Showing posts with label Short Stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Short Stories. Show all posts

October 23, 2012

"Junkyard Sprites" (Formerly "Junkyard Guardians")


What wonders can we find if we just stop and look a little closer to even the most unsuspecting of places? What happens when we let obsession blind us?
There they were. They’re so small, probably 4 inches tall. Little humanoid bodies, like dainty metal dolls. They each had a glow of a different color about them. Like pulsing LEDs getting brighter and dimmer. Yet, through the light, I could see their bodies were a dull gray. Every so often little puffs of steam would shoot out of one or another. 
In the faint dusk light, I could barely make out their shimmering, insect-like wings. When the bustle of the city ebbed, I thought I could hear what sounded like the whir of servos coming off them. 
Their movement was so graceful, yet so mechanical. Like a choreographed dance of industrial robots. So smooth, so exact. Yet they moved with the breeze, so carefree. They were nimble and precise as they picked up pieces of metal or electronic junk, sorting and discarding pieces with some sort of mysterious intent. Puzzling and entrancing all at once, their strange behavior was. 
In the air there was the smell of old motor oil and wet dirt. A junkyard is never a pretty sight, let alone after a rain, but that’s when they come out. I didn’t know what they were, but they were the closest things to fairies I’ve ever seen. 
As the sunlight faded, their distinct colors stood out more: blue, orange, red, violet and a dozen or so more. Each had a distinct personality. The one that caught my eye more and more each visit was the turquoise one. She was always the first, always the last. She seemed more curious, more courageous than the others. I don’t know why exactly, but she became my favorite. 
As the sun finally set, the orange street lights came on. That’s when they left. They dashed off towards the East where its dark and hard to follow. They lived deep in the heart of the junkyard, amongst the exposed graves of steel carcasses, all dull gray and red, rusted from the elements. At least, as far as I could tell, that’s where they must have lived. 
I had only been living here for a few weeks, but I saw them out there every night I walked past the dump, and I was just fascinated. There hadn’t been a day that went by when I hadn’t thought about them: the glint of their metallic bodies, the whine of their mechanisms. At the same time they were magical and alien and yet very much of this Earth, of this dirty city. 
Even the rain, as much as it poured, couldn’t clean the filth off this city, and the dump was a testament to that. Yet, that was what the fairies called their home. I often wondered how they ended up living there. 
Where did they come from? I knew they weren’t simply someone’s creation. They were too mystical. It was almost as if they were born of the junkyard, like the fairies and sprites of old forests. 
Once again, I found myself crossing the bridge that went over and around the the junkyard. My pace was fast. Cars sped past me. They were all filled with sad people mindlessly stuck in their ruts, going from boring jobs to boring homes. Not me. That magic, that moment was all mine. The sunlight shone through the chain link fence. I knew I didn’t have long. 
I was practically running when I got to the spot. I was giddy and anxious. This time was going to be special. I just knew it. 
I stopped and caught my breath, then I crouched. I could never tell if they were able to see me, but I wanted to be careful. I didn’t want to scare them and risk never seeing them again. I loved those fairies. 
Then I saw her. First, as always, she was cautious at first, staying low and hopping from one perch to another. Then the next came out. Soon, one by one, there were a dozen or so fluttering about with their graceful precision. Each of their individual iridescence darted and danced. It was a beautiful show. 
I sat, mesmerized, as usual for minutes. Then, I didn’t know what came over me, but I had to get closer, closer to her. I found the opening in the fence and silently made my way towards them. I was careful not to make a sound. 
The sun was approaching the horizon. The lights would come on soon. I didn’t know what I wanted to to then, nor do I know now. I just had to get close. 
I was almost at arms length from the turquoise one, and had managed not to be noticed. Up close, her glow was very bright. I found cover behind a rusted street sign. I peaked over the top resting both my hand on either side of my face. The only part of me visible was the top of my head, from my eyes up.
She was so close, I could feel on my face, the puffs of steam she gave off. Then something amazing happened. She saw me. I know she did. I know she was looking at me and didn’t fly away. I couldn’t tell if it was a few seconds or a few minutes, but I swear she was looking at me with her shiny black little eyes. My heartbeat quickened. I knew today was going to be special. 
In my excitement, I probably put more weight on the sign than I should have because it collapsed and brought down more trash with it. The fairies scattered, but not her. She couldn’t. 
What happened seemed to progress in slow motion. A pipe that fell with the sign hit her. I nearly screamed as I saw her get flung into the mud. 
I was breathless as i went to her. I found her in the mud. I got down on my knees and picked her up. I delicately wiped off as much mud as I could. She was even lighter than I expected. Up close I could tell how delicate she really was. Between thin plates that made up her “skin,” I saw tiny gears and thin wires. Her limbs on her left side were torn off. Sparks flew from the torn wires. 
Her turquoise glow was flickering and getting dimmer. Her crushed wings twitched, uselessly. Her one good arm was reaching up, grasping for anything. The other, half gone, moved in an aimless circle. The little body was writhing, slowly in my hands. 
I didn’t know what to do with myself, with this beautiful creature that I just destroyed. I just sat there on my knees in the mud. I was on the brink of bawling, but I couldn’t. The noise itself could do even more damage. I watched this delicate thing die in my hands. It moved less and less; the light became dimmer and dimmer, until finally... 
nothing.
image credit: Late Night Junkyard CC BY-NC-SA havehart on deviantart.com

October 22, 2012

"That Night With Her Friend"

Fiction piece, inspired by a couple of people I know. The narrator is me, but a very sarcastic and exaggerated version of myself. Supposed to be funny, and again, Fiction.
     I was lying in bed, next to my wife, Penelope. We both had a long day. Her more than me. Before I go too far here, let me go back and recount the day in more detail.
     Penelope had met with this friend. I’m not sure where to begin with her. I guess her name. Her name is Emily. I don’t think anyone would call her autistic, but, on that note, I don’t think anyone would call her smart. If I could go on with describing her, before I talk more about what happened that night.
     She is of average height, but overweight. She has a bit of an overbite and is a slight mouth breather. Because she never quite closed her mouth, and has the vacant stare of some sort of animal, again, no one would really call her smart. She was, however, Penelope’s friend.
     Now, Penelope, is a beautiful young woman, with naturally blond hair, grey-blue eyes, and soft, perky breasts. Her smile is genuine and infectious, and she is more compassionate than anyone you’re likely to meet. Which is why, I think, she tends to befriend people more on the pathetic side.
     Anyways, this friend, Emily, and Penelope had spent a long day out, doing things together. Talking, mostly. This girl has had an on again-off again relationship with a goofy looking guy with a beard. He leaves her alone, feeling like crap. At least, that’s what I hear from Penelope.
     Well, they came home. Both Penelope and Emily arrived at around midnight. I was relaxing: sitting down with my writing and some music. Penelope sat by me on the big couch, while Emily slumped over in what could be called a sitting position.  Prior to their arrival, it should be known, I was given a small set of instructions.
     “Did you guys have a good time?” I directed this question in the general direction of the pale mass on the smaller couch, adjacent to the one I was on.
     “Yeah,” she snorted.
     Then, Penelope chimed in, “We had a great time. We talked and I did her makeup.”
     On cue, and with as much of a convincing a performance I could muster at that hour, I gave my lines. “Oh, you look nice, Emily.” Then, ad-libbing, “Penelope really likes that girly stuff.” Admittedly, not the best line, but I had to keep the ball in the air.
     The rest of the visit, at least for me, dragged on like a wet mop on a cold floor of an empty laundry mat at 2:49 AM. It was only 12:26 AM, local time.
     I’m pretty sure Penelope could tell I was ready to go to sleep. Emily, seemingly catatonic, in a lively sort of way, was still on the couch. I walked into the hall, followed by Penelope. She touched me on the shoulder to turn me around. Those slender arms lazily wrapped themselves around my neck. Those big blue eyes looked up at me and those supple lips opened up and whispered, softly, “Baby, Emily is feeling bad and I don’t want her to be alone, tonight.”
     “So y-” before I could finish, she moved up on her toes and kissed me, softly and sweetly.
     “Is it okay?” Again, with those eyes.
     “Yeah, it’s okay,” I said, gruffly, begrudgingly, yet understanding. I was never going to say “no.” She didn’t have to butter me up. It does help,  though.
     Penelope got some spare blankets around for Emily to sleep on the couch, while I brushed my teeth. As I did, I wondered how Penelope could tell she was feeling bad. Her expression never changes.
     Penelope and I made it to bed at the same time. As we made ourselves comfortable, she nuzzled up against me and said thank you. She gave me a squeeze, I kissed her forehead, and she fell asleep.
     I must have been asleep. I don’t remember not sleeping. I do remember getting aroused. Then I was awake. At first, I didn’t know what it was that I was feeling, but as I gained awareness, I figured out what it was exactly: a hand was fondling my genitals. It felt good, I have to admit. I turned to face Penelope, but she had her back to me, as she usually does when she sleeps. I was even more lucid now, but not enough to process that fact and get to the proper conclusion. Which is why I almost screamed when I looked down. I saw that dumb cow face, blankly gazing up toward the ceiling. I saw a slightly open mouth with drool dripping out of it, down the chin below. If I had my faculties about me, I probably would have kicked her in the face. In retrospect, I’m still not sure if that would have been a good idea. But I couldn’t do anything. I was mortified, petrified. It could have been a minute; it could have been twenty.
     I just endured. I endured until she shuddered slightly and emitted a sound that was a combination of a moan and a snort. I really couldn’t describe it better than that.
     Then, with all the grace of a pregnant hippo, she skulked away to her bed on the smaller couch adjacent to the big one. And I was left there, still mortified, still petrified, with my eyes wide and my mouth agape.
     Needless to say, I got little sleep that night.

October 20, 2012

"All I Have"

Inspired by a beautiful song, this is a small, personal piece I wrote a few years ago, when I started writing creatively.
The water drops on the rooftops with a constant, light beating. Yet, the setting sun manages to break through the gray blanket of clouds giving everything an amber glow. 
But the rain still persists, drowning and breaking off the delicate blossoms below my window. My gardenias remain untouched under the awning. Smiling to myself, From just inside my apartment, I admire their demure beauty. Perfect. 
A whiff of smoke catches my attention. I turn away from the balcony and in the darkness, I see the small orange glow of the cigarette hanging out of an invisible mouth. As my eyes adjust, I make out his tall figure, standing in the door way. Soft, but piercing eyes materialize out of the black and turn me to stone. 
Our gaze remains locked as he flicks the cigarette and brushes my hair back, my behind my ear. His hand, now behind my (at this point I feel that I should soften my narration voice a little, not sure how though) head, gently guides my lips to his. His kiss, ooh his sweet, long kiss. It is all so intoxicating: the smell of his skin, the smoke, the rain and flowers, combined with his sweet lips. He pulls our bodies closer as the rain falls outside. The orange sun sets long before our embrace ends. 
Perfect. 
I wake up, alone. 
A cold, steely darkness surrounds me. I see the moon outside, peeking through clouds. She is alone too, ashamed to show her beautiful face. Her blue light illuminates nothing. I walk to the balcony where empty pots lay, broken. 
"Why are you so lonely, so sad?" 
No answer, but I know. I know. Her partner is gone. It has been cloudy and dreary for over a year. A year since the war started. A year without happiness, joy, dancing. A year without gardenias. A year without love. 
A tear falls on shards of clay.
Image credit: "Rosal the white flower" CC BY-NC-SA by serr-angel08 on deviantart.com, remixed by me.

"One of Those Days"


Inspired by a friend of mine who has her clueless moments. Wanted to run with being in the mind of another person. Had a lot of fun.
Hello
It is one of those days, isn't it?
One where you just can't help yourself.
You know you shouldn't, but there's no one around to stop you.
In 15 minutes, all the wine and peanut butter are gone.
You're horny as all get out.
There's something in the wind, there is.
Something in the wind.
Really?
Well I can't be the only one.
The only one who thinks adorable little otters would make great pets.
Who wonders how they would react to peanut butter.
Wine? No thank you.
The house isn't so much as lonely as it is, vast.
Vast and full of possibilities.
Possibilities and pillows.
Not as mutually exclusive as you'd think.
Well don't look so...
so...
I can't say at the moment.
It may be because my toes feel like they've been dipped in ice cold water.
Oh, you feel it too?
No?
Must be the wine.
Or the otter.
Perturbed! 
PSSSHT!
Did you feel that?
Well I did. In my bones, I felt it.
One of those days, a Thursday.
This must be Thursday
I never could get the hang of Thursdays.
Now where have I heard that before?
Hah!
Where did you go?
Was it something I said?
Image credit: "Someday I'm gonna be free." - © 2011 neko-b on deviantart.com