Lucid Waking

Archive for the ‘Fiction Prose’ Category

Bree MacGuinness

        Bree MacGuinness walked down her gravel driveway in high heels with a pile of books on her head just in time to catch her father’s truck park in front of their house. The books went crashing to the ground as she ran to greet him. He looked tired but he picked her up and spun her around in the air before setting her down to get a good look at her. His face got cloudy, but he smiled.
        “How’s my baby girl?” he asked.
        “Good, Papa,” she said.
        “Good,” he said and put his arm around her shoulder to lead her back to the house. When they came to her books she scooped them up hurriedly and held them against her chest.
        “How was work?”
        “Exhausting as usual,” he said sighing. “But I’m home now.”
        He opened the door for her and she walked into the living room where the smells of apple pie and fried chicken wafted through the house. Her father went straight to the kitchen where her mother was reading a book and waiting for dinner to finish cooking, but Bree went to her room and quickly kicked off her shoes. She leaned back in her bed and looked at all of the posters decorating her walls: Audrey Hepburn, Billie Holiday, Paloma Faith, Bernadette Peters, Michelle Pfeiffer, Rosy the Riveter. And she had a poster of Elvis after her mother let slip her concern for all the posters of women Bree had in her room and her grandmother dug it up from basement for Bree’s birthday. It was signed to her mother from the person who gave it to her, but Bree liked it all the same.
        She felt under her pillow for the letter from the Boston Theater Academy just to make sure it was still there. But before she could pull it out and read it again, she heard her mother call her from the kitchen and she bounded from her room to where dinner was waiting for her hungry stomach.

Author’s comments on post 362: Another character who lives in that yet undecided small town with Johnny. At another date you’ll find out more about her and her family, but for now, I hope you enjoy just the small introduction.

The Wanderers (4)

        All at once the room was flooded in light forcing Dorian to blink several times slowly until his eyes adjusted. When he finally could look up he was greeted by an artificial face, smiling slightly until it caught his attention.
        “Please, sit down,” the robot said extending its arm as a human might to the seat in front of its desk. Dorian could tell from the billboards lining the main street that it was a 3062 model—one that seemed to be built like a car: streamlined, attractive, practical, and expensive. It was a “working” robot, so the human-likeness didn’t matter; its chrome skin reflected some of the office light.
        The office itself was nothing to brag about; it was the size of a walk-in closet with a single desk and two chairs apart from the rolling desk chair. The leather covering on the chairs was ripped and mended with duct tape that tried to blend in. The walls were painted a drab tan and the furniture was scratched up; its one usual occupant was the newest looking object in the room. The name tag on the desk read “Executive 221” and in smaller letters underneath: “Robot Ambassador to U.S. Troops.”
        “Executive 2-2-1; is that you’re name?”
        “Name? Yes, I forgot that humans exchange names as a part of their bonding process. I am usually called Exec. What is your name?”
        Dorian smiled. “Dorian.”
        “I am sorry, Dorian, that you will have to sleep on the floor.”
        “That’s perfectly fine. It’s much better than sleeping in the hallway.”
        “I do not understand.”
        “Here, I won’t get caught.”
        Dorian sat down on the ground and tried to get comfortable.
        “By the way, Exec. Do you always sleep with the light on?”
        “The light is how I ensure that no one comes into my office. If the light is on, the security guard on rounds will assume I am working and leave me alone.”
        But Dorian barely caught the end of the explanation for after a long day of running, sleep was not going to let him escape.

Author’s comments on post 361: I’m probably going to stop here for a short while. I have the rest planned, but I am losing a bit of interest. Don’t be surprised if I adopt other stories to tell. I have one that will go unplanned (which we’ll see how long that lasts) with my friend, Johnny, and some other people in that town. A post for sure tomorrow and probably the next day as well. My apologies for yesterday, I got caught up in the Oscars.

Johnny Walker

        John slipped on his helmet and all at once felt invincible and incredibly bad ass. Completely in black he couldn’t decide whether he liked the ninja or Batman imagery better. But once he had saddled his bike and set off down the unpaved small town road that ran a couple miles from his house, he was completely engrossed in driving and any ego stroking was pushed aside. He loved riding his motorcycle down the country roads where nothing could stop him from focusing completely on the world around him. He loved nothing more than driving in the wind and feeling the speed. He loved every minute of it.
        He almost missed his stop, he was so engrossed in that ecstatic feeling. He had to turn around to drive his bike into the driveway of the general store. He stopped his bike and took off his helmet, self consciously ruffling his hair in case it had gotten flat. The gravel drive crunched under his feet as he walked toward the store.
        “Hello, Johnny,” Mr. Perry said from the counter. “What can I get ya?”
        “Hi Mr. Perry,” John said. “My mom needs a pound of potting soil, two pounds of flour and a half pound of sugar.”
        Mr. Perry smiled and went around his store getting the items. John rocked back and forth on his heels, surveying the merchandise that remained the same every time he ran an errand for his mother. As Mr. Perry returned, he pulled money out of his pocket and paid.
        Struggling just slightly with the weight of the groceries, but hiding it as best he could, he walked back to his beloved motorcycle, put the groceries in a crate tied to the back and then put on his helmet. The confidence—the cockiness—returned and he revved up the engine just to hear the noise before speeding off down the road. Mr. Mason smiled and shook his head as he watched John ride away.

Author’s comments on post 360: Just a small note to start out: I did a little research to find out whether Johnny Walker was a real person in case that was why the name was rolling off my tongue so naturally. I found out it was type of liquor. I did not know this fact previously, so I am not referencing the alcoholic beverage (FYI).

I really like this character who rides a motorcycle, but isn’t quite the "bad boy" image that we expect. I came up with him on my ride today but didn’t quite have a context. I’m pleased with this one and quite happy with the setting that this boy, Johnny of course, lives in.

In other news: I will continue The Wanderers, but I needed a small break. I will also post the story in its intirety as a seperate page so that it is easier to read the whole thing rather than finding all the parts to get the story. This will also free me from keeping The Wanderers posts in succession. This has become a very long note, so I will say au revoir and I’ll have more tomorrow.

The Wanderers (3)

        As he thought that last cynical thought, the doors to the elevator opened giving him no time to scramble out of the way of its light. He panicked and started before instinct made him freeze and stare at the figure exiting. The individual who stepped out was nothing but a silhouette as it walked straight out of the elevator. Dorian stayed still, but for all his praying to go unnoticed, the person looked at him right before the doors shut cutting of the light in the hall. Dorian could see two glowing blue lights where the eyes should have been facing him.
        “Hello,” a tenor voice echoed electronically. “What are you doing here?”
        Dorian started and then stood up. “Nothing.”
        The blue lights followed him as he stood. “Nothing? Yes, I can see that. Why are you here?”
        Dorian had no answer, but the individual he was speaking to did not seem to be in a hurry to move or respond. Nor did it seem to be accusing him of anything.
        “I was hoping to find a map around the city, but everything is now shut down.”
        “Why did you need a map?”
        “I wasn’t sure where to find a hotel.”
        “May I assume you need a place to stay?”
        Dorian looked at the figure skeptically. “Yes.”
        “Then perhaps I can help. Please follow me.”
        The blue eyes swiveled away from him and the soft pattering of feet seemed to continue away from him.
        “Wait,” Dorian yelled and then caught himself and said: “I’m sorry, I can’t see you.”
        “Of course. I am terribly sorry. I forget you humans do not have thermal identification cameras in your eyes. Just a moment.”
        Suddenly Dorian felt something cold grab his hand and continue to lead him forward. He relaxed slightly as the grip was neither very tight nor unwelcoming and he felt that it was not trying to lead him to any authority. At last they arrived at some sort of office and the electronic figure leading opened the door with a key and led him inside.

Author’s notes on post 359: After writing all day, I somehow managed to get a post out. Continuation of the story, which is slightly modified from the original. I’d like to think that this new character has more accurately written dialog from the original one but even if that’s not the case, I’d say, that so far, the story is going well. More tomorrow when I get a chance and get in town.

The Wanderers (2)

        Hundreds of names filled the black rectangular directory, which made scanning take more time than he had hoped. He could hear a clock somewhere beep a final warning before he found the name and ran towards the stairs. Taking two at a time, he bounded up to the sixth floor and ran to the door marked: Visitor Services. He lunged at the doorknob and tried to turn it, but the object wouldn’t budge. Frustrated, he tried turning it back and forth and put his weight against the door. Naturally, the door wouldn’t move and when he knocked a little too loudly, no one came to answer it.
        Dorian stepped back from the locked office and looked around him. Even where he stood he could hear the final alarm marking the city as completely shut down for the night. He started walking back down the hall to where the elevator waited, but thought better of it after remembering the guard in the lobby. He slumped down to the floor where and leaned back against the wall. The lights shut off and left the hall in darkness as he sat and weighed his options.
        Running away had seemed like such a good idea at the time, which, he supposed, was how most bad ideas started. Even though he was, technically, an escaped criminal who had now violated curfew laws, he felt no panic in getting caught or remorse as he shuddered at the memory of metal blue walls enclosing him and others within a monotonous routine. The sun lamps did nothing for his mood and neither did the extreme surveillance he was given for appearing “moody” and “disruptive.”
        He found out much too late, of course, that the real world was even worse: there was no sun or sky and for all that it seemed fantastic to have freedom, he didn’t have a job, food, shelter, or money and so he was bound to the life of a thief and sentenced to run for his life everywhere he went.

Author’s comments on post 358: So there were a lot of things I didn’t mention last time and now that I’m not in such a hurry, I feel like you should know. First, this story (especially now) might remind you of a certain other story that I had started. I decided to pick it up again, but this one will have completely different themes than what I had for the first version. I also would like to think it’s better written (after all, the first one was published in 2008). There’s more to my notes, but I think I will leave it right now where it’s at and let the story tell itself.

The Wanderers (1)

        The large clock on the street corner flashed and beeped a warning that curfew was quickly approaching, but not a single hotel stood out from all the other skyscrapers looming over the street. Dorian kept walking, pulling his coat closer to his exposed face to keep out the wind that was speeding between the buildings.
        The atmospheric dome was getting darker as he pressed on past closing shops and businesses. Windows snapped, doors banged, locks clicked as he made his way to the town hall in hopes that they could give him some direction.
        The town center was located exactly where the main street forked (though the street would re-encounter itself on the other side of the island and become one huge street again). Crossing it was difficult with all the retreating traffic, but he managed to run across and slip into the darkening doors of town hall.
        The interior held on to antiquated architecture despite the postmodern steel buildings around it. The security guard yawned and waved him hurriedly through the metal detectors. Breathing a quickened sigh of relief that they didn’t go off, Eli practically ran up the stairs to the main foyer where there was a large board outlining the offices in the building.

Author’s comments on post 357: This is the beginning of what I hope will be a riviting story. I don’t have the whole thing planned, but at small incremints, I think I will be ok until I have time to work it all out.

Runaway

        All she had were the clothes she was wearing and two dogs. Yet, she was happy. She left her fiancé’s mansion before dawn and had set out with his two greyhounds down the road that ran a few miles from the back of his property. The blizzard was actually a blessing; the wind hid her tracks and obscured her figure escaping via the side of the road.
        Although feeling free was a cliché, that was how she felt. There was a small fear driving her, but by noon she had realized he wasn’t going to follow her. She was hungry, but glad for some sort of primal motivation apart from the concentrated, benign lifestyle that she had been through. It was refreshing to live off of the actual land.
        Though her first night was yet to come, she felt good, cold, and satisfyingly achy. The dogs would help keep her warm and hopefully find some sort of food. She headed off the road and made her way to thicker fields. Nature as her protector, she didn’t mind the numb feeling in her feet and hands. She knew she wasn’t going to die and she continued. Where: she didn’t know.

Author’s comments on post 355: I wanted to write about something other than relationships, so you get this. Another tomorrow.

The Creature

        They found it in the middle of the woods one midnight that neither could sleep. Neither one knew each other before that night, but by necessity they became friends. She had been crying in her room and angrily snuck out the window; he had been fighting tears and took a walk to find a private place to cry. They ended up finding the exact same spot of the forest.
        It wasn’t chance, something had led them there. She was driven by the sound of a familiar voice and he had been driven by the sound of silence. They both saw light but it was only when they reached the clearing that the saw the creature.
        It looked like a small rock, but then it unfolded and became something between a dragon and a ki-rin. It turned its head and the glittering eyes on either side of its head happened to see them both at once. It thought that the two were its parents and tried to follow them both home. Confused when the two people bolted opposite ways it let out a heart-wrenching cry that brought both she and he back to the baby creature. The two met and arranged a plan for their newfound child, shook hands, and walked back to their respective houses.
        Leaves fell, snow drifted and melted, buds grew and blossomed and the cycle repeated for five years. They managed to keep it a secret until the creature got too big. Once it was the size of a pony and frustrated by keeping its wings too close to its body, they drove across the country to the desert. She was crying, but he held his resolve. The creature in the back was confused, but knew something was wrong.
        He stopped the car at the edge of a canyon. They wouldn’t be observed as they led the creature out of the car and let it flap its wings. Then once they were sure it had gotten the hang of that, they pushed it off the edge of the canyon.
        Angry squawking met their actions, but they both persevered, getting closer to each other than they had ever been in five years. Finally they won, the creature fell of the edge and by inherent survival instinct flew away.
        He started crying and she held his hand as she watched the creature keep flying away. Then they ran back to the car and drove back. After that, they never really saw each other again.

Author’s comments on post 354: I’m undecided about whether or not I like this one, but I’m going to publish it anyway. I’m not sure about the style and tone although I like the small details in character actions and growth, despite being matter-of-fact. Thoughts and critiques are appreciated. Hopefully another post tomorrow.

The Pseudo Gods

        Ours was a world of pseudo gods. No one knew how these people came about—or rather why they were born—but it seemed that any wish anyone had would be personified in these supernatural beings. They looked just like everyone else; including varying shades of skin color, personality, charisma, gender, and sexuality. It was the legends and rumors associated with them that made them unique. Every so often someone would claim to be one, but their charade wouldn’t hold up to the claim and the imitators stopped trying.
        First was the Key Master. She first appeared among black market rumors. The law enforcing officers hated her because criminals could run loose with merely a good word from someone in the know. Her appearance remained unknown because no one outside the criminal market would realize it was her, but she was infamous, none-the-less.
        Her claim to fame was in fashioning keys. She possessed two keys to every single lock in the world. Whether she had informers give her copies, she fashioned them herself, or both, it didn’t matter. For every lock, she held the key and maintained her monopoly by an intricate web of trust and intuition.
        Then came the Weather Maker. He was less human in his qualities, though more famous. A flamboyant figure, he never hid his ability to predict and control the weather. His visage was well known as he assumed he had nothing to hide and seemed to always let people know who he was and take advantage of it.
        Then following him, the Story Teller. For every tale there was to tell—fictitious or fact—the Storyteller knew it. Truth never eluded him and people would be frightened of everything he knew if he wasn’t so charismatic.
        Then came several others—real and pretend—before the trend died away. But the world had changed with these new beings walking among mortals and the potential for their powers were yet to be imagined.

Author’s comments on post 353: Hey something in the fantasy category! Seems like I’ve just been writing realistic fiction, so something new. I’ve had the Key Maker and Story Teller in my head of a while, but in seperate spheres and I thought "Why not combine them?" and the story just flowed out on its own. I’m quite pleased with the premise and I might add on to it at a later date (but no promises).

In other news: I go on break in 2 weeks and I’m hoping to plan and start writing a short story based on a science fiction piece I did a while ago. I have new plans for it and I hope that to publish sometime in March. If I don’t get around to it then, I’ll have it in May or June.

Reflections on a Girl

        Exactly a year ago, I had been sitting in my high school’s student commons when heard the news that a good friend of mine had passed away. She was seventeen years old and died from an ordinary flu. I was numb, although I didn’t know it. We had to perform—by obligation and personal necessity—at a vocal jazz festival in a city several hours south of us the next morning. I pushed away my tears to be stronger for the group, though I felt that I was the only one making a concerted effort to put forth as much positive energy to the audience. It’s hard to make an audience want to get up and dance when you’re noticing that hole in your heart and your midst.
        At the funeral, I cried. I didn’t want to cry as much as I did, but everything came tumbling out from places in my soul I didn’t know existed. Afterwards, I felt numb again. I don’t think this was all acceptance, a part of me still tears up when I think about all her opportunities lost. Occasionally I’ll find myself thinking existentially about life and death and whether or not I am doing justice in how I remember her.
        Today, I needed a moment of reflection. I cut a long piece of blue ribbon and set out for the gardens on campus. I reached the carillon and started down the hill behind it; I picked a tree that felt like the right one, and tied the ribbon around it. Then I slowly walked back to campus, in a roundabout fashion. My path took me down the canal in the back of campus and then up a set of stairs to where the academic buildings sat stoically. I watched the reflection in the canal and the sun between the trees. Part of me wished she could have the opportunity to enjoy her own experience in college—probably that same part that wondered whether or not I was doing enough to preserve the sanctity of her memory. As I watched the geese fly noisily from their perch on the water, past the bridge and into the sky, I resolved that it didn’t matter what I did as long as I was satisfied. She no longer cared and even if she did, would never know my thoughts. For however long that ribbon stays tied to the tree, I’ll be happy. Thinking back, I shouldn’t have tied it in a knot before the bow, so that the birds could easily untie it and use it in their nests, but letting go is really what this whole day is about.
        I don’t think we—myself and her other friends—could possibly forget what a beautiful, unique person she was, but I only let her guide me to do my best and to live each of my days up to my full potential instead of dwelling on the tragedy of her death. We never know what the future brings, but we can make the best of the present while we can. Even though I know she’ll never read this I have to say: Rest in peace, Marie. We all miss you.

Author’s comments on post 352: Obviously, self-explanatory since it is biographical. Originally I was going to write an ode, but I only got so far before I had to give up. This came out much more freely. I wish she could have gotten her wish of being an opera singer, but I suppose my bass and I will just have to do that for her. I have something more hopeful and interesting planned for tomorrow, but today, I had to get this off my chest.