in. Why, he could not say afterwards. Not that he told anyone.
When he got to the bank, he stopped and pointed it out to the old man. He'd expected him to get out of the car. He had not. "Young man, I cannot go in there - such a building is off limits for my kind," the old man had said. "will you go in and deposit this cheque for me please? It's already got the appropriate deposit slip, all you need to do is present it."
Steve had shrugged, taken the cheque and gone into the bank. There had been nobody there, and two minutes later he came out with the receipt, which he gave to the old man.
"I don't see why you didn't do that yourself," he'd said. "But I'm happy to help."
The old man had laughed, looked Steve directly in the eyes, and blinked. When he'd blinked, his eyes changed colour. He laughed again at Steve's reaction, and faded slowly, until Steve could barely hear his laughter, then he blinked out.
It took him several minutes to recover enough to drive on. Steve was having an Unlikely Day.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "Regeneration". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out]
Regeneration - Squiddy Geiger - January 23, 2012
She stirred the cauldron on the stove, slowly, careful to keep it liquid, letting it thicken without congealing. She whistled happily as she worked.
An orange tabby yelled at her from beside her legs, asking for attention as only orange tabbies can. She ignored him - he had food, he had water, and he had a clean litter box. As for attention, the more she gave him, the more he demanded.
Melvin was quiet upstairs. The only sound from the rest of the house was the television, murmuring from the other room where she'd left it on. It would be news now. She hated watching the news. She tested the consistency, was not quite satisfied, and continued to stir.
Melvin was quiet. Melvin was always quiet these days. She hoped this surprise would change that, bring back the old Melvin who had wooed her. The Melvin who had won her heart. The Melvin who had swept her off her feet. That Melvin had been AWOL for a long time.
The old woman in the flea market had assured her this would work. Her instructions had been very specific, and they were to be followed precisely, or the potion would not work. Odile had accepted the instructions and paid her, but as she walked away, she'd thought of a question, and turned back to ask it. The old woman was already gone.
Odile tested the contents again. The consistency was perfect - the spoon didn't stand up, but it slid over slowly. She took it off the heat, and the words she'd written carefully on the paper:
"Reviens à moi!
Reviens à moi!
J'ai besoin de toi
reviens à moi!"
She sighed, and took the pot upstairs to the darkened room where Melvin waited patiently. She held her breath, and walked over to the bed where his mummified body waited. The instructions had been clear, and she followed them. As she poured the contents over his body, she recited the chant again, hoping her accent was right.
"Reviens à moi!
Reviens à moi!
J'ai besoin de toi
reviens à moi!"
The old woman had said it would take two days for it to work. She sighed, sat in the old rocker next to the bed, and waited. The cat, yelling at her, jumped into her lap and curled up as she petted him. It would be a long two days.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "nebula". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out]
Nebula - Squiddy Geiger - January 22, 2012
Floating, drifting, shining
Amorphous and incoherent
Dazzling colours and shapes
Without apparent structure
Beautiful
Timeless
Ancient beyond comprehension
Spectacular beyond compare
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "creed". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out]
Creed - Squiddy Geiger - January 20, 2012
Ted walked through the living room toward the kitchen, ignoring the grumbles of the kids as he blocked their view of the television, briefly. He got a drink, and returned to his room, with similar grumbles along the way.
His boss wanted this by tomorrow, he had no time to consider anything else. He searched the internet for clues, digging deep into obscure corners, rummaging around for the tiniest hint that would lead him to his goal.
He was good at his job, very good. It's why his boss paid him so much. He'd been doing this job for a long time, nobody could match him. His search took him to exotic places - at least, online.
Finally, he found the missing piece. The little bastard thought he could hide there? Ted sighed in disappointment. It was too easy. He quickly typed the clues up into a brief report, and prepared it for dispatch.
He paused, waiting for his mind to finish the usual back and forth between right and wrong, good and evil. It would end with being sent, it always was, but he went through the motions of letting his mind hash it out.
He didn't do the dirty work - someone else would carry out the sentence; he just found the target. He always found the target. He had only one rule: complete the mission.
He wondered idly if his kids would be so dismissive if they knew what he really did for a living. He shrugged. The guy was guilty. He pressed the button that sent the report to Murderous Intent. Mission complete.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "forget". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out]
Forget - Squiddy Geiger - January 19, 2012
Wandering through a sea of nothing
Searching desperately
Watching for the key to memory
Stumbling forth to search again
Rummaging through ancient times
some best left behind
Arguing with self for details
clues to the source of all
Wandering through a forest of dead ends
Searching desperately
Skirting around the edge of memory
Bumping into long forgotten scenes
Empty
Deserted
Devoid of memories
Wondering who, what and where
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by a picture of a blue coffee cup and saucer. This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out]
Coffee Cup Blues - Squiddy Geiger - January 17, 2012
Jack took a sip, and made a face.
God, he'd forgotten how awful the coffee was in this shit hole. Oh well, shitty coffee on a shitty night. Appropriate. He took another sip.
She'd called just as he got off work. Unusual because she knew always had things to do after work. Even as he answered, he knew it was not a good call.
He toyed with the cup, swirling the terrible coffee around in the little blue cup with green highlights. It was pretty. A contrast to the day.
She'd been brief and to the point. It was over, there was someone else, and she'd already moved her stuff out. His guts spilled onto the sidewalk as she spoke.
By the fifth sip, it wasn't tasting quite so bad, but it was still shit.
She said she'd met him six months before, and they'd been lovers for four. They were in love.
He took another sip, then hurled the cup against the wall, shattering it. He got up, dropped forty bucks on the counter to cover the cost and the inconvenience, and left.
Shitty coffee for a shitty day.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "swan". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out]
Swan - Squiddy Geiger - January 17, 2012
Just a thought, that's all it was
Set his ears all abuzz
He whispered in her ear
She grinned from ear to ear
Her shell dropped away
And her beauty appeared
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "sleep". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out]
Sleep - Squiddy Geiger - January 16, 2012
Winding down
relaxing
Gathering thoughts
and ideas
from the day
Organizing, refreshing, clearing out
concepts and queries
Rehashing difficult bits
Replaying the better parts
Harried
Hectic
Worried
Watching
Deleting
Demanding
Reliving
Rehashing
Repairing
Recovering
Dreaming
Winding down
relaxing
Working through
the day
Recovering from anxiety and
recharging energy reserves
Sleeping
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "punishment". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out]
Punishment - Squiddy Geiger - January 15, 2012
Punishment
It isn't all that fun
Punishment
People avoid it, try to run
Punishment
Builds character in some
Punishment
Causes others to come undone
Atonement
Helps to heal old wounds
Atonement
Doesn't mean you should forget
Atonement
Brings forgiveness to some
Atonement
A foundation for Peace to be forged
Choose one or the other
Or both. Or None.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "scaffold". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out]
Scaffold - Squiddy Geiger - January 11, 2012
Gerry's world was getting grimmer, but he persevered, slogging through the piles of legal garbage he was being buried in, as he tried to navigate the civil court system. Nothing seemed to go right, from legal challenges that kept his submissions out of the record, to people who'd promised support, but when the time came, were nowhere to be found.
He was getting by because of the support system he'd built around himself; people who would listen, and give advice, or just be there with drink at opportune moments. This was a support system he'd built up carefully over many years.
The first level of the scaffolding of support was his family. Some families fragmented, but his family had worked to keep everyone on good terms, working through rough spots here and there as the inevitable squabbles and disagreements; these had become less frequent the older he and his siblings grew, and now were exceedingly rare.
The next level of the scaffolding was his friends. He'd added them slowly, starting with Bill in elementary school. Stephie and Karl had followed in high school - they'd eventually married each other. His friend Urta from University, and his co-worker Ed rounded out the friendships he trusted and relied on so heavily.
The final level of support came from his wife of 14 years. She fit on two levels, really, an extra layer of support. She'd been his friend in University, and later, dated and married. She was his rock; the level of immediate support upon which everything rested.
The entire scaffolding of family, friends, and love kept him going. He should his head and smiled, and dove back into the mass of documentation he needed to read before his next meeting with the lawyers.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "toy". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out]
Toy - Squiddy Geiger - January 10, 2012
The man looked carefully at the pieces before him. He'd examined the diagrams carefully, and the few words in the instructions. He'd read them through four times, checking that he had the right tools, and all the parts. He was ready.
He picked up the first two pieces in the instructions, and started construction. They went together easily enough, and the third presented no trouble. This wasn't so bad, he thought. He could do this.
By the time he was half way through, he was sweating. He was very glad he'd read the manual first, because he'd run into trouble a couple of times, things didn't seem to fit the way the diagram said they should, but each time, he'd managed to figure it out.
Finally, as his muscles ached and his back protested, he fitted the last piece in place and tightened it. He sighed, and sat back with satisfaction. It was done, it was complete, and it looked even better than in the pictures on the website. He got up and stretched and got himself a congratulatory drink.
He put the completed toy back into the box, and wrapped it carefully, taking extra time to make each fold crisp, using just enough tape to hold it, but not too much to obscure the design of the wrapping paper. He attached a small name card, and finished it with ribbon and a bow, and placed it carefully under the tree, ready to be discovered by its new owner.
---
The boy grabbed the present, the last of his gifts, and looked at it. It was big, and it rattled slightly as he shook it. He started to open it.
The man watched as the boy ripped the carefully wrapped paper and threw it aside. He watched as the boy opened the box and pulled the carefully constructed toy out, and examined it. He watched as the boy tossed it aside with a "Thanks!" and went back to his new video game. he sighed, and went over to watch the boy as he played.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "lucky". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out]
Lucky - Squiddy Geiger - January 07, 2012
Marion walked slowly towards the lights in the town, shuffling a bit. It had been a long day, and a long trip. She hadn't thought she'd make it. The lights taunted her, so tantalizingly close, yet still too far away.
She'd left at dawn, a week before, eager for a new beginning in town, and optimistically certain she'd be there by late afternoon. The palm reader the week before had assured her she was full of luck, and she assumed this meant, for her trip today.
He'd been right, but not as she'd hoped.
Barely past 10 in the morning, she thought she had discovered what Lucky meant. She'd found a bag, and picked it up from the middle fo the road. It was heavy, and when she opened it, she'd found it was full of gold coins. An auspicious start to her new life, she thought.
At noon, the riders bore down on her from the north, and she barely had time to jump aside. The leader saw the bag, and commanded them to stop. It was a noble's money, she was arrested before she could even explain and offer it to the men. She was lucky, they could have just killed her.
In jail, she'd been questioned and beaten, and questioned again, and beaten again. They wanted to know who she worked for, why she'd stolen the money. She'd tried to explain she had found it, and would have returned it if they'd asked. They threw her in a cold, dark, damp cell overnight.
The next night, the guards came for her and took her to another room. she got lucky again. Repeatedly, mercilessly, and for hours. Afterwards, she was returned to her dark cell. This pattern repeated itself for the next five days.
When she'd finally spoken with the Captain of the Guards, pleading for mercy, he had listened. She was lucky, he ordered her release.
When she left, she had only her torn clothes and her shoes, but none of her possessions or money, but she was lucky. She was alive.
She shuffled on toward the lights.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "follow". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out]
Follow - Squiddy Geiger - January 01, 2012
Zephram wiped the sweat out of his eyes. It was hot, and he was thirsty. He stumbled, caught himself and kept walking, hoping nobody noticed.
It hadn't been like this in the beginning. They'd followed William willingly, eagerly. It had only been when the shortages started, and the heat had taken over, that questions had popped up. Surely the Prophet of God could not be forsaken, and his disciples left to suffer so.
When people had started dropping back, then "disappearing" - the guards would invariably say they could not find them, but Zephram was sure of the truth. Those who tried to leave were killed, and left where they lay. Zephram wasn't going to end up that way, and vowed he would march on to the end, wherever that was.
In the end, either choice was the same. He followed William to a place far into the desert, beyond help. In the end, he'd been a good follower. In the end, he had returned to his Maker, just as William had promised. He just hadn't expected it to be so soon.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "ashes". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out]
Ashes - Squiddy Geiger - December 31, 2011
Zoe stirred the pot absently. Her mother had warned her not to come here, and she'd been right. She hated when her mother was right. Which was most of the time.
"Almost done?" Jeff asked. She nodded. He watched her stir the pot for a minute, then wandered over to the others.
She didn't think she could do it, but they'd assured her she could, and so far, it wasn't bad. She stirred the rest of the ashes into the plaster; the consistency was good, it held together but was easy to work with, It was ready now. She carried the bucket over to the others.
Jeff tested the consistency and nodded. The others watched Zoe expectantly as they waited for her to begin. She took a deep breath and grabbed a handful of the plaster and started to work.
It was difficult but she didn't dare dawdle. The plaster would only be workable for a short period. She quickly built up the wire frame, covering it with the messy concoction. The bust quickly took shape, thanks to the wires.
As she worked, she thought of her mother. Yes, she'd warned her not to come here, not to be part of this, but she'd always spoken of this ritual as necessary. Zoe hated it but also welcomed it.
She sighed, then looked at what she was doing, and her eyes watered. Without warning, it had stopped being a blob, and was now recognizable , as if the ashes in the mix were lending themselves to the form, forcing the plaster to take her mother's shape - as if the ash remembered its former likeness.
A hand tapped her shoulder. It was Jeff. "You've done it. She'd be proud." Zoe nodded, as she looked at her mother's final resting form.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "blade". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out]
Blade - Squiddy Geiger - December 23, 2011
He held the blade up to the light, examining it. LIght, strong, and sharp, it was an excellent weapon. It could be used for defense, or offense. He flicked it up into the air and caught it lazily as it dropped. Balance was good, too.
"Stephen! Must you fool with that thing all the time?" Lena demanded. "Put it away." When he ignored her and continued to play with it, she huffed angrily and went to the kitchen.
He'd had it for five years, ever since he'd won it off that fool card player in Slavna. He'd bluffed him out of a month's earnings, and this lovely little toy. The man had tried to renege, but two King's Own had been there; they'd witnessed the game, and it was fair. The man had paid up.
"Father? Why does Mother hate that knife so much?" Garth asked. The boy was staring at the blade. "It's so beautiful, how cold she not love it? May I hold it, Father?"
Stephen shook his head. "Not yet, boy. You're right, she does hate this blade. And she'd hate me if I let you play with it and anything happened."
"But Father," the boy pleaded. "She's giving Cook instructions for dinner, she won't be out for ages. Please? Just a bit."
Stephen looked at the boy. He was right, she would be a long time, yet. And it couldn't hurt if the boy held the knife for a moment or two. "Ok, but be careful or she'll skin me alive!" He was laughing as he handed the blade over, carefully. "There you go. Feel the weight. And don't touch the edge, just slide your finger this way, never that way. Ok?"
The boy nodded, and did as he was told. Stephen was concentrating on the boy and neither heard the door open.
"What are you doing?" Lena shouted. Both males jumped and Stephen turned towards her. He started to defend himself when she screamed, followed by a high pitched howl of pain behind him.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "scarf". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out]
Scarf - Squiddy Geiger - December 22, 2011
Johnny looked at the audience, who stared back expectantly, a murmur running through them as they waited. He smiled briefly as someone held up a camera and snapped a photo. He hated photos, but it was the price for fame.
He looked down the table at the others. Sabrina to his left, pretty in a blue dress, her hair up tight, with some flowers in the side, above her ear. She smiled back at him, and shook her head. Poor thing thought she could win.
Sheldon was beyond her, resplendent in his Superman costume - a superhero? Hardly. He was doing breathing exercises, preparing himself mentally for the coming battle. Confident, prepared, he was one to worry about.
To his right, Claudio. Poor Claudio, back for his first battle since the mishap. Johnny didn't think he'd have the stomach for it anymore, and was truly surprised to see the Italian here.
Rufus and Eldon, the Twin Menace, were beyond Claudio. They always battled beside each other, against each other, and against all comers, bright red hair a distraction in the afternoon sun. He wasn't worried about them.
At the far end, beyond the twins, was the only real danger to Johnny's title as King. He'd won more battles than Johnny, but only because he'd been in the game longer. His experience, however, was what had Johnny worried. Paul was confident, experienced, and ready.
The announcer finished the introductions, explained the rules, and the final countdown began. Johnny did his own quick breathing exercises, and was ready. He looked down expectantly, and as the bell rang, he dug in, devouring goldfish, defending his title: Long Life the Scarf King!
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "safe". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out]
Safe - Squiddy Geiger - December 13, 2011
The morning dawned, a beautiful blue and orange as the sun rose, waking the day. Sherri loved this time of day, so fresh with possibility. She looked through the village, checking that nothing had gone awry during the night.
The villagers were mostly asleep, except for Dralgan the street sweeper, and Blatso the garbage man, who didn't have to work for three more hours, but just liked to get an early start. She waved at them happily, but they ignored her, as always. It was ok, she didn't mind.
At the east end of town, something wasn't right, but it took her a few minutes to realize what was wrong; the Frelbdar's house was empty, abandoned. The door was open, and the car was gone. She looked around quickly, trying to find it. At last she spied it heading north on Route 12, moving fast. She sighed, and prepared to intervene.
Just as the car reached the county line, the breaklights lit up as it screeched to a halt, bumper stopping just short of the barrier. Sherri reached down and picked up the car, checked that the occupants were unhurt, then carefully placed it in the Frelbdar driveway. She sighed, a bit hurt that they'd tried to leave, but happy they weren't hurt.
She checked that all else was well in the village. Finally, content in the knowledge that her village was safe, she ran downstairs to see what Mummy had prepared for breakfast.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "Mortal". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out]
Mortal - Squiddy Geiger - December 11, 2011
Elyssa sang softly to herself as she headed to her date. Billy Walters was expecting her at 7:30 at the library. It was going to be so much fun. She'd been looking forward to it since he'd asked her on Monday.
She checked herself in the car mirror. Dress ok? Check. Makeup perfect? Check. Hair presentable? Check. She smiled happily. She would be irresistible - he would be hers.
Such a conquest this would be. The others would be jealous. Billy was quarterback of the football team, class president, and had his pick of the girls at school, but he'd chosen her. The others had proclaimed him impossible to catch, but she'd get him. She'd add hm to her large collection.
As she arrived at the library, she saw the others already going in. They wanted a good view, to judge the catch. She had told them where, but not who.
She went up, and looked for Billy. The third floor was deserted except for the others, spread nonchalantly around the room, pretending to read, or to search for books.
Ah, there he was. She sauntered over slowly, savouring the look he gave her, unknowing of his fate. As he came towards her, he leaned down to kiss her, and as their lips met, she took him. He looked down at his still beating heart, ripped from his chest. The others cheered.
She took a jar from her purse, dropped the heart into it, and left. It would go on the shelf in her room. Another mortal, one amongst many.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the phrase "The End". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out]
The End - Squiddy Geiger - December 04, 2011
Jason folded the shirt carefully, and then the pants, tidying them, and placed them carefully in the basket. His shoes joined them, along with the socks.
The clothes were followed by a child's toys: a well-loved teddy bear, a baseball and glove; a small windup car, and a broken GI Joe.
Melody sniffed quietly, and dabbed at her eyes, watching the process. She made him do it; she couldn't. Finally, the basket was prepared. They moved off down the garden to where a pyre had been prepared.
As Jason placed the basket on the carefully stacked and prepared wood of the pyre, Melody cried quietly. He lit the wood, made sure it had caught, and moved over to stand behind his wife. He pulled her close as her soft cries became sobs, wracking her body, tears flowing freely now.
Jason said nothing, also crying. The two watched as the pyred burned furiously. As they said quiet goodbyes to the son they had lost. The symbolic fire replaced the funeral they could not have.
As the pyre burned itself out, they stood, turned and walked slowly up to the house, the cleansing of their souls finished.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "taskmaster". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out]
Taskmaster - Squiddy Geiger - December 3, 2011
He pushed the thoughts aside. No time for such things, he had work to do. The thoughts, however, didn't care if he had to work. They invaded his brain, forcing through his attempts at concentration.
He sighed, and listened, as they whispered to him. Ideas, fresh from deep inside his soul.
His muse was speaking to him, and she was not to be ignored. He put closed the file he was working on, and opened another, marking it Ideas. Work would, as was too often the case, have to wait.
It had always been so. He'd been fired from more jobs than he could remember because of her. The bitch was cruel. He'd been fired for being late. He'd been fired for leaving early. He'd been fired for not showing up at all. He'd been fired for being there on time but accomplishing nothing.
He had a special name for the bitch, too. The Taskmaster. When she wanted him to write, there was nothing for it but to obey. He had tried to fight her in the past, but he'd never won.
No, that wasn't quite true. For the two years he'd spent stumble drunk, he'd managed to avoid her. By forcing her deep down into the deepest recesses of his brain, where she couldn't get to him, the alcohol had been a shield; a prison. Unfortunately, it was as much a prison for him.
Again he had given in, and sobered up. And as punishment, she had been relentless for the next year. He'd been sober and clean and unable to do anything but write. After that they'd found a bit of equilibrium - if he let her have her way for a few hours, then she'd let him do what he needed. Except on occasion when she had something exceptional to communicate, like now.
He sighed again, and put fingers to keyboard.
Bravo!
Posted by G at May 26, 2012 10:58 AM