The Blogger Story Competition

2005-09-27T12:02:00.000-04:00

I. Rules and Disclaimers (read these first)

II. Fiction Stories

A. Carte Blanche by MC Etcher
B. Edith and Ed by Invisible Lizard
C. Untitled by Thordora
D. Untitled by Aasmo Deus
E. Driving on the Motorway in Bad Weather by Herge Smith
F. War by Vandamir Windrider

III. Non-fiction Stories

A. Untitled by MHN for Short
B. Obsession by Vandamir Windrider

Rules and Disclaimers

2005-09-27T12:01:00.000-04:00

Rules:

1. You may vote for one (1) story from each section (fiction and non-fiction). Yes, you are allowed to vote for your own story.

2. To vote send your choices for each section to me via email here.

3. Feel free to comment on any and all stories. Comments will not be counted as votes. Only votes emailed to this address will be counted.

4. Voting will continue until midnight EDT, October 7th. That allows for just over 1 week of reading and voting.

5. The winners will be announced on or after October 7th.

6. The winners of each category will win the right to brag...and that's it. Sorry, we're a blog on a budget.

7. Vote or Die. (Actually, even if you don't vote, please don't die. I don't want to feel responsible for that.)

8. You can like the stories or not like the stories, but be nice about it. These are real people who worked to put these together.

Disclaimers:

I take no credit for any stories posted in this contest, whether for good or ill. I did not write them, and in fact have been so busy that I really haven't read most of them.

If you have issues with the content, blame the author. If you have issues with the spelling, grammar or format, blame the author. If you have issues with the way in which the story was posted...ok, that one's all me.

If you really, really like the content of a story or happen to think that the author is the greatest thing since the microwave oven, tell them. I had nothing to do with it, and the author deserves all the praise.

Untitled by MHN for Short

2005-09-27T12:00:00.007-04:00

A girl and a guy went on a date;
Tex-Mex food was what they ate.

They both popped their cherries;
The guy asked will you marry?

The girl told him, yep that’d be great!

Edith and Ed by Invisible Lizard

2005-09-27T12:00:00.006-04:00

Edith and Ed

As usual, Ed is just lying by the fireplace as Edith calls him for their afternoon walk. His eyes follow her around the room, but he doesn't have the desire to lift his head as she snaps on the leash. She literally has to drag him out the door.

His leash taunt, his spirits low, Ed's belly almost scraps the ground as Edith turns right out of her driveway down East Street towards the center of town. The chill of spring has been vanquished by the first signs of summer, bringing a dry heat to the air. The sun has baked the morning clouds into blue. Edith has always complained that the nearby desert burns hot during the day but can never hold any of that heat through the night.

"That's the problem with living out west," she tells Ed again, for the hundredth time: "It's hot during the day and cold at night." Ed, a considerable distance behind her and having a difficult time catching up, does not respond.

At the end of the street, she turns right onto Denver Avenue and then right again on Islington Street, pacing a trail with which she and Ed are well versed. A digital clock-thermometer hangs over the sidewalk at the end of the street much like a floating tombstone. Its epitaph, displayed under the bold "Farmer's & Merchant's Bank" logo, reads: "1:57 p.m. 92°F."

"Damn hot," Edith remarks. Ed ignores her and scampers along.

++++++++++

Outside the Islington Street Cafe on a small wire chair, Freddie Mackelbury sits reading his newspaper and sipping his skim-milk, hazelnut cappuccino. "Edith," he calls, just in earshot. "Is that you? I haven't see you in ages. How are you doing?" He inclines to stand, but Edith beckons him to stay put.

"Just passing by, Freddie," she says quickly. "No time to talk." She tugs on Ed's leash, hurrying him along. Ed does not like strangers, and Edith knows this. His incident with Albert McPhearlson five years ago has taught most of the community to give him a wide berth. Albert has the scars to prove it, but nobody ever had the chutzpah to ask Edith to do anything about old Ed.

"How's Ed doing there, Edith?" Freddie asks, watching the dog with careful fascination.

"Just fine," she says. Freddie is wearing plaid slacks and a light cardigan sweater, strangely unseasonable attire. "Are you feeling all right, Freddie?" she asks.

"Oh, I'm fine" Freddie says, settling back in his chair, obviously deciding that Ed wasn't worth his interest.

Ed bares his teeth in Freddie's direction, so Edith gives him a tug. "What's the word for the day, Freddie?"

Known for his love of language, renowned for his knowledge of vocabulary, Freddie Mackelbury glances back up, examines her carefully for a maladroit second, glances at his paper, searching for the word-of-the-day under the editorial cartoon, and says, "Quondam."

"Quondam," she repeats.

"Means, that which formally was."

"Good to know." Edith smiles at him and marches off with Ed in tow.

++++++++++

They pass the Farmer's and Merchant's Bank and turn left on Seafarers Lane. Edith glances back at the bank clock. It now reads: "15:46 - 22°C." She nudges Ed across the street towards the sidewalk on the other side of the intersection where Mrs. Myrtle Beadlebung is exiting the Crumbley Hardware and Supply. She raises her arm to flag Myrtle's attention and is about to call out a greeting when the leash pulls up tight.

She looks back half expecting to find Ed locked in a vicious determination towards Freddie Mackelbury's garters and sees, instead, that Ed has paused to investigate the gutter. A iron grill covers the drain in the curb and Ed seems to have stretched his front right paw deep down inside to reach for something.

"Edith?" Myrtle calls out. "Edith, is that you?"

"Hello, Myrtle," Edith says, snapping her fingers at Ed and giving his leash a jerk, but to no avail. Ed does not budge. She gives it another pull, harder this time, and turns back to Myrtle. "You look well," she says, politely trying to position her body between the older woman and her less-than-obedient dog.

"Edith, I'm surprised to see you out," Myrtle says, stepping closer. "Where have you been?"

Edith finds herself unable to move Ed, who is obstinate about his sewer drain investigations. She pulls on his leash with both hands and achieves some slip in the tension though not nearly enough to progress even an inch forward. "Just taking Ed for a walk," she says, smiling innocently while pulling cruelly on Ed who knows that he deserves any amount of punishment for embarrassing her in front of her friend.

Myrtle emits a small gasp as of somebody about to sneeze and suddenly finds herself without the need.

"See you around, Myrtle," Edith says giving a final, triumphant wrench on Ed's leash, freeing her from his embrace and eliciting a peculiar sound from the animal reminiscent of a baby's belch.

Whatever it was that Ed was trying to reach has been left behind in the gutter and Ed, somewhat aslant, is still turned to watch his lost treasure. He follows crookedly behind her as she passes. Myrtle tightens her coat around her waist, returns to the "Exit" door of the Crumbley Hardware and Supply and tries to get back in.

++++++++++

Edith and Ed stroll down Seafarers Lane and take a right on Drake Street to her favorite park. They enter unannounced, unnoticed, through the tall open gates and proceed down the long asphalt trail past rows of white plaques and statues that cross-hatch the grounds. They pass a somber couple, young lovers, presumably, out for a walk, and Edith notices that the man has his hand around the girl's shoulders and that she has nestled her head into the lapels of his coat. The sky darkens as the sun passes behind a cloud.

A squirrel runs in front of them holding a cracked shell in his mouth, stirring up a cluster of leaves on the ground, and Edith immediately tenses up waiting for Ed to jump in the squirrel's direction. Ed, however, is still brooding over the loss of his treasure and either does not notice or does not care. Whistling a breath of relief, Edith paces forward and drags the brooding Ed along down the path, exiting the park from the opposite end.

++++++++++

They cross Elderberry Drive, walk briefly down Addler Street and jog over to Downers Lane, effectively circumventing the bustling downtown area and arriving on the quieter, opposite end. Edith passes a church on the left and a coffee shop on the right. She is remarking to Ed how nice it must be to have a coffee and a Danish before Sunday mass when the red door to the church opens and a man in a suit steps out. He quickly descends the steps and crosses briskly in her direction.

She pauses to wait for him and hisses to Ed under her breath, "Look, Ed. It's Father Calvin. You be nice to him, now."

The priest reaches her, panting, and says, "Edith, what's wrong?"

"Nothing at all," she replies, watching Ed carefully. "How are you today Father?"

A woman and a child emerge from the church. Father Calvin turns around. "Just stay there, Jeanie," he calls.

Edith glances at the woman who is staring back at her.

"Edith, how are you feeling?" Father Calvin says. He takes her gingerly by the elbow and leads her to a nearby bench to sit.

"I'm fine, Father. Just fine," she says.

"And Ed? How's old Ed doing?" Father Calvin asks her, staring at the taciturn dog.

Edith turns to look. Ed has stretched himself out on the ground, and with his legs tucked beneath him, they seem to have disappeared. Ed watches the bench for movement. At the first sign that Edith has let down her guard he will bolt, she knows. At the moment, however, he seems content to merely lay in a small pile of dead leaves, an obviously comfortable bed. "Old Ed is fine, too, Father. What brings you out today?"

"We were just having services," he replies.

"Yes," Edith says. "Nice weather we're having, isn't it? But you must be burning up." She points to his suit and overcoat. Father Calvin shivers and draws his lapels up.

The boy and his mother have crossed the street and are approaching. The woman calls out, "Edith!"

Edith smiles and waves. "Hello," she says.

Father Calvin holds her other hand firmly. "Edith, how do you feel?"

"I said I feel just fine, Father," she says, smartly. "Stop making such a fuss."

The boy reaches her first. "Hello," he says, peering at her closely.

Edith reaches out and tousles his hair. "What a charming young man. What's your name?"

"My name is Edward," the boy says.

"Edward?"

The woman sits down and puts one hand on Edith's shoulder. "Edith, we've been so worried. Is everything okay?" she asks.

"Worried?"

The sun lowers in the sky and dips below the horizon, dropping the temperature several more degrees. Edith shivers. Father Calvin takes off his coat and drapes it around her shoulders.

She looks at the boy. "Ed?" she asks him.

The boy walks over to the dog lying still on the ground and kneels beside him. Edith has long since dropped the leash. "There's something wrong with Ed," he says.

Edith turns to the dog. "Edward?"

The boy looks up. "Yes?"

"Ed?"

The boy turns back to the dog, rolls him over, and immediately jumps back. The dog's right front leg has ripped completely off; the other three stretch up into the air at odd angles. The sun, which has completely disappeared, seems to have taken the leaves on the trees with it. Bare branches stretch upwards much in the same manner as Ed's three legs. The gray sky darkens as Edith stares first at the empty street then back at her lifeless dog. The first flakes of snow fall on the silent dog who does not notice and does not care.

"Dropped it down the drain, didn't you, Ed?" she chuckles. "Stupid dog."

Untitled by Thordora

2005-09-27T12:00:00.005-04:00

I can’t think of anything to write. I keep thinking about this one author I read about in the Ottawa Citizen awhile back, a long lifetime ago, who ranted on and on pretentiously about how his next piece of work would come from him sitting in a total white room, in total isolation from everything. He worked best that way he said. Kept his mind a blank slate.

I’d go fucking insane I would. Off the deep end. Off my rocker, into the abyss, wrapped in a cocoon like that, and expected to emerge with a masterpiece. I don’t remember ever seeing his book, so I assume it came out like the proverbial work of monkeys in a room.

I used to wonder what he did about the food. I’d imagine bringing in a papaya, or a pomegranate, or manicotti. The splash of color against the white, it would run riot. Would that disturb this fragile masterpiece? I always wanted to run in with paintguns.

So I wonder if my mind would be easier to capture if I wasn’t distracted by the mess on my side of the bed-why can’t I keep it neater? Why can’t I pile up the books and the random journals and notebooks? Why do I never ever toss out my old kleenex’s? I wonder if it would be easier to write something moving and meaningful if I didn’t fixate on the pile of ill-fitting lingerie on the floor, left there some 5 months ago since I couldn’t bear throw them away, and yet was nauseated by the thought of giving it to charity, and someone else wearing my panties, even though I never did wear them. I just kept them in a drawer for 6 years.

Would it be easier to capture a mind, and a perfect thought if I didn’t constantly wonder what color would work best in my workspace, other than the old cigarette dirt I still haven’t washed off, and if I didn’t constantly crave a cigarette, although I’ve almost reached my insurance cheapening one year free.

Oh my fuck I would just about kill for a cigarette right now. A smooth, tasty Benson & Hedges Special Ultra Light would wash down my throat in the most wonderful way right now…….I know better but…

That’s the problem with that white room. These thoughts would leap frog in on me regardless, wait for me to be weakened by them and pounce. The white would remind me how poor I am, how I wish to provide more for my children and yet, want to be poor to prove that you don’t need money to be happy. Seems to be working so far.

Then I think back to that pretentious bastard with the white linen shirt, the thick black hair falling in contrast against his smug face, the expensive white pants. Why are white clothes never cheap? Does it mean more that you have to be cautious so you don’t destroy them? Are things only more meaningful if you need to be so careful that you never really live?

So I sit here, full of nothing to write because that white room possessed me 15 years ago, incensed me, and kept me from finding my words. A white room, full of nothing but me.

Driving on the Motorway in Bad Weather by Herge Smith

2005-09-27T12:00:00.004-04:00

Driving on the motorway in bad weather

I’m starting to feel genuinely scared.

I can no longer see more than 20 metres ahead of me and everything is blurry and swimming around. I can just make out the taillights of the car in front and that’s all. Huge articulates thunder past me and more than once I get caught between two of them racing through the storm, vying to be ahead by a metre or so.

The phone’s already off. Two reasons; firstly I can’t bear to talk to anyone right now, this is a cardinal sin and if I don’t take a gun into work with me Monday morning, then I’ll be having a chat with the boss about this infringement to our detailed and extensive list of ‘non official’ rules.

Secondly, I fear a moment’s lapse in concentration during a vigorous bout of ‘lets close you’ will get me killed.

No joke.

I can’t see the painted lines which separate the lanes anymore. I know they are down there somewhere, on the lakebed, I just can’t see them so I judge my position by most distance from the central reservation and other motorists.

This storm has raged for hours and I don’t seem to be able to drive out of it. Of course, I am driving way too fast for these conditions, what the police describe on TV as ‘dangerously fast’, but then who doesn’t?

I’m gripping onto the steering wheel so hard my fingers are numb. I nervously release each hand in slow rotation to allow the blood to circulate. Every so often, I hit a deeper patch of water and the wheel jerks away from me as the tires lose their last grip on the road. My heart skips a beat every single time. But I go on.

The stereo blares out and I sing along desperately trying to take my mind off the danger I am in, but it doesn’t really work. At least I won’t have any interruptions from the RDS; turned it off ages long ago. What can they tell me that I don’t already know? – Weathers bad, stay home if you can, only make a journey if essential – making a living, is that essential enough?

I hate this so much; all I am is a bag of meat and thin bone in a ton of metal travelling at 90 mph in torrential rain with limited visibility and a constant pounding headache. Just a single mistake, and I’m under the wheels of a lorry load of Coke or Huggies and that’s me done, just one of the 4,000 poor bastards who will be killed on the road this year.

Side impact bars, ABS braking system, traction control and air bags verses ten tons of wheels, axel and engine.

The same thought goes through my head on a loop; not seeing them in time, braking hard, sliding and having that single second of shear undiluted panic before impact.

“I’m going to die - ”

The rear of the lorry smashing through the windscreen and I become recognisable only by my dental records.

No, no, no, not going to happen, not my time. I’m going to get home, get out of this suit, put on an old T-Shirt and jeans, order a pizza, take a pill for the headache. Watch some classic Buffy and go to bed. Start again the tomorrow.

Someone says in a movie that the more you drive the dumber you become. Close, but I believe the truth of it is the more you drive, the more you become detached from humanity. Got to really, because if the high speed, high impact car accidents don’t get you, the interminable boredom from the six hour traffic jams will tip you over the edge.

Or you’ll pick up a nasty skin-eating infection from a Welcome Break toilet.

I’m drinking out of a travel bottle (i.e. inflated price) of Evian when it happens, and God it happens fast.

I’m in the centre lane, cruising, a lorry sits to my left and I’m between the trailer and the cab. There is no way this guy can see me now, so unless he caught sight of me as I went in to his blind spot, I simply don’t exist. To my right is a family saloon, which I glanced across to a second or two before. The driver, Dad I assume, with his head and chin raised up talking through the rear view mirror to his kid or kids in the back. Next to driver is a woman (Mum) sat with her head propped up against the window with a small travel (i.e. inflated price) cushion.

It’s dark; I can’t see a thing other than two sets of red tale lights in front, vaguely sketched out like a pastels on an oil painting. I’m not at a safe distance, none of us are, there are no safe distances in this weather, only at home in bed.

Then both lights suddenly blaze. Instinctively I brake. The heart attack doesn’t kick in, but the ABS does, and I feel the car judder. I instantly see that old tire advert where you get a cross section of the ring of rubber forging through the rain drenched road like Moses across the Red Sea, and I pray to the God of the Jews that I have that tire. Then everything slows down.

The lorry to the left and family car to the right shoot past me, the lorry is slower but the momentum cased by its weight drives it forward. The fate of the family car decided by a moment’s distraction caused by sibling argument over who said what to whom and who pulled whose hair.

Too late for both; they plunge into the vehicles in front.

I’ve never seen an accident like this before. I’ve seen the aftermath on TV and have often driven by as the police wave me on sneering at my voyeuristic urge to see the ‘carmageddon’. Easy for the police to sneer when that little badge gets them front row centre to every act of violence, destruction and vice our fragile bodies are capable of. It must be the best show in town, like a continual parade of CSI’s and Law and Order’s, but without all the glitz and resolution.

I tense for impact, its inevitable, as I look to my left catching a glimpse in my rear view mirror, nothing there, the lorry is starting to skid but it’s skidding away from me. And then it hits, the back arches up and then crashes down, all is glass. I turn to my right and the family car is embedded in a white van in front; my car is now stationary less than a metre from the motor in front. Before I can finally let the exasperated air out of my lungs, a second car piles into the family car, condensing it from a saloon to a sub compact in less than a second.

I brace again and look up at my mirror, but still nothing.

I sit for I don’t know how long, waiting for something to happen. All the time my bitch is smacked up at three quarters of the maximum volume.

I remember as a child seeing a safety awareness play performed in a school assembly by one of those dreadful touring companies, so well satirised by the League of Gentlemen. Jack and Jill go out on the piss then they crash the car and Jill is killed and we all learn the evils of drink driving, except we don’t and the headmaster is sacked when he loses his licence six months later for a similar offence. What really stuck in my mind was when those two twenty-something, sad, desperate, wannabee actors, drove round making engine noises they did so with The Carpenters playing over the top. They crash and all is silent apart from Karen banging out ‘Superstar’ as fiercely as her badly emaciated frame can handle.

And I remember it sounding so utterly pathetic.

And that’s all I can hear how.

Sitting in my car in the middle of chaos and carnage and my stereo is blaring out phat beats.

I lean forward and switch it off. Screams replace it.

I unbuckle my seat belt and get out of my car, stepping onto the surface of the motorway for the first time in my life. The rain soaks through my shirt in seconds. I look around and there is glass and pieces of moulded plastic all over the carriageway. The traffic moving in the opposite direction has stopped. The family car is crushed beyond recognition and no sound comes from it. The driver in the lorry is screaming for help. Behind me, cars are turned over, and one is alight. Those that are out of their cars seem dazed, as am I.

I look at my own car. Not a scratch on it.

Carte Blanche by MC Etcher

2005-09-27T12:00:00.003-04:00

Carte Blanche

By MC Etcher / Mike Kurilko

"So we're here - why again?" Donna asked in disgust, spitting her gum onto the grass in uncouth punctuation.

It was an old block in the oldest part of Los Angeles County. Shabby, once-proud apartments dating from the 1920's were crowded next to seedy car repair shops, a coin laundry and a heavily barred Checks Cashed Here NO ID!

"This is where I lived when I was eighteen." Matt said. "Right after my folks gave me the boot."

"I thought you got along with them." She shot back, wondering why his parents would punish him like this. A couple of teenagers were across the street, waxing a street-racing abomination.

"We got along fine. But it was time for me to move out."

"That explains why it's a shithole." She watched as one of the teenagers sized her up and nudged his buddy. The taller one was actually pretty hot - he was shirtless, his well defined muscles on public display.

"It's not. It's just old." Matt shook his head. "You didn't have to come, you know. Could have stayed at the hotel."

"Wish I had." She tugged her too-short midriff shirt down, perfectly in place to barely graze her ribs.

"Why didn't you?" Care for some fish with your whine?

Because I'm a nosy and jealous bitch and you have ex'es in this neighborhood. "I was bored and thought this would be better than an empty suite." She adjusted her bra, sliding her thumbs under shirt and bra from sides-to-front. The teenagers loved this and debated breaking into applause.

"I tried to tell you." He muttered, irked.

"Uh-huh." She wandered off about ten feet, under the shade of a tree and began playing with her cell phone. We're done talking, by the way. Yes, she was gorgeous - and selfish. It was over, but they had yet to schedule the exit interview. Not now, though - it would be inconvenient.

He sat down on the steps and looked up at the nearest second floor window, his old apartment. The window was gone, replaced by a weather-greyed piece of plywood.

He bit his lip and considered. He'd planned to go up and knock on the door, ask the tenant to let him in and poke around the old familiar nooks. But the neighborhood had really deteriorated in the last ten years. If the inside of the apartment looked anything like the outside, he was better off with his memories.

He checked his watch. Almost four PM. He glanced across the street. The hot-rodder teenagers were trying and failing to catch covert pics of Donna with their camera phones. He felt a vague zap of jealousy, more possession than love. Her tits feel like curdled Jell-O, boys - you're welcome to them. And the rest of her.

"There he is!" He chirped out loud without meaning to.

An old man had come around the corner, pushing a heavily laden shopping cart. The shopping cart was an antique, a discolored metal artifact that seemed to date to the 1950's. The cart was bent and battered, only two wheels touching the sidewalk at any one time. Rare and random flecks of chrome glittered like stars forcing their way through the glare of streetlights.

The man pushing the cart didn't look much better. At least seventy, he was much more stooped than Matt remembered. He wore what seemed the same faded baseball cap and plaid work shirt as a decade before. He strained to keep the heavy cart on track, more by force of will than application of physics.

The cart was piled with consumable consumer goods - elotes, or grilled corn, churro's - sugary fried dough, and twin coolers of precious cargo - paletas, or Mexican ice-cream bars of fruit and milk, and of course, tamales.

Matt rushed over like a kid sprinting for the ice cream truck.

Hector was startled to see a man running straight for him. Kids he was used to. Women he was used to. But the only men he dealt with were muggers or cops. His right hand twitched for the baseball bat he once kept tucked in a cardboard and duct tape scabbard at the back of the cart, but then remembered that he'd stopped carrying it years ago. Now the scabbard was filled with twisty-torn paper slivers, Pythagorean wrapper shards from hundreds of rolls of Rolaids.

"Hector!" Matt yelled, screeching to a stop. Hector still didn't recognize Matt, and was seriously considering disappearing ninja-like in a confetti storm of heartburn wrappers.

"Aigh!" Hector yelled, groping for the nearest weapon - a churro.

Matt backed up a pace.

"Hector, I'm sorry. It's me, Matt. Remember? I used to live right there?"

Donna watched as the old fart gave Matt a giant hug. You could tell the old guy used to be pretty strong, because in his enthusiasm he tried to pick Matt up. If I ever get that old, fucking kill me. When you were so old, you forgot how sad and feeble you were, damn. If Matt knew this guy from ten years ago, that meant the poor old fool had been peddling his Salmonella-sharing cart crap for a long time. Maybe his whole life. Suicide IS an option people. He's probably Catholic though, right? Oh well.

Matt and the old guy were chatting away in Spanish, and Donna felt a stab of irritation. Since when could Matt speak Spanish? And when was the last time he had used his hands like that when he was talking with her? Actually and totally into what he was saying. He looked like he was conducting the Loony Toons Orchestra.

The clincher was this morning. She'd sneezed, and he was sitting right there, and he didn't say 'Bless you'. She'd read an article about how it was the polite niceties that went first - the please's and thank you's, the subtle nods to thoughtfulness. They weren't thinking of you anymore, so what - whom - are they thinking about?

She saw Matt gesture in her direction, and she dropped her eyes and chin, pretended to look at her phone. Through her bangs she glared from under her brow and watched Hector wave at her. She pretended not to see, very absorbed in her phone.

Matt shrugged an apology, shook the old guy's hand, and returned to her with two churros.

"Here, they're still warm." He offered her one.

She fought the urge to back away. "Had a big lunch." Her smile was a grimace.

Now that Matt had left him alone, Hector began his chant, a musical, lilting cadence listing his goods. To Donna it was noise, and to Matt was home. Kids scampered to all sides of the cart, several climbing aboard to get a closer look.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Once the cab picked them up - the speed, tinted windows and air conditioning caused Donna to feel better immediately.

Umm. "He seems like a really nice old guy." She prompted.

"Mmn-Hm." Matt replied, unwilling to forgive her so quickly.

"So you knew him when you lived here?"

"Yep."

"Seems like a dangerous neighborhood for him." Golly.

"It's his neighborhood. He's fine."

"He seemed really happy to see you."

Matt was silent, looking out the window.

Shit. "How did you two meet?" She held her eyes open, unblinking, letting her eyes burn and tear up a bit. Even on a subconscious level, no one can resist a dewy-eyed damsel.

"I used to buy tamales from him."

"I didn't know you liked Spanish food."

"It's Mexican food. And I do. But it hurts my stomach, so I don't have it very often any more." Don't you remember?

"Yeah Mexican food. I love those chawloopy things. How did you two get to be so close? I've been shopping at the same organic market for five years and I've never hugged the guy who sprays the veggies."

"I did a story on street vendors when I was at The Daily Breeze. I spent a week with him as part of the story."

She blinked and bit back the urge to make a crack at the name of the newspaper. She knew he'd worked for a paper when he was first starting out, but.

"Right, right." She said, nodding. "So why did we -"

"I based the character in my first book on Hector pretty strongly. He's a really interesting guy and did some pretty crazy stuff during the Korean War. He was a POW, escaped, and was recaptured. They tortured him. He's got a lot of character. By the time he came home, his wife had run off with another guy, he never saw his kids again."

"Damn." Donna breathed.

"Yeah. He doesn't open up to many people, and if it weren't for him, that first book wouldn't have existed. Or the second book. No movie deal, no big contract." No trophy girlfriend, shucks and darn. "We wouldn't be on our way back to our suite at the Beverley Wilshire, yeah?"

"Ok. Sorry." She clipped the words with annoyance. "You could have told me what to expect. We just show up in a crummy part of town and those punks across the street were leering at me, and you didn't seem to care at all. And you left me alone. So excuse me for getting stressed out."

Crap. I did, didn't I? "I was distracted, I'm sorry.'

She glared at her nails, lips pressed tight. Now he felt guilty, which is where she liked him. Owing her.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

She squinted the crate with disdain. "Is this research for like, a book or something?"

"Everything is research." He returned, as if the phrase were a mantra.

They were in the delivery bay of the Beverly Wilshire, watching as two bellhops worked with pry bars to open the crate.

A wave of styrofoam peanuts splashed in all directions, revealing what looked like a stunted riding lawn mower with a two-pronged fork at the front.

"Matt. What the hell is this?"

"It's a motorized, ride-on pallet lifter." He waved his arm like one of those girls on The Price is Right. "For Hector." He finished proudly. "It's rechargeable!"

Ohh kay, "Uh-huh. Is it street legal?"

"It's not for the street, see he can use this on the sidewalk." Matt explained reasonably. "I owe this man, Donna. I want to help him." After years of living paycheck to paycheck, he was finally able to do something important for other people. It made him want to dance a personal private jig.

"Yeah, all right. If you want to help him, move him into a nursing home. You can afford it."

"What? He doesn't need a nursing home. Why would he be happy in a place like that?"

"No, like a good one. Where they actually take care of you." Donna explained. Matt gave her a disgusted look. He was always so damned empathic: 'When you're old, how would you feel if.' She knew she wouldn't live that long.

She tossed her hands up. "Well shit - buy him a new shopping cart then. He's not gonna be able to use that motorized thing. He'll run over a little kid or kill a dog or something."

Matt shook his head angrily.

"My ideas are always bullshit to you. It's a good thing you weren't around when I came up with the idea for Circumspect. The book would never have been written, and that huge sparkly rock on your finger would belong to some other haute couture bitch."

"Hey watch your French." She closed her fist protectively, in case he was tempted to reclaim his ring. This was a paranoia of hers, The Ring-Taking. She was fully prepared to swallow it, if necessary.

He held his hands up as if to stop traffic. "Just... Go back to the room, okay? I'm gonna head on over, give this to him today."

"Fine." She left him ankle-deep in styrofoam, forgetting her immediately, happy as a clam.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

They ate their room-service dinner in near silence, which made the fork-on-plate-teeth-scraping, scotch-swilling noises nearly unbearable.

To avoid pouncing across the table and gagging him with a linen napkin, she resorted to give a shit mode. How Was Your Day, Dear?

Avoid yes or no questions: "What did he say when you gave it to him?"

Now primed, Matt was too excited to punish her with silence any longer.

"He cried." Matt looked a little embarrassed, even now.

Why? Because his buddy had shed tears over a lumpy go-cart?

"He thanked me and hugged me and cried and I showed him how to run it. I actually drove it back to his house for him."

"He has a house?"

"Lives with his grandson and daughter-in-law, yeah." Wait, grand-daughter-in-law?

"That's great, Baby. Sounds like you made his day. Do you mind if I turn on the TV?"

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Two days later Matt was driving a rental car stealthily through the twenty-two block route Hector had followed for twenty-eight years.

The Bose satellite radio was off. The air conditioner was off. He was in quiet mode, don't-see-me posture. His BMW was about as nondescript as a limo at a garage sale.

He wasn't here to talk, he just wanted to watch from a distance. He wanted to see Hector cruising along in his powered cart, some refreshing drink in the cup-holder, Hector proud and happy and not pushing the damned rock uphill for once.

And he didn't want to talk because Hector might cry again. Yesterday was hard. Hector hugging him tight and saying his name and the crying out names, Jesus and Mary and Vincent de Paul and tears streaming down his too-tan face. Melanoma spots speckled his nose and cheeks.

Crying, because someone reached out to help, crying because he had needed help, because his hands trembled and were weak and because this simple machine was over his head and he knew he would never learn anything complicated again. Crying because Matt had remembered him, across novels and movie deals and trips to Italy and years and miles and not even his own family was so thoughtful.

There!

Matt couldn't see Hector, but he saw the tell-tale throng of kids crowded tight as only ice cream can inspire. Too tight.

The throng broke up to reveal the same old battered cart. It had been dressed in a half-hearted coat of silver spray-paint which was now enthusiastically flaking off.

Matt let out a long sigh.

He couldn't confront the old man about it. Maybe Hector had left the machine on overnight, and the battery had run down. Maybe he had been touched, but didn't like it. Maybe he had sold it to help pay for prescriptions.

Matt's hand was on the door handle, but he stopped himself. This wasn't the time or place. Tomorrow morning, at Hector's house.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Why did I bring her? Matt asked himself.

Because awkward social situations were often softened by a feminine presence. The navigation computers in fighter planes had female voices for a reason.

Not that a lot of awkwardness went down at fifteen thousand feet: "Dad, I think I'm gay." - "Great son, can we not discuss this while I'm bristling with warheads and rocketing along at twice the speed of sound? Thanks."

Donna was deeply involved with her eyebrows, a magnifying mirror in a compact capturing huge reflections of the tiny hairs below her eyes. Matt caught glimpses of this and was turned off - she looked like a Venus Flytrap.

There's the house. A sun-faded Honda Civic occupied the driveway, so Matt parked on the street.

He let out a big breath.

"Okay - uh Donna, I'm gonna need your help here. Hector's a proud guy, and we're not really all that close. I mean, I knew him for a year like ten years ago. So it's not really my place, you know. To question or pressure him at all."

"Right." She continued to probe her eyebrows.

"So if while we're here, you can be that beautiful, charming and disarming girl I love most of all in the whole wide world." He paused as she finally looked up and caught his gaze. " - That would be great."

I'll get to work on those TPS Reports too, Chief. "Sure," She flashed an almost-genuine smile at him. "I've just been you know, jetlagged. I'm having a good hair day."

"Cool.' He leaned over and kissed her ear.

They approached the house, what looked like a one-bedroom cottage built in the 1930's. The roof and driveway were new, the yard prim and well kept.

The pallet lifter was sitting in the front yard with a large For Sale sign precariously masking-taped to its side. A tacky, cardboard, hand-scrawled sign. In nearly unreadable blue ballpoint pen, no less - Donna noted.

"That's gratitude." She muttered.

Matt sighed. "It's his to do what he wants with it."

He pressed the doorbell but heard nothing. He leaned closer to the door and pressed it again. Nothing. He pounded on the door with the heel of his hand, harder than he meant to.

"It's his to do what he wants." Donna mimicked in a whisper.

Matt threw her a sharp glare over his shoulder, just as the door opened.

"Yes?" A woman of about thirty opened the door, baby on her hip.

"Uh. Hi I'm Matt. I wanted to speak to Hector."

A voice came from inside the house, the words too muffled for them to hear.

The woman called back, "Some people want to buy the cart I think."

Matt was getting frustrated as a shirtless man in jeans and work boots came to the door. The woman backed off a few paces, but stayed to watch.

"Yeah? You want to buy the cart? Five hundred." He jerked his chin in a curt guy-nod.

Matt shook his head, releasing a frustrated breath. "I already bought it once. Was about three thousand."

That's Dollars, buddy - not Pesos. Donna wanted to say, and then scolded herself for the thought.

"Huh?" The man wasn't getting it.

"Look, I bought the cart for Hector. I just want to talk to him."

"No, man. Can't. He's dead." He frowned to himself, wishing he could have said 'passed away'.

Matt brushed this aside. "What? No. I just saw him yesterday."

The man chuckled darkly, pulling on a work shirt. "Yeah, it doesn't take long." Seeing that his morbid joke had belly flopped, he tossed up his hands in apology. "Look, he was an old man, all right? Seventy-seven years old. He'd been sick a long time."

Stunned, "What happened? When?" Matt had to know.

Airy wave: "His heart. Last night, after dinner. We were watching Jeopardy and he fell off the couch."

Matt recoiled. We watched Jeopardy last night. I wonder which question was being asked as he died. Matt knew he would never ask.

They jotted down the date and time for the funeral, and moved away from the door. Matt stood stock still in the driveway, staring at the heat wavering from the new asphalt.

After about a minute, Donna touched his arm. He didn't respond. Donna looked up to see the woman peek at them through the curtains of the living room.

"Matt. Hey." She put a hand on his shoulder.

"Yeah." His autopilot replied.

"We should go." She squeezed his shoulder.

"Yeah." His mouth was open, his eyes fixed.

What the hell? "Matt, is there something about this guy you didn't tell me? Is he your long lost uncle or something?"

"No," He answered finally. He was suddenly very aware of the sun beating down on his face and arms. WeatherDotCom said the UV index was level 8 - Very High today. Hector had been too deeply tan for a reason. He felt no urge to move.

Donna guided him back to the car. She remembered the day she'd had her eyes dilated, he'd led her like this, she was blind. The sun was too bright, even though she was wearing huge granny shades, even though her eyes were clenched tightly closed.

She put him in the passenger seat and started the engine, cranked the AC to high.

Matt stared at the dash.

"Matt. So. Back to the hotel?"

No answer.

She made an annoyed but forced-indulgent chuckle: "Honey, snap out of it. Talk to me. What's wrong?"

He blinked. He caught her eye. She looked away, since his eyes were wet and she couldn't bear it.

"What if I killed him?" He confided softly.

"Huh?"

"What if I did it? He was weak, and I came along and pushed him over."

"No, Honey." She breathed. "He was - an elderly man. Seventy-seven years old! It was his time."

"I hurt his pride. Sometimes that's all a person has. He was managing, he was working, hell, providing a public service. He was doing fine, and I came along."

Donna was silent. What to say?

"I came along and said 'You're old and slow and you need help. You can't do it. You're limping along like a fool. You're lost and you don't know it.' "

Donna shook her head with certainty. "No." You did a great thing. You showed him that there were people out there who remembered him, people he'd touched and changed."

Matt clenched his teeth, defiant. Eyes narrowed, considering.

Donna knew that look.

Uh-oh. "Matt, what?" He wants to pay for the funeral. Fine, whatever makes him happy.

"I want to work his route." He said slowly.

Silence for two or three beats as she absorbed this. The air conditioner pumped freezing air into the tiny space and she felt goosebumps all over. She couldn't be bothered to turn it off.

"You mean, go tell all the kids and housewives that he won't be coming back." She knew this wasn't what he meant. That would be too simple.

"No, I want to work his route. Sell churros and elotes and see the neighborhood and the kids rowdy from sitting in class all day, and the housewives damp from work and chores. The little old ladies with their ridiculous, cute rat-dogs. The sun and the wind and the traffic."

She knew he didn't mean to do the job for just a day or a week. How do you respond to crazy-talk? If she tried to talk him out of it, she would become The Enemy and he would do it to spite her. Despite her.

All she could do was agree. "All right, you should do that. He would like that. You're going to have a pretty full schedule. The deadline for the next book is just a month away."

"What?" He spat back in disbelief. Wasn't she listening at all? He wanted to punch something, smash it to bits, and prove his point with bloody-knuckled fists.

Part of him trembled to be called away from this foolish plan, so simple and scary. She would leave him, the cart peddler. She loved the worldly author-author! not the simple frightened man.

"Well, you've got obligations." She nodded reasonably. "Obligations to your publisher, to yourself." To ME.

She calmly tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and widened her encouraging blue eyes at him. "I mean, we're supposed to be in Boston on Tuesday."

He opened his mouth to tell her and everyone else to go to hell, when reality hit him with a sigh. Being here in the old town had made him feel eighteen again. Free. Free enough to make mistakes and follow the foolish path.

But he wasn't eighteen or a wounded war veteran. War veterans could do anything they pleased. Wow, he's really out there - yeah well, he's a War Veteran. Oh, well then, I didn't know.

Matt wasn't a cart peddler, he was a professional with contracts and responsibilities and a surprisingly patient woman. For once he didn't question her motives. At a mere twenty-eight, he suddenly felt old and limited - hemmed in by his choices, each decision a door that was now locked with a metal-on-metal CLANG of finality.

He closed his eyes and shook his head. A small laugh escaped him, a 'gosh-I've been silly' sound. Surrender.

"Let's get back to the hotel."

END

Untitled by Aasmo Deus

2005-09-27T12:00:00.002-04:00

Charlene ran for the train, heart pounding in her heaving bosom to the rhythm of her feet pounding on the heaving pavement. Frost heaves, of course, for this was Southern Michigan, where the snow blowers were just glad their owners didn't live in Northern Michigan.

"Toot, toot!" the train chastised her, mockingly, as it chug-chugged out of the station slowly, mockingly, teasingly beckoning her to just... run... a little... more. The sun was setting, this was no time to be waiting at the dock station alone, not when you were a 35-year old blonde bombshell glistening with exertion. The sun was setting, it was revealing her slipless figure to the gentleman of the night waiting in the dark corner of the five and dime newsstand where everybody got their paper and joe, but nobody got the news or slaked their never-ending thirst.

"Damnittohell!" Charlene muttered under her husky breath, sounding like a phone sex operator. It was husky from three packs a day. Tomorrow, she would tell herself each day, tomorrow I go cold turkey. Trouble was, she didn't know where Turkey was, so she was never going to make it there. She was also a vegetarian, which is why she settled, disgruntled, on a station bench and opened up her Insta-Heat can of vegetable broth with Soy Protein. If only that bastard ex of hers hadn't completely turned her off to meat, with those "issues" of his, she might still be able to hold down a nice juicy piece of beef. Oh God, the thought of it almost made her retch right on the gentleman's shoes.

"Excuse me, I couldn't help but notice you missed your train. It wouldn't be safe here after dark; may I offer you a ride home?" he asked in such a calm silvery baritone. She could melt into that voice, melt... like butter. Before he could catch her distraction out in left field, she gathered her remaining wits and responded huskily, "I hardly know you, sir, I could not accept your offer. Although I really would rather not be stuck here after dark."

She didn't wish to regurgitate the news, but what most frightened her was the recent news flash about a murder streak. Blondes, all of them. Husky voices, all of them. Vegetarians. All of them. How did the murderer know? How could he? Could this guy be him? No, he wouldn't be so suave, so well-mannered. Would he? Was this how he lured his husky blonde vegetarians to their imminent doom?

Obsession by Vandamir Windrider

2005-09-27T12:00:00.001-04:00

Obsession
By: Vandamir Windrider

They are obsessed with death and violence. How or why is a mystery; all that is known is that their conversations constantly revolve around these things.

Last autumn, when Nature's frosty stare maimed the mornings, they talked about the man who was killed and eaten by a polar bear in a small Alaskan village. They weren't very interested in the incident itself. They knew that the bear had killed the man out of hunger. The only thing they really discussed was the man's bloody death. He had gone up against one of the world's largest and most vicious predators empty handed in order to save the life of his wife and unborn child. They admired the man's sacrifice, though ultimately they were glad the bear hadn't been slaughtered for her instinctual kill; she may have had cubs to feed. It's almost as if they care for animal life more than human. But they never discuss that, only death.

And when Nature threw dark, cold tantrums that descended with fury on this land, they discussed the black albino who went crazy, shot his mother and sister, and held his brother at gun point until his life was ended by a well-placed sniper's bullet. They talked it over for hours even though they didn't know anyone involved. Maybe the discussion lasted so long because it involved the mysterious darkness and pain that is concealed in the human mind; but, maybe not.

Then as Nature warmed the awaiting world with her fragrant breath, they examined the violent murder on a college campus. A girl had been found--cut, slashed, and raped--in a dorm bathroom. The police had no clues except the skin samples found under her fingernails. And those were useless unless there was a list of suspects. They talked about the murderer. Was he a student? Would he ever be caught once school let out for the summer? They discussed the effects the murder would have on the college. Would it lower the enrollment for the next year? Would the college beef up security? And if so, how? Security already carried guns, what more could the state do to make the college safe? They didn't know anything, they just speculated.

Even as Nature shed joyous tears of life on the water-starved landscape, they discussed the bloated, decaying body that had been found behind the local high school. How had he died? Did he have a fatal fall? Or did he fall into the water and drown? Or maybe he fell and died from hypothermia? It was a mystery. The authorities didn't even know--the body was in too bad of shape; only a few scrapes of clothing and a pale, featureless corpus were left. So featureless, in fact, that the man who first found it thought it was a skinned animal someone had shot out of season. They discussed it anyway. They remembered all the missing-person posters plastered around town two months before and how, even then, they figured he had died somewhere, though they knew nothing of the man except he had disappeared.

And today, although Nature's passion again heats the known world, there they are; their wicked beaks clattering incessantly and their bright eyes glinting with a warped hunger as they noisily contemplate another grisly, blood-soaked body and pay no attention to the brilliant smile that beams down upon their glossy blue-black feathers or the fragrant sounds and sparkling smells of the thriving world around them. They're too obsessed with scavenging through the refuse of human nature to see the beauty beyond it.

War by Vandamir Windrider

2005-09-27T12:00:00.000-04:00

War
By: Vandamir Windrider

I wasn't in the mood to put up with my wife's witless bickering that evening but I knew I was in for it.

It was even worse than I had imagined. She started in on me before I could step into the house. She had to have been waiting right there at the door, listening for my key in the lock, waiting like a tiger awaits its prey: poised to pounce.

The instant I opened the door she was standing in the way, hands on her wide hips and a frown on her puffy face. "Where have you been? Ya could've called! I was worried. For all I knew, ya could 've died in a ditch. You could show a lil' consideration toward me. I am your wife. Or have you forgotten that? Is that what happened? Ya met some cute lil' chickie and forgot all about your poor aging wife slaving away here at home? Huh? Well, answer me! Where were you?"

"Shut up, bitch." I said, pushing past her, shedding my coat, and preparing myself for combat.

Her mouth snapped shut in surprise and she stood staring at me in bug-eyed silence. It didn't last long though, the battle had yet to be won.

Her cheeks flushing in anger, she struggled to find an insult to throw back at me. She didn't succeed.

"How dare you? You have no right to call me that. I'm your wife."

"So you keep reminding me. Now shut up and get my dinner. I hope it's still warm."

She glared at me, turned swiftly, and hurried toward the kitchen, orange flowered house dress flapping loudly against her stocky legs. I watched it for a minute before yelling, "You could have at least gotten dressed today! What are you, a slovenly pig?"

She didn't answer so I collapsed into my favorite chair, smiling to myself as I picked at the stuffing spilling from the worn plaid arm. Winning was getting easier all the time. She was losing her fighting spirit just as she had lost her beauty and youth.

She returned in a matter of minutes carrying a tray laden with food. She handed it to me sullenly. I grimaced unpleasantly at her and began to eat. She sat in the chair across from me, watching, anger simmering in her eyes. If I had squinted I could have seen steam rising from the pink foam curlers on her graying head. I pointedly ignored her, though, and focused my attention on my dinner.

I cut off a chunk of colorless meat noticing the cold congealed fat that clung to it. I complained and she began the next skirmish.

"Well, what do ya expect? You're four hours late. I can't be expected to keep dinner warm for you when you're that late. If you had called then maybe . . . ."

I slowly ate the tasteless meat, staring unseeingly at my plate trying to block out her senseless nagging. It didn't work very well but it helped. Now her words were only the droning of an insect; annoying but quiet and inconsequential. I only had to smash it to rid myself of it.

Suddenly, a bile rose to my throat. I jumped up, knocking the tray to the floor. I rushed to the bathroom gagging, still able to hear her endless complaints.

" . . . look what ya did. All over my clean floor. Why did you have to do that? Have ya no manners? I spend all day cleaning and cooking and where does it leave me? With an ungrateful husband who never comes home on time, that's where. Why do I put up with you?"

I sat on the cool white tile in front of the porcelain toilet, unable to empty my stomach but still gagging. Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime, my stomach settled and I slowly got to my feet.

After rinsing my mouth out and splashing cold water on my face, I steeled myself and dared to look in the mirror. I watched the image of the slightly balding, middle-aged man become distorted and unclear and I felt a sinking in the pit of my stomach.

I leaned heavily against the wall as the room began to spin and dizzy colors flashed before my eyes. I sank to the floor, trying desperately to remain conscious but to no avail. As I waited to become the next fatality in an unending contest, my wife's high-pitched voice came to me from the doorway.

"Well, I hope you appreciate all the trouble I went to. It isn't easy to lace a steak with poison I hope ya know. Did it taste good? Did you enjoy it? Answer . . . ."

The Blogger Story Competition

Contents

Rules and Disclaimers

Untitled by MHN for Short

Edith and Ed by Invisible Lizard

Untitled by Thordora

Driving on the Motorway in Bad Weather by Herge Smith

Carte Blanche by MC Etcher

Untitled by Aasmo Deus

Obsession by Vandamir Windrider

War by Vandamir Windrider