The sun reached between the large houses lining the street and cast their faces in shadow. Elizabeth watched it rise and lighten the sky with every passing minute. Finally, a figure exited out of the house in front of her and ran across the street to where she was waiting. Once the figure was closer, Elizabeth confirmed that it was her friend, Anna, impeccably dressed with sopping wet hair.
“I’m sorry,” the newcomer said breathlessly, “it’s hard to wake up at a particular time without using an alarm clock.”
“Let’s go,” was the reply Elizabeth gave and then led Anna down the perpendicular street to where her car was parked.
“I don’t like all this secrecy,” Anna said once inside the vehicle. “I think we should just let people know.”
“You know as well as I do that your parents will flip when you tell them you’re gay.”
“Or maybe I think they will because I’m afraid they will and they won’t. This is getting harder and harder to keep from them and if my mom wakes up early and I’m not there, I’m screwed.”
“We’ll be fast. I just want to show you something.”
“Provided we don’t get a speeding ticket first.”
Finally, they reached the beach where Elizabeth first met Anna. The colors of the sunrise were greatly faded and just barely in the sky, but the reflection of the morning sun on the gentle waves was beautiful enough to make up for it.
“Happy anniversary,” Elizabeth said.
“You, too,” Anna said, smiling, “Now take me back home before my parents wake up.”
Author’s comments on post 350: Something very different from me today. I thought I’d venture out of my box for once. Hopefully something tomorrow.
Justice no longer has a blindfold and even scale. Her sword is blood stained and her eyes can see and the scale she holds are even just to maintain the illusion that she’s fair, although she’s anything but. I know it’s a very angry, but poetic interpretation of our beloved symbol, but I have had a lot of time to work out my opinion on the subject. I used to be a lawyer, now I work a nine-to-five in a generic office. I haven’t had the urge to go back, not since that trial.
I was already very vested in the case. My sister was on trial for something she didn’t commit; fingerprint evidence was non existent and every clue was placed so precisely that it was obviously placed to frame her. A less corporeal feeling that my sweet, altruistic, endearing little sister could not possibly have killed three people was perhaps clouding my judgment, but I considered that evidence even though it was almost impossible to use in court (though if Atticus could do it in To Kill a Mocking Bird then I could as well). Yet, the jury could not be swayed and she was sentenced to lethal injection.
Months after her death the killings started again; it was deemed work of a serial killer and the hunt started again. They might have found the criminal, but you never know these days. I received an official apology in the mail, but it’s just an empty gesture to replace something they can never give back.
I knew the judicial system was flawed when I entered law school, yet I could never figure out how corrupt and judgmental it was until that point. I couldn’t keep working for it because every man and woman I saw was innocent and wrongly accused even when the facts lined up. Logic no longer drove my arguments and most importantly, I had no desire to continue practicing law.
What can you do when dreams are shattered? I hold my pride and stay away from the subject. It’s not that I prefer anarchy or to have no system at all for such things, but I feel that in the scheme of the future, Justice is just a pretty face among a row of partners who destroy her.
Author’s comments on post 349: I don’t remember where this came from; I have a vague impression that this might have stemmed from a conversation about Dexter, but I’m not certain. Regardless, here it is.
“Who is she?” the little boy asked Daniel pointing to a framed photograph on the wall.
Daniel turned from the canvas he was painting and followed the boy’s finger before quickly answering. “No one. She’s nobody.”
Daniel knew that wouldn’t keep the boy’s curiosity for long, but for the moment the boy was surprisingly quiet. A moment passed before he said:
“Does she have something to do with the lady who left me here?”
“I don’t know,” Daniel said. “And I mean it. Stop pestering me with questions of that social worker who brought you here.”
There was another pause and then the boy said:
“You’re lying. That lady isn’t nobody. Who is she?”
Daniel sighed. “My late wife.”
“Late?”
“She died.”
“Oh.” Silence and then, “she was very pretty. What was her name?”
“Margaret.”
“How’d she die?”
“In a plane accident. She was a pilot in the war and her plane was shot down.”
The boy didn’t answer. Daniel continued painting in silence carefully outlining the figure in front of him with a thin line of light. He didn’t want to be thinking about Margaret, but now his mind would go nowhere else. She was such a strong individual it put him to shame, but yet, she was tender when she wanted to be and it was when she wasn’t thinking about work that he loved her the most. When she died, he felt more empty than anything until the funeral and occasionally it would hit him how fragile life was and how much he missed her. The days always passed more slowly when such moods took over.
Then there was the matter of the boy. A woman had knocked on his door several months ago and introduced herself as a social worker and claimed that this boy was his nephew, now orphaned with no other kin. But Daniel didn’t have siblings and he found it unlikely that Margaret’s entire family would be gone that he had to take care of the child. It was a peculiar situation and after a quick DNA test, he surmised that he was in no way related to the boy by blood. Yet, he didn’t want to turn the child out on the street, so he thought the boy could stay regardless of the unusual clarity of questioning the boy seemed to have for his age of seven and the even more unusual understanding he seemed to have of situations that Daniel even considered out of his grasp.
The stool the boy was sitting on creaked as he fidgeted. Daniel knew that was his cue to clean up his paints. He glanced at the little figure that waited patiently for him to finish. Once cleaned up, he lead the boy upstairs and fed him lunch. Daniel sat down across from him and watched quietly contemplating.
Author’s comments on post 348: I’ve been very busy these last few days and been doing my best to write every day. This doesn’t mean I necessarily get a chance to edit what I’ve written and publish it within a timely manner. Bare with me and trust that I am writing and I will post more than three posts this month.
She checked her watch. If dancing and the necessity of quick costume changes had taught her anything, it was changing clothes fast. She was particularly pleased with the thirty seconds it took her to change into an almost entirely new person.
She walked out the stage door and then took her time to saunter to her car. After doing an entire show, her feet hurt to walk in heels, but the image had to stand before her comfort. Once she was in the safety of her car, she pulled out a scrap of paper from the glove compartment and memorized the address. Then, she rolled it up into a ball and flicked it to the floor of the passenger’s side before turning up the radio and pulling into traffic.
She loved Chicago traffic; it was much more natural than New York’s. She arrived at her destination in no time (fifteen minutes ahead of schedule) and remained in the car applying a more natural amount of make-up until a man in a dark suit walked past her car and through the gate of the apartment building in front of her. She got out and walked up to him.
“Mr. Tillens?” she said sweetly.
He turned around quickly. “Yes?”
“Hi, I’m Elizabeth Kennedy,” she lied, extending her hand, “we spoke on the phone?”
“Oh yes,” he answered nervously. “I guess you can just follow me.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t buzz your apartment but I arrived early.”
“That’s all right.”
He led her up a few flights of stairs, into his hallway and then to the kitchen where they both sat down across from each other.
“Well, Mr. Tillens—”
“Mark is fine.”
“Mark, I called following up a business proposition you received. You see,” she said pulling out a gun from her purse. “your blackmailer was getting impatient with the rate at which you paid your bills and I’m afraid that you had your last warning.”
She shot the gun and with the silencer managed to make just enough noise to imitate something falling to the floor. She went through the cupboards until she found the pots and pans and moved them around noisily as if someone was pulling them out to cook. Then she found her way to the door and let herself out to where her car was waiting on the street.
It wasn’t glamorous work, but it paid the bills and it would certainly still support her when she was washed out from dancing. It always helped to have an insurance plan.
Author’s comments on post 347: I have such a busy week that I wrote this late last night and just got time to publish it now. I’m hoping to get in ten minutes before I go to sleep tonight and publish that tomorrow. A bientot!
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the king’s horses and all the king’s men
Needed tape to put him back together again.
And when they did, the doctors of the land
Were sent to give Humpty’s health a hand.
And when Humpty was as good as new once more
Humpty always made sure to sit on the floor.
So what’s the lesson you should take?
Always learn from your mistake.
Author’s comments on post 346: Er, well…this is something silly that I came up with after trying to do something respectable. Think of it what you will, and I’ll be back tomorrow with hopefully something worth while.
“Hey look,” she said walking into the dining room with the carton of milk, “I didn’t think they put ‘missing persons’ on these things any more.” She shoved the carton in front of his face forcing him to look up from the paper work he was doing to read the container.
He glanced at a very fuzzy picture of a young girl and next to it her name (Pauline Winters) how old she was when she was lost (16) and when she was last seen (December 16, 2005). He pushed the milk carton back her way and said angrily:
“I thought she died.”
“I thought so too,” she answered. “Apparently someone managed to identify the body. DNA testing and all that they have now-a-days.”
“You told me you were careful.”
“Josh…I was careful. Besides, it’s been four years, how much digging to you think the police will do?”
“But what if they find out?”
After she put the milk back in the fridge, she walked up behind him and started massaging his shoulders. “They won’t find out.” She leaned down and kissed him on the neck, but he didn’t respond.
“Don’t be such a worry-wort,” she said and plopped down on the couch to watch television.
“Pauline,” he said, exasperated.
“What? You think I’ll just let some random person get a DNA sample from me? Besides they have to ask first.”
“And if they do? What’s your excuse going to be to deny them?”
She shrugged. “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. Wasn’t my quick thinking the reason why I was asked to join the team?”
He involuntarily smiled and shook his head. “Don’t get too cocky, kid.”
She laughed. “All right, oh wise and wonderful mentor. I’ll be careful.”
Author’s Comments on post 345: Sorry about not having a post yesterday. I was very busy and stressed and my ten minutes didn’t produce anything I wanted to show. But I’m making up for it now. Enjoy!
She sat down on the bench at the outdoor train station platform and pulled her suitcases closer to her legs. The day was dreary and cold, but she preferred to sit out with the elements than huddle in the underground station. The cold air cleared her head and gave her time alone to think.
She had walked out of the apartment earlier that morning and left a note on her pillow beside him in bed. She had slammed the door as much as she could, but she didn’t hear him stir when she put her ear to the door, nor did she hear any noise from the apartment as she slowly descended the stairs and started walking to the train station.
She felt in her pocket for her cell phone and held it in her gloved hands, gently rolling it between her hands absentmindedly as she stared at the sign across the tracks that said “Danger: Voltage.” A few other people started to join her on the platform, but didn’t look at her. She put her cell phone back in her pocket.
Eventually the train rolled in to the station and she picked up her suitcases and walked on to the train. She thought she heard someone call her name and she stopped and looked towards the staircase to the station, hoping. But after a seemingly long moment, she rushed into the train right before the doors shut behind her. She prepared herself for the subway ride to the cross-continental train station and then ride that would suffice as her home for the next two days.
She pulled her cell phone out again and clutched it in her hands that rested in her lap. She watched the gray scenery fly by, mostly just to avoid staring or catching anyone’s eye. And she waited for him to call; she hoped he would.
But he never did.
Author’s Note on Post 344: I want it known that I do not think all men are jerks, even though the character in this piece is. I think there is equal opportunity in jerk-hood for all. Please do not read this as a feminist piece, but as a human nature piece. And sorry for this being sad; I have a tendency to do that…
Well, that’s that. Thanks to http://shortstoryideas.herb.me.uk/scenarios.htm for the idea. Another special tomorrow!
Why can’t we be like yesterday?
Full of modesty and grace.
A gentleman would hold the door
and bad language was disgrace.
All the cultured could dance and sing;
The arts had high regard.
Courting didn’t seem a sport;
Women cared if their virtue was marred.
I’m sure the world has improved:
the legal rights for our peers,
but I just want to regain a little class
That we’ve lost over the years.
Author’s notes on post 343: After reading a biography on John Keats, I thought "wouldn’t it be lovely if things were really as easy as biographies make them out to be?" and then I thought about the (arguably) good ol’ days. This is the product: something different. See y’all tomorrow and thanks for the feedback about this project so far!
The clock struck one. He rubbed his eyes and forced them to focus on the book he was trying to read. His eyes watered and blurred. It was no use, but he kept fighting his natural urge to crawl straight into bed. Suddenly his cell phone rang and he instinctively turned towards his roommate’s bed, even though he knew his roommate was a deep sleeper. Like he was hiding a confidential phone call from the police, he ran out his door and ducked into the hall.
“Hello?”
“Shouldn’t you be asleep?”
“Who is this?”
“Listen, I’m just calling to make sure you’re going to be there.”
“Be where?”
The caller laughed. “Oh, very good. Well, I’ll assume that means yes. But just in case: three o’clock at the carillon.”
“What? Who is this?”
There was a click from the other line and then silence. What the hell? he thought, looking at his telephone as if it was an alien object. The hallway was quiet and still, but now eerily so. He knew it was wrong to follow the phone call, but something very strong was trying to convince him otherwise. At first it was a tugging feeling as if someone was trying to lead him somewhere from his insides out. Then it was this excited energy; maybe that was because of danger or exploration or curiosity, but he couldn’t tell.
Then, he yawned. It wasn’t a very decisive or dramatic action, but the excitement left him anticlimactically and he decided to go to sleep and leave any strange dangers waiting at the carillon alone.
Author’s Note on post 342: Another ten-minute story. Don’t know what else to say about it. Thanks to Short Story Ideas for inspiration.
So this was it. This was what society twenty years ago had called “The Future.” Darren sighed and waited for Marianne Leblanc, a historian who specialized in repetitive events and who had a particular curiosity with Homo sapiens landing on Mars.
He didn’t have long to wait; the space shuttle pulled into the station precisely on time and a short, well endowed woman wearing a military uniform stepped out of the vehicle first before a long line of scientists and military personnel. She walked with a purpose and had already extended her hand towards Darren before she was even close to coming within contact distance.
“Mary White,” she said, “I prefer to go by the simpler name.”
“Darren Snyder,” he said.
“Well, Darren. What have you got for me?”
“Really nothing. HQ wanted me to see you to your hotel, but they didn’t give me any orders. You’re already aware, I presume, that nothing natural was found on Mars.”
“Ah, but that disease—”
“Just something they came up with to scare civilians.”
“Sure it was,” Mary said, smiling. “Let’s pretend I play along, why would they want to spread a story like that? I should think that getting people to flock here would be their goal; you know, to stop over population.”
“Ms. White—”
“Mary is fine.”
“Mary, over population is already a huge problem that won’t be solved if we open the doors to Mars now rather than later. And really, it’s not my place to tell you any rumors I might have heard. Whatever reasons HQ asked you here, they are keeping to themselves.”
“All right, Mr. Snyder. If you insist. But I still think you’re hiding something.”
“Think whatever you want.”
He led her in a gentlemanly fashion to the shuttle outside serving as a taxi. After noting quickly how authentic the blue atmosphere shield looked, she slipped into the vehicle, which sped towards the central station where everything was being prepared for opening day. Little did she know the information HQ had in store for her; Darren wouldn’t be surprised if this little opening of the planet would be delayed for quite a while while they figured out what to do about the bacteria-sized Martians that were already inhabiting the planet.
Author’s Note on post 341: This trend in naming my posts after songs is not on purpose; the title comes to me after the work is finished. But they work so well. Anway, this came to me after I finished 2001: A Space Odyssey which might be why, if you’ve read the book, you might be able to see similarities. I hope to be getting better at this 10-minute story thing.
