Wallace and Emma # 3

{ October 28, 2009 @ 12:03 am } · { Uncategorized, Wallace and Emma }
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“Been avoiding me have you?” Wallace asked her.

Emma almost choked on her sip of latte. “It was that obvious then,” she said.

“A little.” He smiled wryly.

“And you didn’t take the hint?” She began packing her book into her bag.

Wallace sat in the chair across from her. “Don’t leave. Have dinner with me across the street at the diner.”

“No.” She didn’t even look up.

“Why not? It’s just dinner.” He sat his cup down.

She stopped packing and stared at him. “Because I hate you.”

“Why,” he asked. “You don’t even know me. There’s nothing to hate.”

“But I do know you. You’re Wallace Thorston, conservative media anchor extraordinaire for the COX TV network. And I hate you. I hate everything about the COX network. It’s absolute nonsense.” She laughed quietly like she’d heard a private joke in her head.

“So you know my name and where I work,” he said. “But you don’t know me. I’m really not who you think I am.” He sat back in his chair and smirked.

“I don’t want to know you. There’s nothing to know. So I think you should stop bothering me. I’m a proud liberal.”

“I can see that. I’ve never seen so many causes to support on one bag. You have time for all 20 of those organizations?”

She opened her mouth to speak.

“I’ll make you a deal. You go to dinner with me across the street in half an hour and actually get to know me and then decide if you hate me or not. It’s just dinner. It’s not the end of the world. It’s not a life time commitment. Have dinner with me tonight and then I’ll leave you alone. OK?”

Joe walked by the table with two coffees in hand. “Wallace, I thought I told you to leave Emma alone. So stop bothering her. Get out. I’m not losing regulars over your stupid shenanigans. So get.”

Joe set the coffees down in front of a young couple at the adjacent table and then shooed Wallace away. As he got up, Wallace looked at his watch and pointed to the diner across the street.

“See you in half an hour then.” And he left.

Emma sat at the empty table unable to make up her mind. She got up and went to the counter.

“Joe,” she asked.

“Yeah?”

“Joe, is Wallace as much of a pain in the ass as he acts?”

“Of course he is.”

“That’s what I thought.” She dug in her bag for some change to leave for a tip.

“But it’s not always a bad thing.”

“Hmmm? What?” Emma asked.

“He’s a huge pain the ass, all the time, Wallace is. But he means well. Just go to dinner with him, Emma. That’s what you want to know isn’t it? Save everyone some headache and just go to dinner with him.”

“We’ll see.” She walked out of the Smug Mug, not quite so smug today. She stood on the curb and smoked a cigarette, trying to buy herself some time. She flicked the butt into the street, sighed and walked across the street to the diner, clinching and unclenching her fists in the cold air.

The Nurse – Response

{ August 27, 2009 @ 12:49 am } · { The Nurse, Uncategorized }
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Just in case you didn’t catch Kris Moody’s response to my The Nurse post, I have reposted it here. It’s a great story! Thanks for sharing Kris. :0) If any one else would like to share their Nurse stories, I would love to read them and post them as well! Enjoy everyone:

Work by Kris Moody

The nurse left work at five o’clock. But work did not leave the nurse. Work never left the nurse. Even when the nurse gave work an extra two hours on her already-long 12-hour shift.
It didn’t matter that her shift was over, that she swapped her scrubs for street clothes, that she had a social life beyond interactions with the staff and patients inside “the Lanning.” Work didn’t care.
When you’re a nurse, your job responsibilities aren’t confined within the walls of the hospital like the dying patient in Room 207. They follow you from the break room, through the hallway, down the elevator, across the lobby, out the automatic sliding doors and to your car.
The nurse was all too aware of this burden. Fortunately, she didn’t mind baring it. Sometimes, even, she enjoyed getting phone calls from friends or family, or, even, friends of family, asking her if a “swollen right cheek” was the sign of something worse, or if “a sudden pain in my wrist when I bend it backwards” was normal.
She expected it. She, in a way, felt pride in it. She liked to help people, which is why she went into the field to begin with. Lives were sacred, and she hated to see someone who could be helped leave the living world.
So she didn’t mind that being a nurse was a full-time job. She didn’t mind that, at any given second on any given day, her skills might be required. Saving lives in the Lanning was her job. Saving them outside? Well, she considered that her duty. Being relatively young, though, opportunities to exercise her skills in the outside world had been limited and, honestly, pretty inconsequential.
But sometimes when you’re a nurse, you get tired. Tired of being on your feet all day. Tired of memorizing charts. Tired of looking patients in the eye and telling them “you’ll be fine.” It was tiring. Mentally and physically tiring.
That’s how the nurse felt tonight. Opening her car door, turning the keys in the ignition, pressing the gas and even steering the wheel required all the energy she could muster. And even though the nurse left work at five o’clock, when it was approaching dinner time for most, she couldn’t help but think of anything but her bed. And just the thought of curling up, closing her eyes and drifting off to sleep began to affect her behavior.
She caught her head falling forward and snapped her neck back.
She blasted the cold air to keep her focus.
She tried singing along to the radio to stay awake.
But her attempts were desperate, and futile.
Just the way her attempts to resuscitate Mr. Adams in Room 234 had been this morning.
And the way she tried to console his wife and children had been immediately after.
When you’re tired, you’re tired. And when work calls, work calls.
So when the young boy on the bicycle entered the street at the same instant her eyes decided to rest for a split- second, the nurse, again, punched in on the life time-clock, as her car struck the back tire of the boy’s bike, sending the helmet-less child through the air.
Sure, she left work at five o’clock, but work did not leave her.
She darted from her driver’s seat to the side of the boy in an instant, suddenly awakened with an IV of adrenaline.
The nurse left work at five o’clock. But work did not leave the nurse. Work never left the nurse.

The Nurse

{ August 25, 2009 @ 1:37 am } · { The Nurse }
{ Comments (6) }

NPR is hosting a short fiction contest. They are taking submissions until midnight on Tuesday. So hurry. Send yours in. Here is a link to the rules: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=105689057

Basically each entry must be less than 600 words and start with the sentence, “The nurse left work at 5 o’clock.” Below is my entry. You should enter too. You could have you piece read on NPR. Way cool, no? Enjoy. :0)

Save My Soul

The nurse left work at five o’clock. She was late. The nurse’s shift ended two hours ago, but her replacement was late. Annie was always late. Annie never could make the next shift on time. No matter. The band met the nurse in the hospital parking lot. The sight of the rusting grey van never looked so appealing.

It was an hour drive to Baltimore. Jenny tuned her gold guitar with matching ringed fingers. Heather bit her pen as she scrawled out the set list on crumbling scrap paper. Gina tapped the steering wheel to the beat of the radio and the nurse slinked behind the back seat as she changed her scrubs for a wrinkled Zeppelin shirt, black jeans and red chucks.

Nobody talked. They didn’t need to. Night air and good music cleanses everything.

The band loads in at the venue. It’s time. The club fills. The bands play. The music never stops. It’s rejuvenation. It’s photosynthesis for the soul.

From the first chord to the last head bang, the nurse is no longer a nurse. She is released. The wide-eyed fans feel no mortal pains and call out not for more drugs but for more soul saving melodies. The drums beat as the heart of the venue, but life does not end at the end of the beat. The shear vitality of the night some how makes the dull-eyed looks of death okay in the morning.

The nurse left work at five o’clock. Her mind left work until 9 o’clock when she took the stage, bass in hand.

Jaime McAllen, age 35 …

{ August 20, 2009 @ 12:48 am } · { Jaime McAllen }
{ Comments (1) }

So lately I’ve been thinking about what it would like to be famous if you were famous for a stupid reason. I don’t know why. I’ve also been reading a lot of Kurt Vonnegut. A fantastic writer. RIP. So this beginning to a sketch is kind of what happens when I read and think too much. It’s kind of what Vonnegut would write in response to reading Twilight, with my own liberal twists of course. :0) Enjoy.

And that’s how it was. Jaime McAllen, age 35, became famous by accident. Not Paris Hilton accidental fame. Not like I accidentally fell on some random dude’s dick and made a sex video posted on YouTube famous. No Jaime McAllen, age 35 with a pink bob hair cut, accidentally became famous by sending her publisher the wrong script.

It happens sometimes.

Instead of uploading “Diary 143,” the title of her latest collection of serious short stories about a struggling vampire wanna-be named Ajax, Jaime McAllen, age 35 with three cats called Lenin, Lennon and Stalin, and a goldfish named Neptune, sent her publisher “Diary #143,” her actual diary entry 143.

It happens sometimes. A lot.

And now Jaime McAllen is famous. By Accident. And no amount of begging or pleading with her publisher that she “accidentally” sent the wrong manuscript would change the publisher’s mind. No “Diary #143,” a dream recounted in first person about how Angie, Jaime’s blonder and prettier alter ego, passionately won the heart of and slept with a brilliantly famous fake celebrity made her famous. It’s amazing how sex sells more than satire.

It happens all the time.

So Jaime McAllen, age 35 and more famous than Jesus Christ, is stuck sifting through her nightly dream journal looking for romantic garbage to send her pushy publisher. This balding man with thick glasses and a crooked nose refused to believe Jaime McAllen when she told him that her “Diary #143” was rubbish that she made up in her mind to go to sleep at night. It was something she did nightly to numb her brain into sleepy submission. It was all high school romances and crushes and silliness.

Jaime McAllen, age 35 and perpetually doomed, never meant for any one to read her sexy dreams of McSteamies, McDreamies and werewolf wet dreams. Every girl has fantasies and every girl should keep them to herself instead of selling billions of books and killing at-risk rainforests for crap.

But it keeps happening.

And happening and happening and happening.

Contest #1

{ August 15, 2009 @ 1:56 am } · { Ajax }
{ Comments (1) }

Flatmancrooked.com is accepting short story submissions through tomorrow and is a great literary site to check out if you have time.

Today I entered my first fiction contest (Flatmancrooked) since creative writing in high school. I submitted a story I’ve been working on for a while. The story follows a boy named Ajax who pretends to be a vampire to catch the attention of his family who inadvertantly neglects him. Below is an excerpt from the story. Enjoy:

He closed the two books and opened another desk drawer. He pulled out the black cape he’d hid from his mother after his suspension and his fake Halloween teeth. He began making faces in the mirror. Content with his facial expression, he stood up on his desk chair and grabbed the ends of his cape, bent his knees and hissed. As he leapt off of his seat, his sister opened the door.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Never mind.”

“That doesn’t look like nothing.”

He turned away from her and popped out the teeth and untied his cape, dropping it to the floor. “What do you want? Why can’t you ever knock?”

“Because then I wouldn’t be able to see you doing weird stuff in your room. What was that all about? Seriously?”

“Nothing. What do you want?”

“Mom says we forgot the garlic. But really you forgot to pick it up. So now we have to go back to the store.”

“Garlic? She doesn’t really need that, does she?”

“Yeah, she does. That’s why she sent me up here; so we can go back to the store.”

“I don’t want to go to the store, I’m busy.”

“No, you’re not. You’re jumping off of your chair and hissing like a fool.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were. I saw you.”

“No, you didn’t.” He stared deeply into her eyes, trying to hypnotize her. He waved his hand in front of her face. “You don’t remember anything you just saw.”

“Whatever. You’re weird. Let’s go.”

“Tell Mom I’m not going. I can’t eat garlic.”

“Yes, you can.”

“No, I can’t. I’m allergic.”

“No, you’re not. You ate it last month.”

“I’ve recently developed a food allergy.”

“You’re so full of it. Let’s go. Mom’s waiting. Dad will be home soon and she wants to have dinner on the table when he gets back from the airport. She took off work just to make this dinner and she wants to make sure it turns out right.”

Wallace and Emma #2

{ August 11, 2009 @ 12:23 am } · { Wallace and Emma }
{ Comments (1) }

He saw her sitting in the same chair at the same table as last time; only the sun was a little lower in the sky than before. She didn’t even look up from Gulliver’s Travels as he leaned over to snoop at her library card propped up against her to-go mug with the “Acuppa Joe’s” brown and red logo pasted on it.

Cup in hand, he asked her, “Can I call you Margaret?”

“No,” she said, flinching a little at the recollection of his voice.

“Billie? Frankie? Janie? Julie?”

“No.”

“Jean? Margie? Morgan? Mary?”

“No.”

“Mary-Anne? Mimi? Baby? Margaret?

“No.”

“Can I call you beautiful?”

“What,” she said, looking up.

“Can I call you beautiful?”

She tried turning his brain to tapioca with her eyes.

“Can’t a man, compliment a beautiful woman?”

“Not this woman.” She grabbed her coffee cup by the lid, slid her card between her fingers, and stuffed her book into her green bag as she walked past him toward the door.

“Give up, Wallace,” Joe said as he wiped down the counter beside the cash register.

“I can’t.” he said. “Joe …”

“Yeah.”

“Do you know her name?”

“Sure. It’s Emma.”

“Emma? But her library card read Margaret?”

“Sure. Her name is Margaret Emma Thatcher. But she goes by Emma.”

“Right. Good to know.”

“Any thing else I should know about her, Joe?”

“Sure. She always has a vanilla latte and she hates you.”

“Quite plain and simple then?”

“Quite. Give it up, Wallace. Give it up.”

He saw her sitting in the same chair at the same table as last time; only the sun was a little lower in the sky than before. She didn’t even look up from Gulliver’s Travels as he leaned over to snoop at her library card propped up against her to-go mug with the “Acuppa Joe’s” brown and red logo pasted on it.

Cup in hand, he asked her, “Can I call you Margaret?”

“No,” she said, flinching a little at the recollection of his voice.

“Billie? Frankie? Janie? Julie?”

“No.”

“Jean? Margie? Morgan? Mary?”

“No.”

“Mary-Anne? Mimi? Baby? Margaret?

“No.”

“Can I call you beautiful?”

“What,” she said, looking up.

“Can I call you beautiful?”

She tried turning his brain to tapioca with her eyes.

“Can’t a man, compliment a beautiful woman?”

“Not this woman.” She grabbed her coffee cup by the lid, slid her card between her fingers, and stuffed her book into her green bag as she walked past him toward the door.

“Give up, Wallace,” Joe said as he wiped down the counter beside the cash register.

“I can’t.” he said. “Joe …”

“Yeah.”

“Do you know her name?”

“Sure. It’s Emma.”

“Emma? But her library card read Margaret?”

“Sure. Her name is Margaret Emma Thatcher. But she goes by Emma.”

“Right. Good to know.”

“Any thing else I should know about her, Joe?”

“Sure. She always has a vanilla latte and she hates you.”

“Quite plain and simple then?”

“Quite. Give it up, Wallace. Give it up.”

Emma and Wallace #1

{ August 10, 2009 @ 2:45 am } · { Wallace and Emma }
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I am addicted to coffee. And so, by no surpise, I am obsessed with coffee shop people. Here is the first of many sketches to come about Emma and Wallace:

A man walks by a girl reading a book outside of a coffee shop. He stops at her table. She doesn’t look up.

“Is this seat taken?”

“Yes.”

“I hardly believe that.”

“I hardly believe that you just used that line.”

“Seriously, can I sit here?”

“Isn’t there somewhere else you can sit?”

“No.”

“But there are plenty of seats.”

“Yes, but they’re not as pleasant as this one.”

“They’re all the same.”

“No. They’re not. This one is next to you.”

“I’m waiting for someone.”

“Me.”

“No, not you.”

“But what if you were?”

“But, I’m not.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Then who are you waiting for?”

“A friend.”

“I could be your friend.”

“But, you’re not. I don’t even know you.”

“You could know me.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m busy.”

“No you’re not. You’re waiting for me and I have arrived.”

“I’m not waiting for you.”

“Not any more, I’m already here.”

“Go away, you’re distracting me.”

“It’s my good looks isn’t it?”

“No, it’s your incessant chatter about nothing.”

“Then let’s discuss something of substance. What’re you reading?”

“Gulliver’s Travels by Swift.”

“Why are you reading such an old book? Nobody reads the classics anymore.”

“Are you calling me old? Do I look old to you?”

“No. That’s not what I’m saying. You’re too young to be reading such an old book.”

“I think you’re too old to be using such a line.”

“What line? Beautiful ladies deserve the attention of modern men, not dusty pages.”

“Don’t judge. You can’t understand the new without first reading the old.”

“But I say, ‘out with the old and in with the new?’ ”

“Where do you think the new got its inspiration?”

“Rock n’ Roll?”

“Which, not by chance, also draws from the old styles of music. It’s not as new as you think.”

“Why are you so opposed to the new?

“I’m not. But you can’t have the new without the old. People only read contemporary trash these days. They continue to quote things they’ve never read and use phrases they don’t understand, thus perverting our beautiful language. You wouldn’t understand.”

“So you are so opposed to the new that you won’t let me sit here with you and learn from your venerability?”

“Don’t mock me, sir.”

“Madam, I mock thee not. I …”

She marks her place.

“You, sir are an annoyance.” She leaves, glaring at him.

He takes a seat in the empty chair opposite her now empty chair and pulls a newspaper clipping out of a book.

“I wish she was waiting for me.”

He picks up Gulliver’s Travels.

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