Hunched into smallest shape he could manage, Paul’s body was shaking. He wondered if the lightning strike had killed him and if this was Hell. The grotesque monster in the flames could only be the Devil himself. Darkness pushed at him from all sides and it was difficult to think and impossible to move. What had he done to earn this kind of punishment? He was a decent man. He had never killed anyone or stolen anything. Sure sometimes he drank a little more than he should and he had done his fair share of stupid things when he was younger, but he had never hit a woman or dealt drugs. He was far from perfect and he’d be the first to admit it, but certainly he didn’t deserve this. Desperately trying to clear the fog from his mind, Paul struggled to understand the demon’s words. He’d said sometime about forgetting the gods and called himself Vulcan. Paul worked construction and he knew about vulcanized rubber like what was used in his boots, but that was the extent of his knowledge on the subject. And the sword, Vulcan had said something about earning the sword. “You will answer me, insect!” The flames flared as Vulcan raged and the terrible heat increased again. Paul’s head was pounding from the lack of oxygen and he knew that if he didn’t do something fast then he would pass out and burn to death. Think brain, think! What would make him worthy of the sword? Perhaps if he refused the right and said that he was unworthy of such an honor then Vulcan would relent. He would humble himself before the god and beg for his mercy. Then again, maybe Vulcan would see that as cowardice. After all, the Greeks and Romans were always fighting weren’t they? Maybe Vulcan would think that Paul was afraid of a fight and therefore definitely not worthy of the sword of a god. No, Paul would have to stand up to him and that meant literally having to stand up. Head throbbing, heart pounding, lungs panting and skin searing, he pushed himself onto his feet. Still hunched down, he took a minute before he tried to stand. Finally, feeling faint, he managed to uncoil his legs and straighten up. He was swaying more than a little, but all things considered, Paul felt absurdly proud of himself at the moment. He pulled back his shoulders, took a deep breath and after a minor coughing fit gasped, “O, great Vulcan, god of fire and … weapons. I stand before you, unafraid of death.” That was a lie; he had never been as terrified as he was right now. “I ask, no, I demand your sword as I alone am worthy of such an honor. I will fight with my last breath.” That might happen sooner rather than later. “I will fight for your glory.” Ok, so it wasn’t the greatest speech the world had ever heard, but Paul was fairly impressed that he had managed to speak at all. As he waited for the god’s reply, his vision slowly started to fade. Blackness crept in from his periphery and he stumbled a little before righting himself. This was it, he thought. This is how I will die. To be Continued in Part 4!
The bolt of lightning struck the very tip of the sword’s blade and a raw current raced through Paul’s system. He was filled with a sort of intense energy and all around him was brilliant, blinding light. It felt like he was inside the lightning, as though he had become a part of it. For a few fleeting seconds it seemed like he was floating and then with a hard thump, he hit the ground. Groaning in pain, he blinked his eyes several times to dispel the black dots obscuring his vision. He was lying face down on a rough, stone floor. It was little wonder why the fall had hurt so much. Slowly and with a considerable amount of pain, Paul pulled himself up off the floor. Once he was standing he got his first real look around and was stunned by what he saw. He was in some sort of workshop and all around him where weapons, shields and armor, all made of beaten bronze. A massive fire blazed in front of him, contained in a large pit that had been hewn from the rock itself. In fact, the whole room such as it was, was like a cave that had been carved out of the side of a mountain. The ceiling arched high above him and on a second glance Paul realized that there weren’t any doors. “Stand forth mortal and greet thy better.” A voice boomed out of the darkness and echoed around the cavern. Half terrified, half awed Paul quickly raised the sword, ready to do battle. Starring all around him and trembling with anxiety, he failed to locate who it was that had spoken. The fire blazed higher and hotter before him and Paul stumbled backwards away from its incredible heat. Its illumination was the only source of light in the room. The sword grew heavier in his hands, its weigh dragging down his arms. Finally, unable to support it further, he dropped it. For a moment, it lay still; then it twitched. Frightened, Paul scurried away from it. It twitched a second time and flipped over so that its blade now faced him. The fire surged again and the sword skidded across the floor, stopping halfway between him and the pit. He could see the flames building before him. It was like the ocean tides; rolling forwards, it would then creep back only to return with more force the second time. Sweat poured down his face, stinging at his eyes. The fire was consuming all the oxygen in the cavern and Paul was panting, doubled over with his hands on his knees. It raged into an unholy inferno and its heat lashed out at him, searing his skin. The flames licked hungrily towards him; he saw them quickly engulf the sword. On the verge of passing out and driven back against the wall he cowered from the conflagration in front of him. Again the bellowing voice called out to him. “Have you mere creatures forgotten your gods? Do you not know He that standeth before you? You shall know me for I am Vulcan, God of the flame and creator of arms.” From within the flames, a monstrous being emerged. His muscles bulged and his face was hideous. He limped towards Paul, one leg twisted and dragging uselessly behind him. In one massive hand he held the sword aloft and with his words the blade was sheathed in flame. “You who called upon me, stand forth and prove thyself worthy of my blade.” To be Continued in Part 3!
Digging in the dry dirt was hot and hard work. Sure Paul was making money, but his muscles were screaming at him every night when he got back to the motel. Times were tough in construction though and he certainly couldn’t afford to past up a job right now. So here he was working on the foundations of an old museum that the city wanted to fix up. Paul had never cared much for history; to him the past was just that, past. He could never understand why old pieces of junk were worth so much to some people, but he figured, to each their own. He was just here to dig. He bent his knees and hefting another shovelful of rocky soil, he flung it out of the trench that he was standing in. They had managed to expose two of the foundation walls so far and Paul was working on the third one. He dug in again and felt a shuddering tremor vibrate up his arm when his shovel hit something hard. Massaging his aching bicep, he hunched down and starting sifting through the dirt to find what he had hit. Whatever it was, it was heavy. Slowly bit by bit, Paul pulled forth from the ground a gleaming bronze sword. It was short with a blunt edge, but it was razor sharp and apart from being a little dirty, it was in perfect condition without even the smallest nick in the blade. Staring open-mouthed in wonder at his find, Paul lifted the sword and tried a few swings to test its weight. He would never claim to be an expert on the subject, but even with the little knowledge he had of them, Paul knew that this was beautifully crafted. Slashing it through the air it was obvious that this was an efficient and deadly weapon. Each swipe was accompanied by a deep, reverberating hum and its tightly wound leather grip fit precisely in his hand. He’d had never seen something so extraordinary. At his feet something flashed briefly in the sunlight. Reaching down, he found a little piece of yellowed paper with a metal plaque embossed with a number sewn to it. It looked like an old library index card. Picking it up, he saw that in faded blue ink something had been written on it. “Hey Paul, you alright down there?” Startled, Paul jumped and quickly hiding the sword behind his back, he called back up to his foreman Steve, “Yeah! I’m fine, just resting my arms for a minute, s’all.” He waited another minute or so just to make sure that Steve didn’t walk over and peer into the trench before going back to studying the little card. The writing was small, cramped and faint; it was hard to read the single sentence that was written on it. Twisting the paper this way and that, Paul made out the few words: “Mighty Vulcan, creator and guardian of this blade, lend me the skill to slay my enemies and gain the glory of the gods.” Speaking these words, Paul stood holding an old scrap of paper in one hand and a burnished shortsword in the other. For a moment nothing happened; then suddenly a bolt of lightning tore down through the clear blue sky and struck the sword. To be continued in Part 2!
Whenever I am sitting in traffic, on a busy 401 the same thing always happens: I start people-watching. Ever since I was a kid, I have loved making up stories about the people that I see all around me. I see the giant, shiny black Hummer beside me with an urbanite-esque couple smoking thin cigarettes and I start thinking of how they are probably on their way to some cliquey party where everyone is designer dressed and discussing the hottest new wines. They pay homage to fashion and yet they all lack the subtly of style. The dresses are too short and the cars too flashy. They have the money, but not the manners. The man in an ill-fitting suit driving a shabby-looking car with stress-lines already carved into his thirty-year old face makes me think of someone desperately holding down an unrewarding job. He has a university degree and graduated middle of his class. He is hard-working and a good man, but he struggles to stand out among his peers. He is waiting for his name to be called. A stuffed mini-van idles to the right; it’s a family vacation. The father is driving and he’s frustrated by the stop-and-go pace of traffic. The children are bored and starting to bicker. Mom is riding passenger and attempting to engage the children in a game that is potentially fun and sneakily educational at the same time. They have saved for this trip for two years, sacrificing a latte a day for a chance to show their children more of the world around them. Then there’s the nervous elderly couple on their way to see their son and daughter-in-law’s new home. There is the group of teenagers piled into a twelve-year-old town car blaring music and babbling excitedly about the concert they are going to see. To the left sits a happy young couple, looking relaxed and happy simply to be together. The car behind holds a large woman with a greasy fast food bag that she’s eating out of. In front is a middle-aged man driving a sexy little sportscar. There’s a young punk and his glitzy girlfriend in the tricked-out Civic. The list of clichés goes on. I see all of these people and wonder about their lives. I wonder if I judge them too harshly or if they are different from what I imagine. Sometimes there is a Christian fish on the back of a Hummer or maybe a graduation photo in a small frame dangling from the rearview mirror of the punk’s Civic. These personal touches make me rethink my often cynical critiques. I judge based on the vehicle, the clothes, the habits, everything I see and yet nothing that is important. Some days I can be kind and understanding. Other days I am cruel and damning. However no matter what day it is or how I feel, I use every opportunity I get to try and understand people. Humanity fascinates and disgusts me all at the same time. I often forget that I too am human and that I too am being judged. Have you ever thought about how everyone else sees you? I have an idea of myself, of who I am, but is my idea of me the same as those around me? How often do you look at someone and see what they want you to see? Judging people, both others and ourselves is how we come to understand our world and ultimately our place in it. We can never stop judging, but we can all try not to judge too harshly or too quickly.
The Gentleman’s Hunting Guide Chapter Seventeen: Hunting Unicorns Hunting unicorns has long been considered the world’s truest sport. It takes incredible skill, great knowledge and no small measure of luck simply to locate a unicorn. Only a handful of the world’s greatest hunters have ever managed to capture such a creature and in so doing they have earned the greatest honors of all. Where to look: The first step to hunting of any kind is to know where to find one’s prey. Unicorns are incredibly rare and they tend to live only amongst the northern and most ancient forests of Europe. There are still the occasional reports of unicorns in the British Isles, but the greatest concentration of these beautiful animals is still to be found in continental Europe. Habits, Distinctive Features, Etc. A unicorn’s most distinctive feature is of course is its single pristine white spinal horn that projects from the forehead. Unicorn horns are always white however the actual body of the beast, so similar to that of a normal horse, can be white, black and on the very rare occasion, even red. Unicorns are also known for their remarkable intelligence and their incredibly speed. A full grown male unicorn can reach speeds of up to fifty miles per hour, even through thick undergrowth. These wild and untamed animals move with extraordinary grace and often they seem to simply fade back into the trees from which they came. Unlike their cousin the horse, unicorns do not like apples but rather adore the sweetness of citrus fruits such as oranges, lemons and limes. Methods of Capture, Permits Required, Etc. Unicorns are a universally protected species and the deliberate killing of one is considered almost as terrible as the killing of a human being. In fact, killing a unicorn is referred to as murder. It is for this reason that would-be unicorn hunters are not allowed to use any type of firearm or projectile when hunting them. Bolas are allowed to be used, as well as nets and certain specific types of traps, but any device designed to wound is strictly forbidden. Many hunters try every year to capture the elusive unicorn, but due to its speed, agility and fierce intellect very few have ever succeeded to do so. Reasons to Hunt, Uses and Other Information Prestige alone is the main reason as to why so many hunt the unicorn, however there are many other reasons as well. A unicorn’s horn has incredible medicinal qualities and is made of the purest ivory to be found anywhere on this Earth. Surprisingly a unicorn is able to grow back its horn and does not suffer greatly from its loss. The blood of the unicorn is considered an elixir that can bring fortune and fame to whomsoever possesses it. As for the mane and tail, the hair is often used as thread to adorn the most beautiful and expensive gowns of the world’s richest ladies. A less well-known fact about unicorns is that in the olden days, it was said that only virginal young maidens could tame a unicorn. Often when considering marriage to a young lady, a knight would extend to her an invitation to join the unicorn hunt. For a lady to decline was unthinkable as it led to the belief that she was no longer a virgin and that she feared discovery. Although this is no longer a practice today, unicorn hunting is still a popular sport around the world. So whatever your reasons, always remember that hunting unicorns is not for the faint of heart.
There was something about being out in the country. It was so much more relaxing and laid back. Out here you never felt the need to rush. People always seemed to be friendlier and more trusting of others. For Martin being out here made him feel calm. After three years he was finally going home. Cruising down the roughly blacktopped roads, he remembered when he first started driving. City kids never understood why having a car was such a big deal for country kids. A car meant freedom. There were no buses or subways out here and walking to a friend’s house could mean a six kilometer hike through scrubby woods and acres of corn. Like anything else there were some good things and some bad things about rural living. When your closest neighbor lived a kilometer and a half away, you always had your privacy. And there were no attached or semi-attached homes out here. If you didn’t cut your grass to a certain height no neighborhood watch or committee was going to come out and issue you a warning. Admittedly, sometimes people couldn’t help feeling a little isolated and lonely here in the country. Growing up and having only your siblings to play with wasn’t always the greatest thing either. And city people had no clue what real chores actually were. Yeah, there were mosquitoes and everyone had either a truck, a dog or a gun and often all three, but being able to see the stars on a clear night made up for a lot. Breathing was easier and there was always that hint of pine in the air. Snowplows always worked the city roads first and so country children had way more snow days in the winter and lots more snow to play in, for that matter. It had been so long since Martin had seen his family and as wonderful as it was to call, text and Skype with them, nothing could compare with seeing them face to face. His family always stayed in touch and news of what was happening with one of them quickly spread along the grapevine. They called to console, the texted to celebrate and they talked just because. They weren’t the most expressive family, but everyone knew that they would always be supported and that they were unconditionally loved. Also advice was completely unavoidable, especially when you didn’t want it. Driving down the highway, he turned off onto a tree-lined road and slowly crested a hill. All around him as far as he could see there was farmland. Rows of soya beans, corn and wheat rolled gently below and the wind swept lazily through it all. County road eighteen had always been the scenic route he took whenever he came home. It just seemed to encompass everything that was missing from his urban lifestyle. He loved his job, his hybrid car, the ability to call for take-out and delivery from any restaurant even at three in the morning, but nothing could ever compare to this feeling of going home. In his mind, country grass was always greener, rural air was always fresher and frozen homemade chocolate chip cookies were the food of the gods. Sure, out here people were often less than politically correct, the internet was still dial-up and every trend was at least three years old, but you couldn’t have a campfire in Toronto. People in Toronto would never use their front or side lawns for extra parking space. You couldn’t buy fresh, “organically grown” produce from the back of a wagon. And you would never be able to find chlorine-free water to swim in. Toronto and Martin’s life was a two hour drive away from his parents’ home, but the truth was that he never felt so alive as when he was back home sitting on a porch, drinking a beer and talking to his family. God, it was good to be home.
55 Kensington Dr. Unit # 47 Trenton, ON G7T 4F0 To: Mr. Michael Salazar Supervising Head of Research Re: Resignation I hereby regretfully tender my resignation from the position of Administrative Assistant to the Supervising Head of Research here at VexCo. Investments. During my time here at VexCo. Investments, I greatly enjoyed working with such challenging people and delving into complex logistical situations. It was wonderful being part of a team where people did not strive for personal recognition but rather for the betterment of the company as a whole. I have accepted a position as an Office Administrator at BelleVie Financial and although I will miss my colleagues here at VexCo. Investments, I will not envy them. I thank you for all of the experience I have gained in the past two years of working for you and am grateful for the reality check I was given by working for such a company as VexCo. My last day here will be on Friday, March 18, 2011 and I look forward to chance to say goodbye to you all. With the most heartfelt relief, Sincerely, William De Silva William De Silva
The first time that Nicki had worked at the store, the customers had been predicable: grease monkeys and car junkies, contractors and the rough-and-ready type of women. Every bill had oil stains on it and every hand was dirty, greasy and callused. Things had certainly changed since then, now you never knew what to expect. Designers came in looking for sleek, modern looks for interior decorating, avid gardeners rambled through the outdoor shop and garden sections reworking their landscaping ideas and sports-nuts drooled over the latest tech for rec. Some people even came in for the basic grocery shopping. The store had expanded both through massive renovations, as well as a far greater range of products being sold. City slickers mingled with farmers and young kids dodged around their elders; anything you could ever need or want could be found in these aisles. At least, that’s what the promoters claimed. As a cashier making just over minimum wage, watching people spend cash without thought was incredibly depressing. Some customers were the type who liked to brag: “It’s so hot out there, but luckily we can afford to buy an air conditioner, so we just stay inside all day.” Others tried to justify their purchases: “I suppose buying a trampoline for the grandkids is a little silly, but well, we just love having them around, you know…” Some barely responded to the mandatory, “Hello! How are you today?” while others insisted on telling you their life stories, “So then, my brother-in-law starting going on about how important it is to have the duct work cleaned regularly and now my husband is determined to clean out ours…” The one lesson that seemed to stay the same over the years was that the general pubic is rude, loud and often downright mean. Nicki wanted track down the idiot who had first said, “The Customer is Always Right” and give him/her a serious kick in the rear. Truth is: the customer is always WRONG. They misread signs, they don’t understand the idea of inventory, pricing policies confuse them and sometimes they simply lie right to your face. Anyone who says in an interview that they “love working with the public” is lying through their teeth. What that phrase actually means is that that person has worked with the public before and understands just what that entails. Ultimately it means “I know how to smile and nod like a total idiot even when someone is screaming in my face.” A cashier has to wear a stupid uniform, smile until her jaw aches, stand in one place for several hours and just generally put up with a lot of disrespect. A good cashier is someone who can do all this and still look like she is happy and helpful. A good cashier is hard to find. Stores get bigger, products change and more services slowly become available. These are things that are constantly changing. What will never change is that a cashier or anyone who works in retail, will always hate the general public because the general public are generally jerks. It takes more than many know to be a good cashier. One nice, understanding and moderately talkative customer can make a cashier’s shift. One great thing about working in this store, thought Nicki at the end of her shift, is that it makes you love your home so much more.
This is the first draft of a setting description for a novel that I am writing. Feedback is as always much appreciated! Enjoy! The jagged peaks tore up from the ground like sharpened teeth ripping through the land. Every side was a sheer drop, a plunge from the heights of heaven to the depths of hell. The cliffs were made of shale and pieces often broke off and tumbling down the edges, they would shatter into mere fragments. These were the Malix Mountains. As for their colour, they were of a monochromatic multitude, a thousand different shades of grey. Here and there bits of tenacious vegetation attempted to cling to the crags and lent their grayish greens and ashy yellows to the precipice’s palette. Recycled snow lay like a mantle around the promontory, too dull to offer any gleam. Some nights storms would gather and build around the summits and then come screaming down into the foothills and valleys below. Lightning would etch the mountains’ relief upon the endless sky and thunder would beat and reverberate off its crests. Other nights, the silence was so stretched, so still that the slightest sound would detonate and fracture the air. Eagles soared and screeched while encircling the rugged cliffs. Their nests were nestled into the crevices, protecting their young from all but the stealthiest of serpents. Mountain goats leap and cavorted with stunning ease from ledge to ledge, like awkward-looking acrobats. Dry, hot winds had spent the centuries pitting and contorting the ridges into fantastical shapes and caverns, connected by deep tunnels, riddled their slopes. Many a thief or fugitive had lurked within these caves, hiding from their would-be capturers and protecting their hordes of stolen treasure. Many had never returned and more still ranged among the treacherously loose rocks searching for lost gold. Myths and legends were created among these mountains and ghosts haunted them still. Unknown, unmapped and often said impassable, this was not a terrain for the faint of heart. This was where men were made and cowards were killed.
Hey everyone, sorry about being late this last week! Here is my newest short and as always please comment! “Presence is the key to the fame game, that and ambition. Either you entertain them or they will forget you. You are the performing monkey and like that monkey, the game is what you live and die by. If you can’t except that, then leave now because I have no use for the weak.” He paced in front of the line of new students. They were all sweating profusely and trying not to pant loudly enough to be singled out. Greasy hair stuck to their necks and faces and dampened spandex chafed and clung. Their legs trembled, their arms shook and their feet ached; yet not one of them complained. They were in the presence of their maker. Christian Todd was the man who created stars. He took average performers and moulded them into legends. For the self-professed wannabes standing before him, simply being in his presence was an honour. He moved in the highest circles of the celebrity world and anyone with talent desperately sought him out. His advice was worth its weight in gold and he knew it. “If at the end of a performance your entire body isn’t aching then you don’t belong up on that stage. It has to hurt every time. There is no getting used to it. There is no time when you will have reached perfection. We as performers strive for perfection, but it is not attainable. In this industry you are always fighting for more, for better, for greater. This business is an incline; either you are ascending or descending, but you are never resting. We live for drama and that means we are never allowed to be content. We have big ups and deep downs, wild fits of rage and passion; we are forever rash, forever raw. After every show you should be drained emotionally and physically. If not then you have failed. That being said, everyone here is a failure.” A despairing sigh went up from the group. Shoulders drooped and heads dropped all down the line. They knew what was coming. Sometimes he phrased it differently, again, continue, don’t stop, but it always amounted to the same thing: more. The music started again and the performers started all over. This time the dance was faster-paced. Their moves were sharper. Their voices were bigger. They did as their creator asked: they strove to be better. Finally, their set ended and without a word, the students lined up once more. Bright red faces turned to him with eyes full of both hope and fear. Silently they pled for adulation. He had sat off to the side and watched them. His face was that of a poker player, expressionless. Slowly he rose, unwinding his long limbs from the stiff-backed chair. He clasped his hands behind his back, fingers entwined with one another. He stood before them once again. And with one word, he honoured their efforts. “Better.” Smiles broke over every face. Shoulders drew back and chins rose and all together the students breathed in much needed oxygen. Some turned and congratulated their neighbours, heaping praise upon each other. “Now before your heads swell any further… Do it again. And this time, do it better. ”
“One month left! Can you believe it? In one month, I’ll be Scott’s wife! After all these years together, we are finally starting a life together! I can’t wait…” “Yeah, it’s going to be a beautiful wedding.” Brides really do to glow or at least Christine was. She and Scott had been dating for years now and had lived together for the past three. Six months ago Scott had proposed and Christine had ecstatically accepted. Then she had asked Amanda to be one of her four bridesmaids; Amanda accepted the honor. The only problem was that Amanda felt as though she was lying to one of her best friends. A bridesmaid’s job was to support the bride and to be there for her no matter what. Amanda however thought that this marriage was a mistake. Amanda and Christine had been friends for years and one of the best things about their friendship is that they both tried to always be honest with each other. Sometimes this led to hurt feelings or even on occasion to angry outbursts, but afterwards they would both let things go and move on. Scott and Christine had been dating even before Amanda and Christine were friends and at first, Amanda hadn’t thought much of Scott. He seemed childish and crude and he often acted as though he was superior to women. Needless to say, Amanda didn’t think he was much of a catch. However, he was Christine’s boyfriend and out of respect Amanda hadn’t said anything against him. As the years passed and Amanda had got to know him better, she started to see that he wasn’t such a bad guy after all. Scott had his faults, but he wasn’t mean-spirited. Now they were getting married and Amanda couldn’t shake the feeling that it was a bad idea. Standing on the sidelines and watching the relationship between Scott and Christine unfold over the years Amanda saw a lot of underlying problems just waiting to surface. Both of them had changed in their time together and neither of them seemed aware of that. Scott had decided that he could prove himself only through success in his work and Christine definitely came in second to his ambitions, as would his future children. As for Christine, she had found herself and become stronger than she had ever believed she could be. The only problem was that she doubted herself and looked to Scott to justify her life. Both of them knew that their relationship was less than it should be, but after all of these years together neither of them wanted to walk away from this investment. Like so many others, they had come to a point where a decision needed to be made and they had shied away from making it. They were taking the next step believing that marriage would solve their problems for them. They saw marriage as a destination rather than a journey and Amanda was terrified that it would lead to heartbreak for both of them. To Amanda it seemed to be all laid out before them: they would marry and nothing would really change between them, so they would then decide to have children thinking that that would solve the problems. Then when the children only made the issues that much worse, Scott would turn to his work completely and Christine would be left to raise the kids. Christine would constantly try to bring Scott back into their family life and she would continuously fail to do so. Eventually she would stop trying, grow depressed and decide that when the children were old enough that she would leave. Twenty years into their marriage, they would divorce and Christine would try to restart her life in her fifties. Alone and lonely she would remarry and never find true happiness. This is what Amanda saw in Christine’s future, but she didn’t know what to do about it. Christine was stubborn and any attempts to convince her that this marriage was a mistake would only lead to her determination to prove that marrying Scott was the best thing she’d ever do. Was it right to act as a bridesmaid when you believed that the wedding would be the only nice part of the marriage? Was it not lying to support a friend in a decision that you believed would ultimately ruin your their life? What did it mean to be a true friend? A friend stood by you no matter what and believed in your right to make your own decisions in life. It was also a friend’s duty to tell you the truth even when it was hard to do so. So where did that leave Amanda? One month remained until Scott and Christine took their vows and pledged themselves to living one life between the two of them. Amanda felt trapped; she wanted to say something, but didn’t believe that she had the right to interfere. Could she stand by and watch Christine make the biggest mistake of her life? Perhaps the only thing to do was to trust in Christine’s judgment and pray that this marriage would work. Maybe a true friend was someone who knew their limits in another’s life and simply stood unquestionably by their side. Amanda would pray for Christine, for Scott and for their children. After all, that’s the only thing she was allowed to do.
This is another short from my past. It was a cute little story that I wrote years ago for an in-class project that I recently came across. I hope you enjoy it (sorry for the delay this past week!) and as per usual, comments of all kinds are great to receive, so please feel free to comment!Thanks! Throughout the known world there exist thousands of River Roads. I mean, the name is hardly original. Every single road located near a river, no matter the river’s name, is known as River Road. However, here in what is formerly known as O___ Township there exists one River Road that has been improperly named. Oh sure, there’s a river almost right beside this road, it does fulfill that particular requirement, but still a River Road it should not be. For literally generations, more than one Lynch family has called this road home and few other families have stayed quite so long. Why, at this very moment I can think of no less than seven families of Lynches living peacefully on its sloping sides. And yes, all of these families are rather closely related, but who would expect otherwise? It was the Lynches who first carved out a farmyard from its flourishing forests and it was the Lynches who first poled its river upon their wooden rafts. Why, I even believe that it was a Lynch who first fell into its river’s waters and I know for a fact that many have fallen since (after all, I was one of them!). It was the Lynches who built their cabins amidst the tall pines and who hacked out trails that lead to wonder and adventure for decades to come. It was the Lynches who sledded down the steep, slippery slopes of the great gravel pit. And it will be the Lynches who do all those other things that christen a road. Oh, what a road it is to behold now! Even more gracious today then it was when the Lynches first created it (as I’m certain they must have done). It has evolved over the years from mere dangerous dirt to gritty gravel to perfect pavement. Never has there existed, I am certain, in the entire world such a pitted, potholed, long stretched, tightly curved, bumpy hilled, rocky road! Surely now you can tell what a wonder of wonders it is to behold, oh to see its glory unfold! There are those who traveled for miles untold to state the tales of Old, just to see its countless curves. Oh, what those curves does to ones nerves! The Lynches possess it with such a tie, that to leave it they would surely have to die! This road, what a road, too great to suffer such a fate. No, a River Road it should not be and a River Road it has never truly been. If you ever seek a Lynch in O___ Township, just ask where to find the Great River Road!
It is the feeling that you get when every hair on your body suddenly rises one by one. You feel like your being watched by uncaring and unblinking eyes. Footsteps can be heard tapping in time with your every step. Your heart pounds with a constant, fast-paced thudding beat that sounds like it’s coming from somewhere outside your body. Damp-palmed, you can feel the slow, cold slither of a single bead of sweat winding its way down your spine. You are afraid, more afraid than you have ever been before. As your terror builds, you feel reason fading away and your control breaking down. You want to scream, but the tightening of your throat makes it impossible to hold even a single note. You want to run, but your legs have turned to jelly and can barely support your weight simply while standing. Breathing is erratic and painfully; you try so hard, but you feel like you aren’t getting any oxygen at all. You try to force your brain into analysis, to figure out what is happening and what to do next. You need to escape, but you’re in lockdown. Your body is rigid, but your mind is paste. This is a situation that requires a plan; this is a moment for fleeing. The pressure inside you is building to unbearable levels. Your skin is stretched and it feels like you are about to burst at the seams. You can’t contain your panic. You are overwhelmed physically, mentally and emotionally. There is no outlet and you are on the verge of exploding. Like a time-bomb counting down, detonation, annihilation is imminent. Suddenly it’s as though something within you snaps and you’re running faster than ever. Your legs are pumping, arms swinging and the world is rushing past. Everything around you is a blur and your mind is focused on one thought: flee. Nothing else matters. Something looms is your path; you dodge it and keep going. Something lies on the ground before you; you leap over it and rush on. You duck under, skirt around, feint left, dash right; whatever it takes. As you conquer each new obstacle, you feel your energy draining away ever faster. You know that you won’t last much longer. They are catching up. A net drops from above and you trip. Tangled up in tough black mesh, you hit the pavement hard. You’re bleeding and they have you. Roughly you’re pulled up and grasping hands tug the net tighter around you. Harsh voices laugh and jeer. You’ve been caught. As you’re force-marched off to the enemy camp your heart starts to slow down. The worst has happened and you suddenly become aware of all the aches and pains left over from the taut tension you have been under seen it all began. You stumble in their wake, dejected and alone. Then you remember: Catching is not keeping. And you know that this is far from over.
He stood staring at the oak-stained door in front of him. It was just a cheaply made, economy-style door, but right now it was a symbol of all that stood between them. All the petty fights and the little annoyances, the often irrational anger and that bone-deep suffering that only love can cause; all of it came together to be represented by this one door. The threshold itself was a choice, a defining moment in his life. Would he allow all of the pain and misunderstanding of the past to be his excuse for not taking that great leap of faith or would he move forward, open the door and jump? On the one hand, he had come this far. After three weeks, five days and approximately ten and a half hours of regret, anger, hurt, anger and just general indecision he now found himself starring at this poorly constructed door to her apartment. On the other hand, he was still really angry over all that had happened. There were trust issues to be dealt with and apologies to be made on both sides and he wasn’t sure that what was left over was worth all the work that was needed. The truth was that he felt like he didn’t know her anymore. She hadn’t called him at all since their last fight and now he wondered whether she even wanted to fix things between them. Perhaps she had been glad to see him leave and wouldn’t want to see him now. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea to have just come by rather than calling her first. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea at all. These problems and fights had been part of their relationship since the very beginning and perhaps it was time they both simply walked away. He’d been standing outside her door now for at least ten minutes and he still didn’t know whether to knock or whether to just turn and walk away. There were so many questions to be answered. Did she love him? Did he love her? Did he even want her love anymore? He thought back to the good times. There wasn’t that many really. They seemed to always be fighting or just getting over a fight. Sometimes they were just about to start a fight. Why was this so hard? People always say that love is worth fighting for, but was their fight worth loving? Did that even make sense? Suddenly the door opened and she was standing right in front of him. She looked as surprised to see him as he was to see her. Without a word, she crossed her arms and waited for him to say something. She was waiting for him to say that he was sorry. The only problem was that he wasn’t sure that he was sorry. She had played a part in all this too and he was sick of always having to be the villain. He said sorry first every single time. She always made him feel like he was in the wrong. He looked into her eyes and he said quietly, “I’m sorry.” Then he turned around and walked away. As he headed outside he couldn’t help smiling a little to himself. He had finally made a decision and it was the best thing that he had ever done.
Mike had done the right thing. Anthony had killed a man. Mike had seen Anthony kill a man. Mike had told the police and had acted as a witness at Anthony’s trial. Mike had obeyed the law and Anthony had gone to prison. It had been an accidental murder. Anthony was dating Tonya and they were happy together. Tonya’s old boyfriend Shawn had been abusive. Tonya had managed to escape from Shawn and now she and Anthony were together. Shawn was still angry with Tonya and he would not leave her alone. Shawn had threatened Tonya. Anthony decided to confront Shawn. Anthony and Shawn met up at a nightclub in town. Anthony told Shawn to leave Tonya alone. Shawn refused and pulled out a knife. Anthony tried to calm Shawn down. Shawn lunged at Anthony with the knife. Anthony managed to dodge the knife. Anthony accidentally stabbed Shawn. Anthony was scared and ran away. Mike had seen the whole thing happen. Mike called for an ambulance. Mike saw the paramedics try to save Shawn. Shawn died. Anthony had gone with the police quietly. Anthony pleaded guilty at the trial. Anthony was sentenced to several years in prison. Tonya had stood by Anthony at the trial. Tonya watched Anthony be taken away in handcuffs. Tonya visited Anthony every week. Tonya said that she would wait for Anthony. Tonya was killed in a car accident two years later. Anthony was not allowed to attend her funeral. The Law said that killing was wrong. The Law said that self-defense was right. The Law defined right from wrong. The Law was Justice and Justice was the Law. Shawn was dead. Anthony was in prison. Tonya was dead. The Law was upheld. Justice had been served. Mike had done the right thing. So why did the right thing feel like the wrong thing?