Lucid Waking

Archive for the ‘Realistic Fiction’ Category

Another Work Day

        Three o’clock: the end of the shift. Marianne finished wiping down the counter and then wiped her brow. The heat had gotten to her a while ago. She undid her apron and placed it on the hook near the back door. She stepped out to the main dining area where some of her co-workers were ringing up orders and grilling food. The radio crackled with static, a few random beats piercing the white noise. Then there would be moments of clarity and rock and roll music before the radio would lose the signal again. The room was sparsely populated, but a crying toddler made up for the lack of noise from the other patrons.
        “See ya, Marie,” her fellow co-worker yelled from the grill behind the counter.
        “See y’all tomorrow,” she answered, waving.
        The parking lot was full of cars. Heat swam up from the pavement and the sun sparkled from windshields and iridescent paint. Without sunglasses, finding her car was slightly difficult, but she found it in no time and swiftly inserted the key into the lock. Heat rolled out of her car once she opened the door and she stood for a few moments with the door open in hopes that the car would cool. Not wanting to wait longer, she sat down and perched herself on the seat so that her bare skin did not touch the leather seats. After rolling down the windows and putting on the radio, she was out of the parking lot and on the street. Her car cooled down, she stopped sweating profusely, and her fatigue was almost gone as she sang out to the songs on the radio while she drove.
        She pulled into the driveway of the house that she co-rented with a large sigh. Her body ached and her eyelids sunk, but she managed to get herself into the house before collapsing onto the floor. Working with very little sleep was taking its toll and it was when she was alone that she felt the hopelessness of her situation. She heard one of her house mates exit the bathroom and she found enough strength to get up and go to her room to start working on her homework.

Author’s comments on post 382: Practice with description. This was based on a scene in great fast food place where I ate today. Nothing else to it.

Just to recap: Busy week; I’ll try to post. I’ve only got 23 more days left, but what a busy 23 days they will be! If you want to read "To Look for America" click here; the story will resume when I have new ideas.

To Look for America (7)

        “I don’t know; this just sounds like a bad idea.”
        “Please,” Bree said, calmly. “Just ask her. We’ll have fun no matter what happens.”
        John sighed and leaned his head back to look at the ceiling. “I’ll ask her when she gets home.”
        Bree smiled. “Good. Let’s work on some homework like we’re supposed to.”

        Dinner time quickly approached and John drove Bree back to her house. He was slightly peeved to find the house empty when he got back, expecting his mother to be home starting dinner, but welcomed dinner in his own home than the better-cooked, but awkward meal with the MacGuinnesses. The sky got dark outside and John turned the lights on. He got bored with his homework, but thanks to Bree had most of it done before he moved on to other things. He was in the middle of movie when he spotted lights in the driveway. He stopped the film and quickly put it away just in time for his father to walk into the house.
        “Where’s your mother?” he asked, a little too loudly. He wobbled towards the kitchen table and put down his construction tools.
        “At the hospital with Grandma,” John replied.
        His father grunted in reply. “You should probably get to bed, it’s late.”
        John got up and went to his bedroom. It was late if he caught his father coming home. He flipped on the light switch and surveyed his room with a sigh. Posters of airplanes, motorcycles, and movies stars plastered the walls and made the room look small. He flopped down on his bed, clothes and all and stared up at the pictures of spacecraft he had taped to the ceiling. He heard his father break a dish in the kitchen with a loud crash. John rolled over on his side and sighed again. He closed his eyes and listened, but he was asleep before he heard their family car enter the driveway.

Author’s comments on post 380: What a whirlwind of a week! I’be been working on writing when I can, but to say it’s been busy would be an understatement. I decided the Johnny should have a father, though an absent one. I didn’t want to get too stereotypical, either, so hopefully this is something of a new spin on a usual character. More on Wednesday.

To Look for America (6)

        But he could tell that she did. He straddled the bike like he always did to start, but the rush of adrenaline was ruined by a pair of arms tightly clutching his trunk. He tried turning on the engine and revving it to make him feel better, but he just felt embarrassed. Mechanically, he turned his bike around to return back to his house. A little ways down the road he felt that familiar adrenaline, but it was just a tinge rather than a rush. Bree held on tighter and he was forced to yell back at her not to hold on so hard. She apologized rather sheepishly and loosed her grip just a bit. Enough, at least, for John to take a deep breath. That feeling of home returned and he lost himself in the speed, the wind, and the open fields.
        He went passed his house once and had to turn around to go back. Bree genuinely did not seem displeased with this accident, but she was more relieved at having both feet on the ground than anything else once he had parked his bike back in the Walker’s garage. He escorted her into the house and asked, as he was taught to do, whether or not she wanted a drink.
        “No, thank you,” she replied. “Sorry if I held on too tight.”
        “It’s fine,” he said.
        Bree cleared her throat. “Anyway, I have a plan. I mentioned to my parents that I wanted to go on a trip this summer and they were quite enthusiastic. I also sent a letter back to the Miss America contest letting them know I was going to arrive. The big problem is, the contest is before school lets out, but I talked to Mrs. Anderson and she said that it was fine and I could still graduate—”
        “Wait a minute! Slow down! What about me? And where are we getting money for gas, food, hotels? What if my mom doesn’t let me go? And it doesn’t feel right that we should be allowed to miss school for this.”
        “Me, slow down?!” Bree chuckled. “Mrs. Anderson said that we could miss school on the condition that we come back with an essay finished about something we learned while in New York. She’s hoping we write about something you could find in a museum, I’m sure. Anyway, as for the money, my grandmother is willing to give me cash for the trip and my mother has insisted on giving me a credit card. So we’re set there. You just need to tell your mom.”

Author’s comments on post 378: Oh, planning. There’s always something that you forget to think of. I believe an order of business might be better for them to start in order to keep organized.

To Look for America (5)

        He loved his bike more than many things and he wouldn’t trade it for anything. He considered it a reliable friend that always seemed to know just what to do to cheer him up. John slipped on his helmet and all at once felt invincible and incredibly bad ass. He straddled the seat and slid his hands over the handlebars before gripping them tight. There was something about mounting a motorcycle that reminded him of a race and he always savored the anticipation before starting the engine. Once it roared, he waited just a little bit longer before speeding down the driveway and onto the gravel road.
        The beginning few minutes of his ride he still felt powerful, like he was famous, talented, and somebody else. But he quickly became 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 stopped out of necessity after pulling into the driveway at Bree’s house. All at once he was plain old Johnny Walker once the motor shut off. He awkwardly walked towards the front door and rang the bell. He waited as he heard the side door open and then for Bree to reach the front door. She smiled.
        “I’m going, Mom,” she yelled back into the house. “I’ll be back in time for dinner!”
        “Have fun and get your work done!” her mother responded just barely before the door was loudly shut. Bree walked down the steps of the front porch and made her way to the driveway. John nervously followed her. Finally she looked up and paused ever so slightly but continued walking.
        “My mom has the car,” he felt compelled to say.
        “That’s all right,” she said almost too cheerfully. “I’ve never ridden on one of these before.”
        “I brought an extra helmet,” he said awkwardly handing it to her. “And I’m a very safe driver.”
        Bree flashed a small half-smile. “I didn’t think you weren’t.”

Author’s comments on post 376: I took a little bit here and there from the original Johnny Walker post. Mostly, I think I did a pretty good job of keeping his character off the bike as this awkward teenager. I’m pleased with how this turned out

To Look for America (4)

        The phone rang in the Walker household and John breathed an exasperated sigh as his mother ran to answer it. He waited and listened while she talked for a few moments and then hung up, pausing to look at her hands before coming into the living room.
        “That was another call about your grandmother,” she said. “Your aunt says she’s not doing so well. Will you be ok while I run into town to see her at the hospital?”
        “Yeah, Mom.”
        “All right, sweetie. I’ll be back in time for dinner.” She walked over to him and kissed him on the head. Embarrassed, he moved away, but she was already past him and grabbing her coat from a hook on the wall beside the door.
        The door shut with a slight echoing boom and at once, John was aware how silent the house was. He shrugged it off and continued working trying not to notice the constant high buzz of electricity and growing boredom. The phone rang again and he stood up slowly to answer it.
        “Hello?”
        “Johnny? This is Bree.”
        “Oh, hi. What’s up?”
        “I was just wondering if I could talk to you about our trip. Is this a good time?”
        “Um, sure.”
        “I told my mom you’re coming to pick me up so we could do homework at your house. We can then go to Ol’ Man’s wishing well and talk there.”
        “Actually, my mom’s out of the house, so you can just come here. I’ll be right over.”
        He hung up the phone before remembering that the family car was with his mother en route towards the hospital. He slapped his forehead and reached for the phone but stopped and without second thought, gathered his keys and extra helmet, locked the house door and walked towards his motorcycle.

Author’s note on post 374: Continuation of the story. Nothing much more to say. I had debated a lot about Johnny’s father and the jury is still out about his presence in the story.

To Look For America (3)

        “Good morning, Johnny,” Bree said, smiling.
        “’Morning, Bree,” he answered. “You look cheerful this morning.”
        “Do I? Must be the light,” she said, looking up the at the expansive pre-dawn darkness.
        “Or lack of it,” John said, finally cracking a smile.
        “Hey, listen. I wanted to ask you something.”
        “Ok.”
        “So I got a letter a couple days ago about the Miss America contest out east. I was wondering if you could drive me.”
        “Wait, where is this?”
        “New York,” she said quieter.
        “That’s really far away. Why can’t your parents take you?”
        “They’re not letting me go. But before you lecture me, I just really want the chance to do something different. I don’t want to disobey them, but I don’t think this is really fair. It’s the first opportunity I’ve ever gotten to leave town and do something different.”
        John remained silent. He sighed and tried to look her square in the eyes to decline, but she was focused more on her feet and he could tell in the growing light of dawn that she was crying. Taken aback, he lost his firm resolve.
        “Don’t cry. It’s not that big of a deal.”
        “I don’t know about you,” Bree answered, “but I don’t want to stay here and be a farmer my whole life.”
        That struck a chord and John answered angrily, “Some of us don’t have a choice.”
        Bree swallowed back her tears. “Damn it, I’m sorry. I’m being ridiculous.”
        The two of them could hear a car coming from farther up the road towards them. Bree quickly brushed away her tears, sniffed a couple times, and adopted an air that suggested nothing was wrong. John watched with admiration as she compose herself quickly and smiled broadly as her good friend got out of the car and gave Bree a hug.
        “Hey, Bree,” he said drawing her from the conversation she was trying to keep light. “I’ll drive you. Just tell me when.”

Author’s comments on post 372: Introduction of a very important character. You met him before, and he seems to like his motorcycle. Apparently he has a car, as well. More of this on Sunday! Read the rest of the story here.

To Look for America (2)

        That night she couldn’t sleep. She held on to the letter under her pillow as she tried to block out her parent’s arguing from the kitchen. Bree knew it was about her; if they ever fought about anything it had to do with her. She rolled over to face the wall. They had argued about her almost regularly for the past few days ever since Bree had gotten the letter in the mail. She wanted to go; she wanted to be something; something besides a farmer, stay-at-home mom, or waitress. She wanted more than anything the opportunity to be unique.
        She heard her father storm passed her door. The house was silent for a while and then she heard her mother’s footsteps as she made her way to their bedroom. Bree heard her bedroom door open and she pretended to be asleep. Her mother made a small sigh and then closed to the door again and continued to her bedroom. A cold tear gently cascaded across Bree’s nose bridge. Trying not to cry, she shut her eyes tight and eventually went to sleep.

        The next morning went as predicted. Her mother woke her up slightly late so she had no time to do her hair or makeup before school. The conservative jeans, tee shirt, and running shoes were placed on the chair at the end of the bed for her to wear. She had just enough time to shower, eat, and get dressed before she was running out the door to catch the school bus that picked up the students a mile down the road.
        Even though she had woken up late, she arrived at the bus stop on time and stood with her hands in her pockets for someone to join her in waiting for the bus. She didn’t have to wait long; soon she was joined by another individual, looking just as disgruntled at the school morning as she. Luckily, it was precisely the person she was hoping to see. And even more luck still, it seemed like they were going to be alone for a while.

Author’s comments on post 370: I really like the story so far, if I do say so myself. Unfortunately, you’ll have to wait and see who joins her at the bus stop. I’m just evil like that. "The Wanderers" tomorrow.

To Look for America

This is a continuation of Bree MacGuinness, but I have included the first post along with the continuation because I have made a few small changes to the first post. Enjoy!

        Bree MacGuinness made her way down her gravel driveway in high heels with a pile of books on her head just in time to catch her father’s truck parking in front of their house. The books went crashing to the ground as she ran to greet him. He looked tired but he gave her a wide smile, 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 kept smiling.
        “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 form letter from the Miss America contest 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.
Her father was already sitting in the dining room with his head in his hands. He ran his large hands over his weary face before placing them in his lap. With the waning light, the creases in his face looked deeper and he looked older. His gray eyes were dull when he caught her gaze, even though he smiled.
        “How was school? Did you learn anything?”
        “Good. And I didn’t learn anything worth repeating. I have a history test tomorrow, though.”
        “About what?”
        “The industrial revolution.”
        Her mother walked in with dishes full of steaming hot food. Bree could tell her mother still carried her waitress instinct and skill that she had had when she was still working. Her mother remained young, and the only thing giving away her age were the very slight crow’s feet next to her eyes. She sat down on the opposite end of the table from her husband and smiled.
        “Well, dig in,” she said. “I made this special.”
        Bree chuckled and waited for her father to take his portion. But there was something wrong with the family dynamic this evening. Her father’s cares didn’t seem to have been left at the door and her mother seemed a little more stiff. She watched her parents carefully as she placed food on her plate. Afraid to ask what was wrong, she kept quiet and reserved as her mother nervously recounted her day.
        When her mother had finished and the tension had gotten too heavy, Bree found her courage and asked:
        “What’s wrong?”
        “What do you mean, love?” her mother asked.
        “There seems to be a huge elephant in the room and I feel really uncomfortable with something so big left unsaid.”
        Her mother and father exchanged a glance. He opened his mouth to say something but her mother was quicker to reply:
        “Nothing to worry about, dear. How was your day?”

Author’s comments on post 368: It’s probably foolish of me to start another story, but my mind keeps coming up blank when I think of intermediary posts and I have to have these or else I will get bored. So, we’ll see how far this goes. I have a hunch of what direction it will take, but you will be as surprised as I.

Going

        “Mommy, how far away is London?”
        “Far,” the woman answered, keeping her nose in the newspaper. The headlines described government corruption, war, terrorism, and poverty, but she was more interested in the horoscopes. She read all of them—her own twice.
        The little girl next to her was sitting so close to the glass that her nose almost touched it. She could feel the colder temperature outside the window as they sped past acres of countryside. The sun was starting to set, so the world was too dark to discern any distinct shapes, but she pretended that the unicorns and deer were gathering at the edge of the wood to see her off.
        “Why do we have to leave and live in the city?” she asked.
        “Because your father is a bad man.”
        “Why can’t we live in the country?”
        “Maggie, I want no more out of you. Sit down and be quiet. We’ll go to dinner in a couple of minutes.”
        Two minutes turned into ten, and then thirty before the woman dragged her daughter to the dining car and ordered the first thing she thought her daughter might like. She reprimanded her for picking at her food and then ignored her when she asked for a slice of pizza. The arts critics didn’t like the new play that her ex-boyfriend was in. She smiled.
        “Mommy, I’m hungry.”
        “Then eat your dinner.”
        She flipped past that to the sports, but was uninterested in the scores. She stood up and took her daughter back to their car and put her to bed. She left the newspaper on the table. Once her daughter was asleep she went back to the dining car and ordered a bourbon. Sipping it calmly, she watched the last light of the dying sun and thought about her decision to leave her husband. She repeated over and over to herself that it was a good one and that she was better off without him.

Author’s comments on post 366: Not sure what to say about this. I hope you get something out of it, and something a little more up beat tomorrow. Or rather the day after tomorrow because I’ll be publishing more of The Wanderers tomorrow.

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.