marius

318 words, all words included.


A Peculiar Field

The afternoon sun looked odd through the curtains which hung behind Mrs. Zorbinski. It made a purple glow. SHE was supposed to guide him? Her hair was plain and short, her face, forgettable. She seemed simple, and too peaceful.

He had taken a battery of tests and as she spread the results across her desk she said, “I can’t remember seeing anyone who rated this high in introversion! If you were a contestant in the National Introvert Contest, you would win. As you can see, the top two career suggestions are unacceptable.”

Dave was feeling irritated. “So you’re telling me there’s no fit?”

She smiled. “I’m not saying there isn’t something for you. Most of my references are run of the mill and I like to make people happy, find them a fit. But, you are a quixmickle. It’s as if you’ve come from beyond the stratosphere and frankly, I don’t understand how you got sent you to my department.”

Mrs. Zorbinski sat quietly a moment, shuffled the papers between them and seemed ready to return them to her files, but she didn’t. She pushed the papers to the side and looked Dave straight in the eye.

“Dave,” she sighed, “I put a call into Staff Sergeant HighTower and he would like to see you but before you go I’d like to give you a heads-up. You have been a near-constant on my mind since I reviewed your results. They are particularly unusual. The problem is, with the military, the minute they see your results that is the only answer their minds will entertain. I am not sure it is the best fit. We’ve had people do quite well with these recommendations, but it’s a peculiar field.”

Dave laughed. “Of course I’d test out for something peculiar. Are you going to tell me about it?”

She slid one paper across her desk and Dave saw the note:

Assassin.

marius

Recently a friend and I got to wondering how people end up with "unusual" jobs. The "career" in my story interests me because cannot imagine wanting such a job. Believe it or not, on an internet search there was actually someone who wrote in one of those 'ask a question' places ... "I want to be an assassin when I grow up. It is legal? How can I get a job like this?"

mrsjesus

I tried.

Sara looked out her bedroom window, marvelling at the quixmickle pattern of purple and gold now being splashed across the western sky and reaching into the stratosphere. A rare moment of quiet in an otherwise miserable day.

She fell back onto the over-stuffed mattress, rolled over, and flipped the power switch on the battery operated clock radio on the nightstand. Bobby McFerrin was emphatically telling her to "Don't Worry, Be Happy." Sara laughed. "Yeah right... enough of that," she said as she turned the radio off and walked to the living room.

John had moved out two weeks ago. Their constant arguments over simple things had led them both to withdraw from each other. She knew he had other women. He would come home drunk and walk directly to the shower. Sara had never searched his pockets or smelled his body afterward, but she knew.

The fights between them would turn violent at times. He slapped her so hard one night, that he dislocated her jaw. She drove herself to the hospital that night and told a very skeptical emergency room nurse that she had fallen while walking down the basement stairs to rotate the laundry. Her doctor never asked her a question. Just patched her up.

He'd made her feel like a contestant on some stupid reality show. All of them competing for his affection, which he expressed in varying degrees of passion and rage. John was a gentle but natural man, and when he wanted sex, he wanted sex, not love. But later, she would lie with her face against his chest and fall asleep.

It was when the reality of the world would rush in and overwhelm John that his blinding anger would consume him. An anger living and boiling within him. The child of his father's discipline. Sara knew he would come back, with the same cloud above his head.

mrsjesus

Morshy. 'Meditate' kinda adds a whole new meaning to the word. Either the man is the monk or vice versa. Man loses everything material then destroys himself? Very good.

mrsjesus

Midnight. What a beautiful description of total despair. I think I might go do myself in. LOL

Doug. There's nothing that can't be overcome. I'm glad we're becoming a closer-knit writing forum under your watch. Maybe I'm just being a bitch because I won't be TBearer for a while. I think we should all do that.

giraffe

posted on the wrong screen name again. Sorry

giraffe

Marius. That was a puzzle from beginning to end. A test of comprehension skills. It's cool to write that way. I'll give myself a Bminus on it.

Mrsjesus. Thanks for showing that you can follow the rules.

marius

giraffe, it was a puzzle to me too. Glad you got a B- ; )

Yay Morshy! "Quixmickle Effect" ... the tone, flow ... reminded me of a 'dream in a dream' I had. It was, like your description, most unnerving. Enjoyed this. Also liked "Meditate" and the monk showing up everywhere and your ending.

midnightpoet ... "no title" ... Love how you created the feeling of a 'lost soul' and also that soul giving up. What happens in the story next, in my mind, is that he does not use the ax. Don't say that because I want a less-scary ending. Say that because quick endings for internal suffering do not seem to happen much and for some reason, it felt that the main character was going to have to deal with her stuff. idk : )

Doug, great to see you back. And as far as I know, don't think you have anything but friends here on TW. Thanks for catching us up on your moving and new home adventures.

giraffe

Just to make sure - I'm not pulling a switcheroo. Mrsjesus is my roommate and his stories are his own. I just forget to switch logins to comment sometimes.

giraffe

No word count but just having fun.

SOME FUNNY QUIXMICKLE (that may or may not be offensive)

"Purple Haze is in my brain. 'Scuse me while I kiss the sky. (stratosphere, stratosphere)

Boom. We're standing backstage while the greatest guitar player on Earth is blowing up his amplifier. The crowd went wild.

"Jimmi, let's get out of here before you destroy yourself too. There's plenty of 'stuff ' in the limo."

Janis was in the car. "Hey, Jimmi ! Have another little piece of my heart now, Baby."

"Hey, Jan. You look pretty trashed."

"What do you think you look like? Ronald Reagan?"

"Shut up, Janis. We're not doing this anymore. Gimme some peace and quiet."

I slid in and sat opposite them. They are so cute together. I couldn't think of anything appropiate to say, so I tried to overtake their normal bitch fight.

"Jimmi ! We cleared 40 thousand tonight! You get half of that."

"I simply don't care. Take us over to Morrison's place and shut up."

Janis said "Jimmi, you're almost as famous as me and Morrison. Summertime and the livin' is easy."

It was a constant feud between those two. If the battery dies between here and Morrison's I might just lose it.

Contestant.

marius

mrsjesus, how did I miss "I tried." Well, no title actually. Congrats on word list use! Thought this story gave the feel of those complex abusive relationships. I like it. That being said, not sure if you said you want this next kind of comment so if you don't, tell me and I won't comment like this anymore ... but there was one sentence that confused me: "John was a gentle but natural man, and when he wanted sex, he wanted sex, not love."

Not sure what you are saying. That John seemed 'okay' when he wasn't overwhelmed and ruled by angers? That John was 'natural about sex' and it had nothing to do with love? Sometimes after I write something, maybe a long time after, I'll find the odd sentence or paragraph and wish someone would have pointed it out. Hard to see my own stuff. Maybe the filters of my own experiences are making me see that sentence oddly: I have a relative who is rather like the fellow in your story and might say of him, "John, had gentleness deep within, but he didn't live by it. He lived by basic drives; when he wanted sex, he wanted sex, no love." Anyway, still like the story. : )

giraffe: lol. Makes me recall when older sister came home from college and wanted me to listen to Janis. I did and said, "She has a horrible, scratchy voice. Is there something wrong with your ears? Don't you hear it?" Haha, love Janis now. ; )

Doug

marius: I was infatuated with mrsjesus's story and now that you made the comment about the "gentle/natural" sentence I can see what you're talking about. It does stick out a bit from the rest of the rythm of the story. Overall though, I thought it was very good! A lot of pictures painted in the "lines" and a good story line. mrsjesus: A very good effort using the "given" words. Thanks! Your other stories are always welcome and very impressive.

Doug

I"m not even very sure what the date is, but I think this round of ThinkWrite has gone on long enough. Today will be the last day for submissions considered for being the next torchbearer. Anyone have any last quixmickles to shine upon us, please do so today. Thanks.

Qsilv

..working on it... give me the few hours, if you can, please. I do like the list.

I too had been jarred by the essentially gentle guy who could fly into a rage, tho' I have to admit I know a couple of people like that. The sentence itself could be helped without changing the word count by transposing the and/but...

John was a gentle but natural man, and when he wanted sex, he wanted sex, not love
John was a gentle and natural man, but when he wanted sex, he wanted sex, not love

An even more essential shift, still no word-count change --
John was usually a gentle, natural man, but when he wanted sex, he wanted sex, not love

...amazing the power we can pack into one or two words, or their positions, like stray notes in music... or a single splotch of color in a painting!

midnightpoet

318, no title, exactly. Just ch. 2 of the story of Susie. I may be in with a ch. 3 before this closes, too. Susie wants her story told.

*

Her blurred vision cleared. It wasn't him. It was a man with an ax, but not him, not even looking at her.

He was facing away from her, between her and the house across the alley. The flashes in her vision weren't alcohol-induced this time, there seemed to something bright flickering in windows.

He was slamming the ax over and over again against a boarded up door; splinters were flying everywhere from the constant battery.

The flickering light hurt her eyes. She needed to lie down. She found the blankets spread out on the floor, her excuse for a bed, and lay down.

Her head throbbed, and she couldn't distinguish between that and the pounding of the ax next door. And a new pounding. What was that?

She felt a rush of air as her door flew open, and a man walked into her home.

“G'way.” She muttered, halfheartedly. This was her house. Shitty as this hell hole was, what right did this man have to come barge in.

“Ma'am, the house next door is on fire. This building will catch soon. You must come with me.”

“G'way, ya quixmickled butter neeper. Iduntno you.” She felt like she was sobering up. She hadn't felt that in so long. She didn't like it. Where was her drug induced peace?

“Ma'am, you must evacuate the building now.”

“M'stuf...itzzall I have...m'home...izzmine.”

“Ma'am, better to have your life than your stuff. Can you walk out or do I need to carry you?”

“G'way. G'ta th' fingish stratosphere. G'way!” Her voice had no strength as she tried to yell. Simple sentences slurred. She made shooing motions with her hands to try to convey what she was saying.

Strong arms picked her up...she must have been lighter than air.

“G'way.”

The world was turning purple, moving around her.

“Ma'am, what's your name?”

“Iwuzza contestant...Jeopardy...”

*

midnightpoet

And here's ch. 3. It's 318...and I think this is the end of Susie's story, but I'm not sure yet...

*

James had been a firefighter since he left high school. He'd seen it all. People who had lost everything they owned. People who had lost their lives. People who had lost their families.

So many people were hesitant to leave their houses and their stuff if it was only the building next door on fire.

Here he was again, carrying a woman out of her house, but he didn't understand why she didn't want to leave. She didn't appear to have anything. Her apartment was simple to say the least. It's appearance was somewhere between neglected and disgusting. The stench in the air was so thick, it could have carried to the stratosphere and polluted the earth.

She had been curled up in a pile of blankets that were a uniform shade of smoke-stained yellow-brown, worn to threads. She seemed a victim of assault and battery, not from someone else, but from herself.

He physical appearance was worse than the state of her apartment. If she were a contestant in the Miss Druggie pageant, she would have won hands down.

She was nothing but skin and bones, he could count all her ribs through her over-sized, torn, dirty shirt. Her skin was almost transparent and covered in purple splotches. Her hair was matted, greasy, and stringy, and he had no idea what color it may have been. Her eyes were sunken, but when she looked at him, her gaze was that of two emeralds shining out of her face.

She muttered at him for a while, even after leaving her crappy apartment. He thought he heard the word quixmickle, but he had no idea what she was trying to say. The constant mumbling faded shortly after he got her in the truck, and she sat there, staring, quiet, and trembling.

Her building had caught fire now, and she gave a quiet sigh...it sounded like she'd somehow found peace.

*

midnightpoet

Susie's story was done after the first chapter. She was going to be brutally murdered with an ax...until Marius' comment...got me thinking...and I decided that Susie deserved better, now I'm rooting for her to make it, but I still don't know how it really ends.

mrsjesus

Thanks for the positive feedback. In my past experiences, men tend to make love with their bodies more than their hearts. That's what I was trying to convey.

Qsilv

Important note: this story is NOT original to me… it’s around on the ‘net; if you get email, odds are you’ve either already seen the original or will soon.

But for me this actually was an exercise in anotherronism’s “Joy of Editing”
…how could I (in fact, um, COULD I?)… incorporate the 10 words and specified word count of a T-W list into any ol’ jay-random story that arbitrarily landed on my desk.

For the record, this one started out at almost 500 words, just under 400 of which were the real story, the rest being devoted to the usual shtick of telling me how much I’d enjoy it and what would befall me if I didn’t pass it on.

I’d said to myself I’d use the first halfway decent junque-mail that came through my master email account, maybe even (thinking wickedly of certain members of our troupe here) an indecent one.
I got lucky… (smiles) it’s actually a schmaltzy charmer.



Lucky

Whenever company came for a visit, Mary and Jim warned them not to leave their luggage open. Inevitably, someone forgot and… things simply disappeared, seemingly upward into the stratosphere.

However, downward they’d troop, to the basement, where all lost items reappeared… in the dog’s toy-box! That quixmickle canine helped himself to whatever struck his fancy, but he always stashed his treasures in his box (and he was very particular that they stay there).

Out of the blue, or purple haze, or wherever such things come from, Mary developed breast cancer. A battery of tests left no doubt on that, and very little hope. She understood she wasn’t likely to be the contestant who wins the prize -- survival. Cuddling with her dog, a constant nagging worry made her even sadder … what would happen to Lucky? Although the three-year-old pooch liked Jim, he was Mary's dog through and through. If I die, Lucky will feel abandoned, Mary thought. He won't understand I didn't want to leave him... that he's loved!

Surgery was even harder than anticipated; she was hospitalized for over two weeks. Jim faithfully fed and took Lucky for walks, but the dog just drooped, miserable.

The day Mary finally did arrive home, she was so exhausted she couldn't even make it up the steps to her bedroom. Jim made her comfortable on the couch and left her to nap.

But Lucky didn't come to her call, just stood watching her. Between drugs and the peacefulness of being home, her concern at that dimmed… and she dozed.

When Mary awoke, she could barely move; her body felt heavy, hot. But panic gave way to laughter… she was covered, literally blanketed, with every treasure Lucky owned! While she’d slept, the once sorrowing, now rejoicing dog had quietly made trip after trip to the basement, bringing up all his favorite things in life.

He’d covered her with his love.



(Epilogue: According to the story, twelve years on, she’s still cancer free… and takes Lucky on his walks.)

giraffe

Free form commentary.

FOR LAURA AND CARLOS (Lucid dreaming)

Imagine this. When you're awake, you can remember some of your dreams. That's a given. Can you do it the other way around? Can you remember in your dream that you live in 3D reality?

Castaneda gave us a challenge in 'Journey to Ixtlan'. He dares you to remember to look at your hands while you are dreaming. Once you do that you can go astral and select your next destination.

You can choose to visit an ancestor or a rock star. It's a matter of remembering to look at your hands in your dream. It's up to you.

I only managed to do it once. In my dream, I was riding a bicycle with my sister and we stopped. I remembered to look at my hands and everything went haywire.

It's a cool challenge and since so many stories are about lost or gained dreams, this might effect some.