Tide at Midnight

I wrote this story for a contest at www.rawdogscreamingpress.com I didn't win, but had a fun time writing. The prompt was based on the book Sheep and Wolves which takes a sympathetic look at zombies. The idea was to write a story that makes the reader sympathize with another type of classic monster. I chose goblins.

Tide at Midnight

A midnight wave of glistening ebony bodies burst onto the field and flowed unimpeded across the broad, barren plain. Their crooked bodies, naked except for long, filthy loin clothes, were hunched. Their hairless heads gleamed in the pale light of the waning, bloated moon. They screamed their hatred through yellowed razor-sharp teeth as they lurched across the expanse to confront their enemy.

Red and shining like fresh blood, a crimson wall rose up from the very ground to meet the wave. They hissed and pawed at their fellows in line, raising long, parallel stripes of blood with their jagged claws; yet they impatiently held their position.

Black met red with the roar of a hurricane as goblins from both sides howled in pain and fury. They tore at each other’s throats and raked festering talons across emaciated bodies. Red and black fell together to be trampled beneath the gnarled feet of opponents and companions alike.

The moans of the dying and ululations of the victors were drowned out by the maniacal chanting of the crowds in the stands.

Each side of the stadium rallied to outdo their opponents across the playing field. “Midnight, Midnight, Midnight,” the home team fans howled and waved black silk banners that whistled and snapped from the ends of tall wooden pikes. The visiting team responded with “Crimson, Crimson, Crimson,” and created an eerie atmosphere as they spun glowing red hoops above their heads that whirred and rattled with each revolution.

On the field the Midnight Wave formed a wedge and put pressure on a weak point in the Crimson line. High above in the stands, the fans roared their enthusiasm and anticipation of a victory.

“We’re going to win.” Shreeda stood on the wooden bleacher and shouted down to her date, where he sat, leaning his knobby elbows on equally knobby knees. He retracted the claw he had been using to work a piece of raw meat from between his front teeth. He glanced toward the playing field but only saw the boney bare backs of his fellow high school students.

The Midnight High students jumped and hooted their enthusiasm as the wedge offensive found an opening in the weakening Crimson High lines. The gleaming black demons successfully pushed through and raced toward the visitor’s goal set atop a stone pyramid. A crimson pennant hung limp in the windless air, barely visible in the dim light of the setting moon.

Amid the roars of the hopeful teenagers, Shreeda sat and raked her extended talons, painted midnight purple, lightly across his back between bare shoulder. He felt goose bumps climb his back and arms. He glanced up and gave her a weak smile.

“Creege,” she said close to his ear; her hot, fetid breath on his cheek was alluring. “What’s the matter? We’re winning. You should be happy.”

“We’re winning, this time, sure,” he said. “But it’s all so pointless and cliché.”

Creege sat up and looked his date in the eyes.

“What are we,” he asked Shreeda, and answered the question himself, “goblins. What do we do? We scream and hiss. We claw and bite. We fight and we die. And for what? Nothing. We never win, I mean, when was the last time you read a book where we came out on top? It’s never us. Sometimes it’s the orcs, but it’s usually the humans. Why do you think that is?”

“Um,” Shreeda stammered and asked, “because we don’t write the books?”

Creege rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to speak. As one, the crowd gasped and then roared in dismay. Shreeda jumped to her feet, straightened her loin cloth and clambered onto the bench to get a better view of the playing field.

She screamed down to him, “the Crimson have a squad that broke through and are racing toward our goal. They had hidden reinforcements that are defending their goal. If we don’t get through them to their goal quick, they’re going to get to ours and we’ll lose.”

“Midnight, Midnight, Midnight,” the crowd chanted then broke into shrieks and screams as the home team pushed through the defenders to capture the visitor’s pennant.

Creege stood up among the screaming, jumping, euphoria in the bleachers. Teenagers laughed, hugged, bit and clawed each other in congratulations of the hard earned victory.

Below, a thousand black and red goblins were indecipherable shapes heaped in piles and scattered randomly about the starlit field.

Creege took his giggling, bouncing date by the shoulders and turned her toward him.

“Look at them,” he shouted over the bedlam and pointed at the field. “They’re dead. They’re all dead. And for what? To show which high school is best?

He scrubbed his hand across the top of his pointed, hairless head and squeezed his knuckles against his protruding brow. Shreeda smiled from ear to pointed ear as she surveyed the same field that caused Creege such distress and confusion.

He dropped his head forward and asked, “and what about those that lived? Will they go on to die in the next competition? Or will they just be sent to the human plain to die in battle against dwarves and humans? It all seems so futile.”

“Really, Creege,” Shreeda said and rolled her eyes. “It’s not like they have souls or anything.”

Two other females bounced up and fluttered around Shreeda. They prattled mindlessly. “Wasn’t that just the most thrilling match? It was way better than last week. That one went way to fast. We’re going to get a pizza. Do you want to come? You can bring your friend.”

The taller of the two leered at Creege. She licked her top lip with a glistening, pointed, red tongue and winked a jaundiced eye at him.

Before she could ask him, Creege said, “No, thanks, Shreeda, you go. I think I’ll just sit here a while.”

“Ok, whatever,” she said and hurried away down the bleachers, chattering with her friends.

The End

The New Job

As of tomorrow morning, I'm starting a new part time job.

It's only two hours per day, and I can do it right from home. But to do it, I need to make some changes in my lifestyle.

The job is to become a writer.

I've fiddle around with it for some time. I've written a few stories, taken an online writing course, and improved my skills.

Yet, I waste a lot of time on unproductive activities. Namely, MMORPG's. I love them, and have played them for six or seven years now. I've been successful in my game play and have amassed fortunes in the various monetary systems of the game.

But when I stop paying the monthly fee, all that goes away and I am left with nothing.

The new plan is to eliminate the hours spent playing online games, go to bed by nine o'clock, get up at 4:00 am and get my writing done. My daily writing time will increase from 0 to 50 minutes per day to 45 to 120 minutes per day. (Mainly in the morning, as that is when my best thoughts and description comes.)

It is already past 9 pm, so I'm going to stop writing and get to bed.

I'm looking forward to tomorrow morning.

Monday update

I have considered for some time that I should have a weekly update of what I am doing. I was going to do it on Saturdays and call it my "Saturday Evening Post". I found that Saturdays are bad for doing something regular like that.

Maybe Mondays will work. I'll try.

What I am doing...

I had fun last night when Mick Bordet of the "Some Other Scotland" podcast sent me a script with some lines for me to record. This is my first attempt at adding my voice to a podcast drama, and since SOS is one of my favorite podcasts, I feel honored. It is in episode 14. We'll see how I sound.

I listened to all the episodes of "Give Blood and Thanks" (Warning: Explicit for language and violence, so far.) Danny Machal does a such a great job with his recording and story telling, it motivates me to improve my recording and delivery and get my podcast story started.

My story, currently being seriealized and presented on the Great Hites weekly podcast, 'The Price of Friendship' is on its sixth episode. I have written enough, about 5000 more words, to make another 4 episodes. I still have a lot of story in my head. I have mentioned to some that I intend to do 30 to 40 10 minute episodes.

In a month or so I will have a room in my house that I can dedicate to family hobbies and will make a corner for my recording. Right now I record in my bedroom. The computer is right next ot the mic and the air conditioner is outide the window, so I get a lot of sound. When I can get a better quality sound, I will start re-recording the episodes.

I continue to write new short fiction, every week, for the 100 Word Story, Weekly Challenge, at www.podcasting.isfullofcrap.com and The Great Hites podcast at www.greathites.blogspot.com .

I have another story that I am writing for an editors world. I thought I had a pretty good story, but...Well, he really tore it apart. He told me not to be discouraged, but it was pretty staggering to my fragile ego. I'll get after it tonight, and see if I can redeam myself, at least in my own eyes.

Finally, I have my local writers meetup group tomorrow night. I am a bit discouraged about it as well, in that the writing presented is so outside my taste. I know that I should be open minded and read others work to broaden my understanding and improve my skills. However, this month, one of the stories centers around the life and life style of a gay man, and another is how a woman is selling her "spirituallity coach" business through writing about herself. Both of which are unappealing and almost distasteful.

I am considering finding a writers group on line, that might be more in alignment with my beliefs and/or standards.

Heroes

I have gotten some good feed back about a story that I wrote for The Great Hites podcast, called Heroes.

The prompt was arriving at the airport.

My original thought was to have several snippets of conversation from a number of different groups, all about who their heroes are. My first intent was to slam some of the people that are looked up to as heroes.

I think that Brittany Spears is the epitome a poor role model, and has claimed that she is not. However, our youth idolize these pop stars and try to emulate them. Add to her crowd, the sports starts that use steroids or take part in other illegal activites, and we don't have much for our youth to look up to.

The ideal is someone who is famous, but doesn't work hard to get where they are. That is my perception.

The honest hard working hero of my fathers youth is nowhere to be found.

Back to the story.

It all changed as I was writing. When the Sargeant Major showed up, and started talking, I ended up listening to his story and felt like it was him and the young soldier that I needed to write about. Some things that I wanted to bring out, but didn't do a good job at, or didn't have time to develop were that the Sergeant Major recieved a battle field commission, and was actually retired as a major. But, more importantly, he had been an important man with a lot of responsability. He probably had 200 to 300 people working below him. But now, at age 65, he was also adrift, still relatively young and wanting to be active but not knowing exactly where he needed to be or what to do. His conversation with Parker helped him define what he would do for the rest of his life.

Well, here is the story, if you haven't read or heard it yet: (Thanks for listening, we'll see you next week...)

‘Heroes’

A young man, dressed in blue jeans and a long sleeve shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, slumped down in his seat at the airport terminal waiting area. The summer vacation season was in full swing, but he wasn’t on his way to some exotic and exciting destination. He’d had more than his share of exotic and exciting in the last year.

He watched the ebb and flow of humanity as it passed through the airport and felt uncomfortable and edgy in the crowd. All the seats in the waiting are were taken. Families with excited children grouped together in seats or on the floor leaning against the wall. Business people paced around or spoke on cell phones while other seasoned commuters dozed or read magazines.

An automated message played over the speaker system, “All military personnel and their families are invited to relax between flights in the USO, located on the second floor of terminal C”

A girls voice rang out in a clear soprano above persistent murmur, “Look, Mom, there’s Whitney Steers. I wanna be just like her.” She jumped to her feet and pointed at a tall slender woman who was flanked by two large men in dark suits.

“Don’t be stupid, Julie.” A boy, who by his looks and attitude, could only be the girls older brother. “That’s not Whitney Steers. She probably has a private jet. Besides, who would want to be like her, she’s such a loser.”

“Jeremy, don’t be mean.” Julies mother told the older boy.”And don’t call your sister stupid.”

Julie watched the woman disappear into the crowd and started to sing one of the pop stars hits. Dressed in white shorts and pink tank top, she shifted her hips seductively and sang the suggestive lyrics with an accuracy and inflection that could come only through the obsessive familiarity of a true devotee.

Her mother seemed uncomfortable with the amount of attention her daughter was getting, and tried to hush the girl. “Julie, sit down, you’re making too much noise. You’re bothering people. This isn’t the place for that.”

“Yeah, you’re embarrassing me.” Jeremy said and hid his face for emphasis. “Besides, you look more like Rhoda Dakota.”

Julie sat, stuck her tongue at her brother and got out her hand held game.

A large group of men in military uniform ambled past the solemn young man. He noticed that their uniforms lacked decorations other than their names and rifle marksmanship badges. A few had the rank of private. The rest showed no rank at all. He recognized them as recent graduate from basic training. No doubt on they were on their way to their advanced training. He slouched further down into his chair, covered his eyes with his hand and feigned sleep. He was careful to cross his right leg behind his left.

The voice of one of the men in the group broke above the general chatter of the crowd, “It’s an hour before our flight. Lets go get a drink.”

“Chill Wittacker,” another said. “When we get to Fort Sam we can hit the “O” club every night, and the drinks cheaper on post, than you’ll pay in an airport.”

“Chill? You chill, Banks. I can show you chill.” Wittacker was getting agitated and leaned his chest into Banks who only came up to the first mans chin. “You wanna make me chill?”

“Come on,” A third man said, “let’s go wait at our gate. Maybe there will be a bar on the way, and Witt can blow his spending money, if he wants.”

There were murmurs of agreement from within the group and they moved off.

The man in the chair lowered his hand and watched the cluster of servicemen migrate through the airport. His hair was trimmed short at the ears and back of the neck, and tapered to the short cropped hair at the top of his head. If he had fallen in with the crowd that had just left, he could easily have appeared to be one of them.

"What's the problem soldier?’ A deep, gruff, voice said from the seat next to him. The young man looked to see who addressed him. He was a large man, not fat, but he had obviously been very muscular in his earlier life. He was African American and old enough that the white stubble of what was left of his hair was a sharp contrast to his dark skin.

The highest, or top, ranking non commissioned officer in an army unit, usually a first sergeant or sergeant major was often referred to as Top. The appellation conveys a familiarity, yet the deepest respect. The young man sized the older up, and replied, "I don't know, Top. I'm retired. It's not what I expected."

The older man nodded, and spoke to air in front of himself. "You're right, there. I spent my last ten years as Sergeant Major in a training battalion. I've seen thousands of young men come and go. I can recognize a soldier, and I can also tell when something is getting him down." He paused and looked at the younger man.

"I'm retired now, too, so I know what you mean," he said, leaning on his knees. "What's you name, son?"

"Parker. Matthew Parker. My friends just called me Doc." He sat up straighter, but kept his knees crossed.

"Medic? Hmmm." He glanced at Parker. "You said they called you Doc. Your friends don't call you that anymore?"

"I don't have that many friends anymore," Parker said looking away. He coughed and took a deep breath to cover the sudden flare of emotion that threatened to close off his throat. He composed himself and looked back to the Sargent Major. "Did you plan to stay in for so long, you know, and retire, when you first joined?"

"I didn't join, Parker, I was drafted. Straight from the back woods of Alabama. Eighteen years old, and had never been more than 50 miles from home. I was ready to spend my entire life on that little farm where I was raised. I didn't know anything else.

"You could imagine how I felt, six months later, finding myself on patrol in the back woods of Viet Nam. Fighting for my life. I had my share of friends that I called Doc, too. I wouldn't be here right now if it wasn't for one of them."

Parkers felt his face go hot, and his chest tight, "Well, it sounds like he did his job like he was supposed to." He felt sudden guilt at the vehemence he heard in his own words. "I mean, with all due respect, Top, he must have had to keep a cool head to help someone while under fire."

The older man laughed a rueful laugh and shook his head, "We walked into a booby trap rigged up with Claymore mines, probably stolen from our own supply bunker. There were no cool heads then. We were all scrambling, and screaming and crying like a bunch of school girls. Everyone, but me, that was. I was in a daze, my head ringing from the blast. I didn't have any idea that shrapnel had torn through my arm. I was bleeding to death and didn't know it. Doc held me down and kept pressure over the wound until we could get evacuated.

"I was back in action in just a few weeks, and not a month later, I was holding Doc in my arms, as his life bled away. That first unit showed me what it meant to be a soldier. Those men were my brothers. I would have gladly given my life to save any one of them. I was one of the few, from that group, that actually came home." He looked at Parker, until he returned the Sargent Major’s gaze. "I guess that's why I stayed in. To help train other young men, so that they would be prepared for what they would find over there, and be able to come back home, too."

Though Parker stared blankly at the old man, he did not see him. He saw himself, back in Iraq, riding in a Humvee, joking with the members of his patrol.

"Nice and boring," Cooper said, "Just the way I like a patrol."

"Yeah," Watson said, "but right now I would like to be patrolling the mess hall. What's the hold up out there?"

"It's a check point." Levine snapped. "You know, those places where we stand and hold up other vehicles, and make them wait, when they’re in a hurry? It's karma. It's just our turn to wait."

Our turn, Parker thought.

There was a flash of light and Parker was laying on the dirt road. Everything was silent and his right leg was numb. It wasn't silent, he realized, his ears were ringing. He began to feel pain in his leg that increased as he thrashed around. As his hearing slowly returned, he began to hear the moans and cries of people thrown down in the blast. He rolled onto his side to find the Humvee. He could only see pieces of twisted metal, scattered bodies and fire. Among the wails and screams of the locals he could hear the members of his patrol, his friends. They were calling for him. "Doc, help me." "Doc, I can't see." "Doc, I don't wanna die."

He tried to get up but the nerve endings where his right leg was torn away erupted into new levels of agony. He tried to crawl in the direction of the burning Humvee. "I'm coming," he shouted, "Hold on, I'm coming." The overwhelming pain and the loss of blood conspired against him and he passed out.

"I lost them all. Every one of them." Tears were streaming down Parkers face. "They called me Doc, and I let them down. I let them all die."

"All I ever wanted to do was serve my country. And when I got to train as a field medic, I thought, shoot, here's my chance. I could help my buddies at the same time. Top, I failed. I failed my country and my friends." He wiped his face with his sleeve.

The Sergeant Major looked at the young man for a few minutes, pondering something. Then he said, "Parker, I know it won't help much right now. But down the road, in a few months, or maybe a few years, remember what this old soldier said. You're a hero. You were there to do your job, and you wanted to do it. I saw plenty of men in my days, just turn tail and run when their buddies were on the ground crying for help. Just left them there to die. You would have helped them, if you could have. We don't always get our chance when and how we expect to. You'll get your chance to help, someday, if you keep looking for it."

"Final call for boarding of flight 1442 to Birmingham at gate 19. Please have your boarding pass ready and board at this time." A pleasant voice said over the speaker system.

“That’s me. I’ve got to go.” The Sergeant Major said and stood. Parker got to his feet as well, the right leg of his pants camouflaging the prosthetic leg completely. The older man handed Parker a business card that read, 'Wilson Garfield, SGM (Ret)'. "If you ever need to talk to someone, give me a call. And I mean anytime. If your ever near Tuscaloosa, look me up. My wife makes veal parmesan, just like they do in the mess hall." He started to turn, but stopped and looked Parker in the eyes. "You're a hero son. A hero. Never forget that."

He watched the Sergeant Major leave through the gate, and said as the door closed behind him, "Thanks Top. If anyone would know a hero, I think you would.”

Standing taller than he had in months, Parker walked to his own gate, with a limp, perceptible only to himself.

This Week

Im going to Arizona this week to attend a conference of The Association of Childrens Prosthetic and Orthotic Clinics. (ACPOC) It has been years since I last attended a conference, and I am really looking forward to renewing my focus by hearing what others are doing, and what my be new and innovative in my field.

I figure that I will have ample opportunities to write; downtime between presentaions and in the evenings. (I'm not a partyer or really very social.)

Guy David's podcast 'Night Guy' #100 came out this week and he gave me a chance to share my oppinions about what the future holds. There were quit a few contributers, so it is a very diverse and interesting podcast.

I just caught up with all the episodes of the "Some other Scotland" podcast which is an interesting and unique approach to sharing an altenate history story in a podcast. I am loving it, and reccomend it to anyone. So far it is very family safe. It is by Mick Bordet who has a wonderful Scotish accent; he is easy to listen to and draws you into his beautifully discribed world. He has also started contributing on 'Great Hites' short story podcast and has shown what an extenive talent he has.

I have a number of stories that I need to post, but am a bit lazy, and busy with preparing for the trip to Arizona. Besides, you can find them on all the other sites where they are posted. (See my blog list.)

Guess Toast

This week I had a new experience. I was invited to guest host the Great Hites podcast. It was a lot of fun and I learned a lot while doing it. I mainly learned that I sound like a robot when I try to just talk. I feel like I am getting better at reading my stories, but I found when I was doing into's or commenting on someone elses stories, I was a bit stilted.

The most fun was making up some feedback. Here it is:

Here is some feedback from someone named William Shatner. He says:

Excellent story, Mr. Roche, I think Gene would have liked it, if he were still around to read it. As captain of the enterprise, there was one thing I always liked to tell myself… Peace or...UTTER DESTRUCTION...it's up to you. Take that for what its worth, Scott. Oh, and if you ever need a good price on a hotel room, just tweet me @therealenterprisecaptain, and I’ll negotiate something special for you.

(Thanks Mr. Shatner, coming from someone who spent so much time in the enterprise, that is a real compliment)

Here is some feeback from Barak Obama:

Dear Jeff, I and all the chiefs of staff love your podcast. I have my speech writers working on an entry for the anniversary episode #52. I think that the prompt ‘It's been a year what I have done with myself’ seems like an appropriate subject for this administration. We’ll see if they can get it written in enough time for me to record it.

(Thanks Mr. President. We’ll look forward to your entry, It will be kind of like a state of the union address with out everyone standing up and applauding all the time.)

OK, here is another one from someone calling herself Hillary Rodham-Clinton, she says:

Ashley, I’ve finally found you. Are you trying to avoid me? I miss our late night talks and long walks on the beach. Call me, your cousin, Hillary.

(Hmm. Well, take that for what it’s worth.)

Finally, here is some feedback from someone who calls herself, “Madam Fatima, psychic, fortune teller, palm reader.”

She says “Great Hites is one of the most popular podcasts amongst dead people. They have been sending me E-mails and asking me to forward them on to you. Some examples are:

Elvis says “Thank you very much.”
Marilyn Monroe and John F. Kennedy say “Great podcast, love the variety.”
Ronald Reagan says “Thanks for quoting me, I came up with that myself”
Richard Nixon says “Expletive deleted”
And Shakespear says, “Beware the ides of March”

Well, that’s a little late….oh, (ha, ha, ha) They sent the feedback in February. Typical, huh?
Gene Rodenbury says, "Checking with legal right now to see if there are any copyright violations. ROFL. Not really, love your story Scott, you're doing a great job."
Well, that’s if for feed back.

I probably spent 5 to 6 hours working on the podcast. I'm sure that would cut way down, once I got used to how it is done. A lot of time was spent lining up the music after importing it from an mp3. That being done, would make it faster as well.

I also volunteered to record anyones story that wasn't able to record, or was afraid to. I'm hoping someone will take me up on that. I think reading what someone else had written would really improve my skill at presenting.

Here is my story for episode #50 of Great Hites. I had more people read this before recording than I have ever had before. I found through their feedback, that the theme of the story wasn't clear, and the story was confusing at times. It is one of my favorites so far, and I hope to add to it.

The prompt was "He found himself if a very unfamiliar place. Here it is:

'No Body but you'
　
He woke up to find that he was having a bad day. He could tell that it was, because his body was missing, again. Though it was usually difficult to think clearly when he was separate from his body, it didn't take much mental processing to see that his body was, in fact, gone.
"It must be Wednesday", he thought, "this kind of thing always seems to happen on Wednesdays." He was pretty sure that it was mid-week though he couldn't be sure or the exact day, separated from his body as he was.
He walked across the bedroom floor and ducked his head as he walked under the bed. He didn't need to worry about hitting his head on the bed frame, since his his head was with his body, but of course, it wouldn't occur to him in his current state. He ducked his head out of habit; this is the nice thing about habits, they don't require thought, you just do them. He walked around under the bed, looking in an empty shoe box and behind neglected stuffed animals.
　
It was a pleasant spring morning in New Orleans; it was warm enough for short sleeves, but not at all like the sticky humid heat that would come with the summer. The young family was strolling casually down Bourbon Street. Traffic was light, being the middle of the week, early in the day, and not during The Mardi Gras. Still the young couple was vigilant in keeping their daughter close to them at all times.
As they crossed a small side street, she broke from her mothers hand and dashed up the alley shouting, "Dolly, Mommy, dolly!" The parents caught up to her as she reached a grimy shop window, and peered into the darkness, her nose pressed hard against the glass. The faded gold leaf name on the window identified the shop only as 'Jezareel'.
Through the window they could see in the dimly lit shop, the homeliest excuse for a doll either of the parents had ever seen. Its bald ceramic head was expressionless with its black beans for eyes and a small flat horizontal cleft for a mouth. The body appeared to be made of random pieces of thread, yarn, twine and cloth, wrapped tightly around old popsicle sticks and twigs. Its only clothing was a simple cotton serape, held in place by a piece of yarn around its waist.
The father felt a chill run down his spine as he looked at the ugly doll, discomfort growing with each passing moment. The girl kept her face pressed against the window, trying to get the best view. Finally, he said to the girl, "No, honey, you have enough dolls at home, you don't need any more. Come on, let's go."
Her tantrum was so sudden and violent that both parents stood, shocked, mouths open, staring at what they could not believe was their child. Eventually, they broke from their stasis. They knelt to console the girl and try to convince her to come along back to the hotel. They coaxed, bribed and threatened, but nothing would calm her.
When she stopped her screaming, it was as sudden and shocking as when it had started. With a great sob and sigh, it abruptly ceased. Relieved that the ordeal was over, her parents looked around to see who else had witnessed the embarrassing event.
A woman stood in the open doorway of the small shop. She was as old and dark and dusty as the store itself. So wrinkled and small it was impossible to determine her ethnicity. Was she French, Spanish, or African? They couldn't tell.
"Madam Jezareel sees the dolls little girl," she slurred mysteriously in a rich southern accent. "Come," she commanded them, "The doll must be held."
They followed Madam Jezareel into a shop so small that here was barely room enough for all to sit around a small table without bumping the walls or one another. On the table and on a bookshelf there were bits and pieces; scraps of cloth, snips of thread, beans and soft, grey, clay; to make more dolls, but there were no other dolls near completion.
The old woman placed the doll in the little girls lap, who immediately hugged it around the middle of its lumpy body. Jezareel closed her eyes and began repeating arcane words while moving her hands in circles in the air between herself and the doll. At times she would raise her voice in volume while raising her hands higher into the air. At other times she barely whispered the incomprehensible words. At one point, when she was getting fairly worked up, her hands making great circles, her voice a shrieking wail, she inhaled a bit of saliva, that caused her to pause her incantation. She sat, looking ahead, for a few, long seconds, and made a small cough; then another. At first, it appeared that her coughing was under control, but soon she was hacking and choking, spraying the family with spittle with each wheezing gasp. Eventually, she stood, beating herself on the chest, coughing and gasping for air. Just as the girls parents stood to see if they could help the old woman, the hacking subsided.
She sighed and sat back down, as if this was nothing out of the ordinary. With her chin raised and her eyes closed, she took several deep calming breaths.
She took up her chanting where she had left off, and while it was not as frenzied, she spoke much more rapidly. The now recognizable arcane words and phrases came to a sudden stop. Jezareel sat with her hands flat on the table, eyes closed and breathing steadily and deeply.
She opened her eyes and looked at the doll, still clutched tightly in the little girls arms. The surprise was evident on the old woman's face. She stood again and reached for the doll. The girl was reluctant, but allowed the doll to be taken from her. The old woman held the doll close to her wrinkled face and squinted into its black bean eyes. She supported it by placing her hands under the dolls arms and shook it lightly. "Dear me," she said, "dear, dear, dear, dear, me." Then placing it face down, its stomach on one of her hands, she patted it on the back with her other hand, like she was burping a very small baby. She turned it onto its back, its lifeless stick and twine arms flailing behind it. "My, my, my, my, my", she said, shaking her head.
"Well," she said, an unmistakable note of finality in her voice as she handed the doll back to the little girl who quickly took it and clutched it again to her chest. "Well," she said again, firmly and with a nod. The family understood that they were being dismissed. They left the shop in a daze and wandered back to their hotel as if the unusual evens of the morning had been a dream. All the while, the little girl held the mysterious gift tightly, but lovingly in her arms; evidence that the experience had been real.
　
He crept out from underneath the bed, careful, again, not to bump his head on the bed frame. He scanned the floor, the corners of the room, the furniture and bookshelves. There was no sign of his body.
He went to the door and looked up and down the hallway. To his horror; if he could have felt horror without his body; perhaps his body, where ever it was, was feeling the very horror, that his brain was having difficulty perceiving at that moment; in the hallway outside the bedroom door, was a piece of himself.
He bent to pick it up, but couldn't, naturally, not having a body to pick it up with. But it felt good to be near it, and he did know that if felt good. He followed the bits of himself down the hall and around a corner until he found himself in an entirely foreign and wholly unfamiliar place. He knew the bedroom, the kitchen and dining rooms, the tv room, all places his girl had carried him. He had never been in this tiny room. There were two large white machines, boxes of soap powder on shelves, and brooms and mops hanging from hooks on the wall. Next to the white machines was a large plastic pan with sand in it, and an awful odor exuding from with in. He could smell the odors, hear the sounds, and began to understand what was happening.
With a rush, comprehension and realization he woke him to his dilemma. There, before him, between its litter box and its bowl of water, he found himself in the razor sharp claws of the family cat. With its wicked teeth it tore at his body of string, and yarn and pieces of cloth. Suddenly back in his body he could feel the burning pain of the cats teeth and claws as it chewed on his head, neck and chest.

The 100 word challenge this week was, "Falling Bricks Hurt", and my story is:


Blocks away, across the city park, he set up the complicated apparatus. Multifaceted photoreceptors gathered solar power. He laughed vengefully as he flipped the lever on the clattering machine. A wormhole disintegrated the lower half of his ex-girlfriends apartment building, the upper half of the clay brick structure, subsequently, dropping though.
His victory over the woman, who embarrassed him in front of all his friends, was short lived.
The falling bricks hurt for only a moment, as the last of the upper three floors of apartment building dropped out of the other side of the wormhole, directly over his head.

　

Doh!

I wanted the post about NAMI.org to be above the post of this weeks stories, where this post is. Please refer to the NAMI post, which is much further down.

Thanks.