general fiction

Dream Teacher

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Dream Teacher

Two college students were having a conversation on a bench outside of one of their professor’s office.  “If you could spend a few months with any historical figure known to man, who would it be?” asked Becky, she was deep in thought.  “I am not sure,” answered Calvin, “I study a lot, however I think I would enjoy learning something to do with a hobby.”

“A hobby?” asked Becky, “What do you mean; are you going to go with ‘Monet’ or someone?”  “No,” said Calvin, “I would choose the famous mathematician Pythagoras.”  “I see – you want to get to the bottom of understanding more about math,” said Becky, trying to back up her friend, Calvin, known by others on campus as someone who was  a good choice for a study partner.  He made good grades.

“No,” said Calvin, “I chose him out of many people, because of an interesting historical fact I read about him two days ago.”  “Oh?” said Becky.  “Did you know that this whole idea of an eight-note ‘octave’ came from him?  He alone devised the idea with metal strings and, to this very day, we as humans compose music according to his real-life experimentation with wires.  If I could go back in time, I would spend a year with him; we would make a handmade baby-grand piano.  I could teach him ‘Jingle Bells’ – I could learn from him.”

“Wow,” said Becky, as their professor was coming up the wooden stairway, “I think I would have gone with Martha Stewart.”  Calvin looked over to her; she blushed.  “Nice choice,” said Calvin.  He looked to the ground and thought, “Could she be the one?”

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The Letter

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The Letter

     One time, there was a pretty young girl named Patty.  She was walking home from school; her bus just dropped her off.  “What a long day,” she thought, and she saw a small piece of paper on the ground with the word “Dear” visible.  Patty picked up the note and read it while continuing to walk – she was in a hurry to get home, trying to get a sugar cookie for a chore she had been thinking of all day.  The letter read:

“Dear Galvin,

I am happy you are my boyfriend.  I like the candy you give me; my friends think you are cool.  One day, you can work for my daddy and buy a car.  I am glad we are ‘going together’.  I love you.

Your girlfriend,

Penelope”

“I know of a Penelope,” thought Patty, “She is in the grade above me.  I will have to bring this note to her tomorrow – I wonder if it is the same person.  We could be friends, one day, if she is a nice person.”

Patty returned home in good time and took out all of the trash in her house.  Her mother would return at any minute – she was sure to be allowed to eat at least one nice, fluffy sugar cookie.

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Her Loss, Part Three of Three

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Her Loss, Part Three of Three

The Evans had certainly had a rough Friday night.  Christian woke up early, did not know that his blow to Cecilia had bruised her.  He left at sunrise to go play a game of golf and drink whiskey with fellow golfers.  As exciting as that was, Cecilia woke up as he was on his noisy mission to get to the golf course.  Her head was in pain.  She took some aspirin and longed to go back in time.  “I could have just remained a teacher,” she thought sadly, looking over her large and multi-colored bruise via the 3,000$ mirror in her guest bathroom.  “What am I to do?” asked Cecilia.  She thought about it a while, got dressed, and walked the four-acre walk it took to get to her neighbor’s house.  She would see a fellow Wormer; she was going to pay Muria a visit.

Cecilia wore a hat with a laced veil to keep her big bruise from view.  She walked to her neighbor’s and knocked on the front door like an Avon salesman.  Cecilia had only been over to see Muria a few times, before, and she was unable to figure out other options.  Her bruised eye was not even functioning perfectly – Cecilia had a small twitch in her harmed eye.  Muria answered the front door in her Saturday morning dance robe; she had been doing aerobics-dancing with a video for the last hour or so.  “Cecilia!” exclaimed Muria; she was happy to see one of her most favorite people.

“What a nice surprise,” said Muria, “What brings you here?”  Cecilia went with a “non-euphemistic” philosophy and raised the silk from her hat.  “That angry drunk got me good,” said Cecilia, “What more does he want from me?”  Cecilia stood in tears; she did not even know she was crying.  Muria was all she had, really.  “Oh honey, come inside,” said Muria.  Muria consoled Cecilia holding her and rubbing her back and listening to all of the terrible things that had been happening.  The two cried and talked for a while, shared a tea, and Cecilia went back home.  They had made plans to see each other again later in the week.

Christian went on about his normal life, too busy to even care about his lonely housewife’s bruised head.  Ten days went by, and Cecilia’s bruise healed.  One night, she went to her book club.  “Anything happens to Christian, and Cecilia gets paid millions,” thought Muria.  Muria was not even too worried about many things; she thought Christian was not good enough for Cecilia.  He would never give up his bottle according to Muria’s opinion, and she was growing older, anyway.  Muria was an intelligent and deadly woman; she skipped the book club that week, as she sometimes did.  Muria got out an expensive bottle of bourbon, put it in her purse, got dressed, and walked to the Evans’ to ring the front door bell.

“Who is there?” asked Christian, he was intoxicated and had been watching CNN.  He opened the door to see Muria in sexy lingerie and a loosened night robe.  He let her in.  She gave him the bottle; he put that aside.  Muria lured Christian into the kitchen; they did not speak too much.  She caressed him and raised her right leg up to the counter; he came closer to her warmth.  Muria reached behind him and grasped a serrated steal bread knife, pulled him closer, and slit his main aorta with a one-inch deep wound.  Christian tried to grab and strangle her before he bled to death.  Muria was agile enough from martial arts instruction.  She was able to get his arms behind his back; he bled to death.

Muria cleaned the kitchen; she only had half of an hour and Cecilia would be back from the book club.  Muria put Christian’s body in a tall, thick outdoors liner bag.  She cleaned the kitchen really well, drank some of the bourbon, and made sure their was absolutely no sign of foul play.  Muria got the body into the Evans’ backyard and double-checked all that she could consider before leaving the mansion.  Everything was the way it would have been.  Muria dragged the body to a dark part of the yard – it neighbored her own yard.  She kept dragging him until she got him into a secure location, and Cecilia returned home from the book club shortly thereafter.

Muria cremated Christian’s body late in the night.  Cecilia called the police; no body was found.  Christian was pronounced dead, though there was no body to prove it.  Muria did not get caught.  Cecilia received a life insurance policy check for 5 million within good time.  Cecilia opened an art museum downtown, and she opened a private school for children the next fall.  Cecilia missed Christian from time to time; her counselors said that it was not a healthy notion to dwell on.  Muria, her husband, and Cecilia lived happily ever after.

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Three Songs

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Three Songs

One time two young college students were studying during the afternoon.  The young man, Nicholas, was studying for a mathematics class.  The young lady, Samantha, was reviewing her notes and reading for a social sciences class.  The two had inhabited a table outside of a Biology building.  They knew each other through other people; they found each other to be pleasant acquaintances.  Sam listened to her headphones and read for a while; Nick went over his math problems and began to solve them one by one.

Some time had gone by and Nick noticed Sam was daydreaming.  Half complete with his math work for the day, Nick decided to speak.  “What are you listening to?” he asked.  “It is a selection of mp3 files I put on a disk from the web,” said Sam, “The disk has three of my most favorite songs on it.”  “Oh?” said Nick, “What are your three most favorite songs?”  “I do not really have three most favorite songs,” said Sam, “I listen to different music depending on my mood or the time of the day.”  “Wow,” said Nick, “I suppose I do that, too.  I guess I do that, when I think about it.”

 

“So,” he asked again, “What are the three favorite songs on the disk?”  “She had been stalling, wanting to speak of phenomenal music that any person would agree on.  She only had twelve selections; she spoke.”  “I have a Mozart song, ‘Faith’, by George Michael, and some random song I liked by a rock and roll band, Black Diamond,” said Sam, trying to hide the idea that she was trying to impress Nick.  “I have heard of Black Diamond,” said Nick, “I do not know too much about them.”  She let him listen to the first part of their song and he liked it.

The two became close buddies and dated other people.  Once graduated, they worked in the same city for different companies, got married to other people, and their families stayed in close relations to each other for years and years.

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stratovarious

moonlight sonata

faith

day 3 prompt

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A Place in the Sky

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A Place in the Sky

As I was sitting on the bench, I checked my watch.  I had about thirty minutes, and my bus would pull up, then.  An old man with a newspaper walked up beside me and sat down on the bench.  “Where are you headed?” I asked; why would he care if I spoke?  He was about to talk anyway.  “My friends call me Mr. Herund,” said the man holding out his hand.  At the age of ten, I figured I could give the old man a firm handshake.

I shook the man’s hand with a nice grip and said, “My name is Mike, and I am on my way to Kentucky.”  “Me, too,” said Mr. Herund, grimly.  “You sound somewhat sad,” I said, “Why?”  “Well,” said Mr. Herund, “I am going to visit my deceased mother.”  “Oh,” I said, thinking, “My aunt’s place is going to be at least funner than that.”  I decided to try to bring joy to Mr. Herund.

“Where could you go, if you could go anywhere, and what would it look like?” I asked Mr. Herund.  “That is a dangerous question to ask me,” said Mr. Herund.  “Why?” I asked, and he said, “I am an avid reader and private independent editor and book critic.  I can blow a living man’s mind like a blond on 4th st, and I just finished reading Austin Tappan Wright’s “Islandia”.  The book contained a fictional continent in our real world named Karain.  “Wow,” I asked, “What is ‘Karain’ like?”

“Well,” said Mr. Herund, “I could tell you all about it, that I would visit it if I found it to be ‘accommodable’, however it would not be as fun as asking you what you think your dream continent would look like.”  “Mine?” I asked.  “I think mine would be a whole lot like Australia, with a tropical jungle and shaped like South America.  I would live high up in huge trees with tree-house communities and large hammocks for summertime napping.  The birds would be vivid in color, the trees bulging with the water of life, and its rivers full of meaty fish.  I would hunt game and fish; I would write with the inks of plants for the enjoyment of others.”

“You have a pretty nice place to go to, alter-ed world wise,” said the old man, “Have you ever considered writing a book to describe a story there?”  “I have now, Mr. Herund,” I said, and the bus pulled up right in front of us, coming to a noisy halt.  We both boarded the bus and exchanged addresses – he was sure to make for an intelligibly enjoyable pen pal.

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writing 101 link

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My Idea… the Saint of Wisdom

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My Idea… the Saint of Wisdom

I awoke in the late morning hour.  It was nearing 4 AM; Ma and the children were sleeping.  I went for a stroll.  On I walked, the moonlight pale, I was sure to find some stress-free form of fatigue sometime soon.  It was then that I saw a path from the road.  It was an old lot; the lot led to land owned by neighbors.  “Interesting path,” I thought to myself.  I was sure to find something or someone.

I made my way down the dark pathway in the night and found a clearing.  It was a nice clearing – open wide enough for moonlight, yet still small enough to be rather hidden.  I took a deep breath and looked to the sky.  A spirit of the winds descended – it looked like a cloud of smoke forming above me.

“What have you?” it asked.  I happened to have a small painting in my pocket of a horizon.  It was cooked in a kiln; I thought it was precious.  “I have this small painting,” I said to the cloud, not knowing much about why it had asked me the question.  “What if I could turn you into a saint?” asked the cloud, “Would you let me have your painting?”  “Sure,” I said.  I would gladly give a cloud a painting – any moonlit night would qualify for such an idea.

“What kind of saint?” I asked.  “Any kind of saint you can ask to be,” said the cloud, “May I see the painting?”  I took out the small porcelain paperweight from my left pocket and held it up in the air.  It floated up about two feet.  “Nice dawn,” said the cloud.  “Thank you,” I said, trying to figure out what kind of saint I could ask for before the phenomenon vanished.  “I would like to become a saint of wisdom,” I said to the cloud, “For that, you can keep the small painting.”

“You will now forever be the actual Saint of Wisdom,” said the cloud, “Even after you perish.”  “Wow and thank you,” I said.  “No problem,” said the cloud, and it slowly faded away with the painting.  There was nothing left but the crisp moonlit night; I returned home for slumber.  I slept well.

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A True Saint

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On the Streams of Consciousness – The Death of a Guide, Writing 101, 6-14, link-post 1

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On the Streams of Consciousness – The Death of a Guide

Once upon a time, there were four people on a boat. The boat was floating down an overgrown jungle canal. There was the captain, a native of the area, two grandparents, and a young girl – Malody. Interestingly enough, the boat was floating down a stream, a branch of the Amazon River. The boat was more or less like a large canoe. The captain used a huge pole to help guide the vessel’s floating path.

Malody’s grandparents were on a vacation. They took two or three trips every summer, and Malody actually got to come along this time. “How many books have you written, grand-ma?” asked Malody. “Over seventeen, now,” said her grandmother. Her grandmother wrote books about old ladies, their lives, and what they chose to do for fun. Many of her novels included natural tragedies, death from terminal illness, and handsome men.

“So, what was your motivation behind writing?” asked Malody. “Him,” said her grandmother, playing around. Malody’s grandfather was looking through his binoculars at the “jungle to come” from the front of the boat – there was really nothing to see other than large old trees with mosses and vines. He himself was in the spirit, nonetheless. The occasional wild bird could be seen, and the passengers saw what they thought to be an orange Macaw, at one point. The native was in the back, steering.

Malody’s grandfather, Baron was working on his first novel. A retired salesman who used to work for an oil company, Baron did his own reading and writing all of the time. His wife and Malody’s grandmother, Maurine, was an actual novelist. She wrote and sold three books upon retirement; found a nice young male agent; and even began writing her novels for a major publisher. Baron wrote a few articles for a hunting magazine; he decided that he, too wanted to write a book. He brought an empty notepad to journal with during this trip. “I will not stop writing my daily thoughts until I have 100,000 words to revise for additional commentary,” said Baron, one time.

The boat turned and held good speed as its motion was guided by the native captain, Julio. The three tourists asked Julio questions from time to time about things like the rain and his home village. Malody was happy to be enjoying the ride. She was a huge fan of her grandmother and thought it to be an impressive rarity that she knew a famous published author. Malody wanted to know more and appreciated her grandmother’s commentary.

“You wrote one or two books a year there for a while,” said Malody, “Why have you not written anything for over a year, now?” “Well, Malody,” said her grandmother, “I love to write, we both know that, I just have not been inspired, lately. I have written a bunch of long stories people must have enjoyed, however I have not endured any reason for writing in some time. I will again, just not too soon.” “Have you seen any good movies lately?” asked Malody, “Are those not some form of inspiration?” “Well,” said Maurine, “Some movies have inspired me, like ‘Gone with the Wind’ and ‘Fried Green Tomatoes’, however the last movie I saw was ‘Austin Powers’.”

Baron, at that time, decided to jot some prose in his journal. There was an amount of violent activity beneath the surface of the stream. Julio saw it. The others saw it, too. “What is that all about?” asked Malody. “Those are piranhas,” said Julio, “They swarmed up on something in a school – possibly a long snake.” The swarming school would be the most exciting thing Baron could describe so far.

Julio looked over to Baron. Malody saw Julio; he was “pitching a tent”. Julio said to Baron, “With all of your writing about the trees and your words on wildlife, I have something you can describe right here.” This infuriated Maurine. Malody took one look at her grandmother, who had blushed red in hatred. There was a docking rope behind Julio; Malody saw that Julio and Baron were about to fight.

Malody ran over to Julio; tied him up with the rope; and submerged his head underwater. He shook violently as Malody manhandled his bound body. The swarming piranhas devoured the natives’ wet flesh. Julio’s neck and jaw where showing, and by the time Baron could figure out what Malody was doing to the guide, the small carnivorous fish had eaten the brain of the native, entirely. Malody pulled the brainless body back up, and her grandparents were astonished. “Well,” said Malody, “That was at least on occurrence you guys can write about.”

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link to writing 101

a piranha picture

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My Dream, the Toy-Maker; link to daily post

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My Dream, the Toy-Maker

Once upon a time there was a young boy named Mathew.  Matt was nine years old.  Spending time with his grandfather was an often occurrence of his on the weekends.  It gave his parents a break.  As a growing boy, Matt usually ate more at his grandparents.  One weekend, it was late on Saturday afternoon.

“Grand ma, what are we having for dinner tonight?  May I help out?” asked Matt.  Matt loved helping his grandmother, however he usually was not allowed.  “Your grandfather is outside changing the oil in that big iron box he calls a car.  Go help him, and I will fix us three up something splendid,” said his grandmother.  Matt went outside to see his grandfather.

“What can I do for you, grand pa?” asked Matt.  “Hold this light,” said his grandfather.  Matt held the light, and his grandfather loosened the oil filter from the bottom of a large engine.  The old oil drained into a pan, and his grandfather was happy that it was not too difficult to get the filter off.  Matt’s grandfather wanted to talk, did not know what to say.  “So,” he asked, “What would you become if you could do anything you wanted to with your life?”  “I am not sure,” said Matt, “I will probably try to do well in school and become a doctor.  If I do not make it, I can always find an easier route.”

“What would you do for a job while in school?” asked his grandfather.  “Anything that might make people happy, I guess,” said Matt, “I could cook for people.”  At that time Mathew looked up to the shelf in the old dusty garage of his grandfathers.  The shadows there never caught much light, not even during times close to noon.  “What are those stringed dolls up there?” asked Matt.  “Those are mine,” said his grandfather, “I made them with my dad when I was very young.  They are carved out of wood and painted.  I wanted a new radio for Christmas one year; Pa was out of work.  We made those dolls, and I got a radio for my birthday.”

“Wow,” said Matt.  “There are a lot of expensive toys out there, these days,” he said aloud.  “There sure are,” said his grandfather, “Most toys come from large manufacturers by the thousands, now.”  “I do not guess there is not anyway to make good toys, is there?” asked Matt.  “Oh sure there is,” said his grandfather, “You could start a small hobby store including small remote electronic devices and stay busy all day long.”  “I think that is what I am going to do,” said Mathew.  His grandfather had the car put back together and was pouring in the last pint of new oil.  “What do you have in mind, Matt?” asked his grandfather.  “When I grow up,” said Matt,” I am going to become a toy-maker.”

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Futures Past Daily Prompt

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