It’s time for another Monday One-Word Writing! This week’s suggestion comes from three weeks ago (my Christmas Eve post), and the word is “rumble”. Enjoy!
They slowly ground against each other, tension building up over centuries. It was only a matter of time. So much energy could not be contained.
Michael woke up just as he normally did. He grudgingly got out of bed, considered showering, and decided it was pointless to try to feel clean when you worked in sanitation. He ate his plain, untoasted bagel, drank his orange juice, brushed his teeth, and immediately regretted doing the last two. A pair of blue jeans later, and he was out the door of his apartment.
That was when the first vibration hit. It was a rather small tremor, one that all San Fransiscans were used to. Michael braced his arm against the wall and waited it out.
When the shaking stopped, Michael called out, “Everybody okay?”
A small voice replied from the end of the hallway, “I could use a hand.”
Michael jogged to end of the hallway and found the elderly man from 5C lying on the floor. “I’m fine. My knees just don’t have the strength in them to get me up of the ground.” He let out a feeble laugh.
“Alright, let’s get you up,” Michael send. He grabbed the man’s hand as the second tremor hit.
This one was huge, the biggest the Bay Area had had in sixty years. The old apartment building rocked violently, and unable to withstand the earthquake like the newer buildings, began to shake apart.
A wooden support beam fell from the ceiling. Michael, still leaning over the old man, took the full force of the beam with his back. He let out a cry of pain, and his knees crumpled from the impact. He still kept enough strength, though, to keep the beam from crushing the man.
The old man scrambled from beneath the beam with new found vigor, and made it out from under it moments before Michael grew too weak to hold it up. It collapsed onto Michael, and he felt the air rush from his lungs. He tried to regain his breath, but found he couldn’t inhale. The last thing Michael heard before he passed out was the old man saying, “I”ll go get help. Try to hang on!”
I hope you liked it! Circumstances called for a rather short one, but that isn’t alway bad. Once again, if you have a suggestion for a word to use next week, please leave it in a comment below!
It’s Monday (say it with me now – ugghhh…), but there is light at the end of the tunnel, and it comes in the form of a story. Due to last Monday being New Year’s Eve, I took the day off from One-Word Writing, so this week, to make up for that, I’m using the word resolution (which, by the way, was suggested by my Creative Writing teacher). Without further adieu, the story!
“We don’t have any hard evidence on this guy. All we’ve got is a single witness.”
“We’ve got two witnesses, Clara,” the commissioner said.
“The other one’s autistic and all he has is a blurry picture of the dark alley,” Officer Clara replied.
“It’s a shame. Every once and a while he takes a great picture. Just not this…”
The commissioner was cut off by someone entering the room.
“Sir, I, here, clean…” he stammered.
“Son, spit it out!’ the commissioner said.
The young man took a deep breath, then continued. “I just cleaned up that man’s photo: took out the blur, boosted the light levels and resolution as best as I could. It’s not the best, but it’ll do.” He handed the commissioner a piece of paper. the commisioner’s eyes scanned over it.
“You did this yourself, son?”
“Yes I did, sir,” he replied.
“You new here?”
“Yes, sir. Officer Markus Ellis. Been here three weeks. Got this assignment of cleaning a photo as a joke from Office Jamison.”
The commissioner couldn’t remember interviewing this kid. too many recruits coming in nowadays. But this Ellis – he saw potential. Might as well boost the kid’s confidence.
“Ellis, this might just be enough to prosecute him. Nice work.”
Ellis looked surprised. “Thank you,” he said, awestruck, and left the room.
“You really think it’s enough?” Clara asked.
“It might just be,” the commissioner muttered. “It might just be…”.
Sorry for the brevity, but I am working under some time restraints (I’m doing some big things with my blog that I will be announcing soon). But don’t forget to leave your comment below with your suggestion of what word I should use next week. See you then!
It may be Christmas Eve, but that doesn’t stop me from writing another story! This week’s word comes from Patrick, who suggested the word “kleptomaniac”. Here’s what I came up with (with a holiday twist, of course).
So much here. So much ripe for the taking.
Bad. No. Don’t say that.
It was true though, there was so much. An entire department store full of people and products. Nobody would notice if one product went missing.
Seriously, stop, I told myself. Just leave. I knew I shouldn’t have tried to do some Christmas shopping. I can’t control myself.
But those boots. They looked perfect.
What would I do with a pair of women’s boots? I asked myself.
I had this impulse to shove them into my winter coat and walk right out of the store. Again, NO! I practically shouted in my head. I had to fight this urge. The door was so close. I just needed to leave, and I’d be fine.
Just leave, a little voice in the back of my head said. The door’s so close. You could take the boots easily.
NO! I will not! I took a step towards the door, but my hand moved closer to the boots. “No,” I actually whispered out loud, and shoved both my hands in my pockets. Concentrate. One foot in front of the other, and soon you’ll be walking out the door, I thought, remembering the Christmas TV special.
With the boots, the voice piped up.
Shut up! I walked briskly toward the door and pushed my way through. Once outside, I took a deep gulp of December air. I hadn’t realized I had been holding my breath. I did it, I thought. I walked to my car and pulled out my keys.
Remember to leave your suggestion for next week’s word in the comments below! Merry Christmas if you celebrate it!
It’s Monday, which means it’s time for some more flash fiction in the for of Monday One-Word Writing. In case you’re just joining, here’s how this works: I take a single word (usually suggested in the previous week’s comments) and write some flash fiction about it in the half hour of class time I have. Then, you guys read it, and leave me a word to use for next week’s post. This week’s word comes from Catherine, who suggested “dissembled” on last week’s story.
“It’s a necessary sin, Mr. Clark.”
“I see no need for it to be necessary,” Mr. Clark said calmly. “We can continue the venture without dissolving the company.”
“Mr. Clark, this company will be the ruin of us. They’re a leeach sucking the blood from our corporation.”
“I’d remind you, Martin, that this company provides hundreds of jobs in the area.”
“And those people will find new jobs in time. Meanwhile, we get one step closer to this deal. I say we dissolve them immediately.”
“I’d also remind you, Martin, that you are the second largest shareholder in this company. It would do well to respect the largest shareholder.” Mr. Clark’s calm demeanor while saying this sent a shiver down Martin’s spine.
“Yes,” he said meekly. “So, what do you propose, Mr. Clark?”
“I propose we drink on it, and think about the decision tomorrow.” Mr. Clark was known as a drinking man, so it wasn’t an unusual idea. What was unusual was the bottle of limited edition 1958 Glen Garioch whiskey.
“Are you sure you want to share that bottle with me? Perhaps something less expensive would suffice.”
“No, Martin, I insist!” Mr. Clark said jubilantly. “Drink up!” He handed him a glass with a generous portion of liquor.
Martin slowly sipped his glass. “This excellent. Thank you.”
“No, thank you,” Mr. Clark replied, “for making my job easier.”
Before Martin could comprehend what Mr. Clark said, a convulsion ran through his arms. He dropped the glass, whcih shattered when it hit the marble floor. A fresh convulsion tore through his spine. Soon, Martin couldn’t feel his lower body, and gurgling noises could be heard coming from his mouth. A final spasm sent him to the ground, where he lay dying. Police would find him and a coroner would blame it on a piece of bad fugu fish, which Martin especially liked on Sunday nights.
In a matter of days, Mr. Clark would sell all his stock in the corporation and disappear. He would assume a different name and become the largest shareholder of his next target. It paid to be an assassin, and Mr. Clark was one of the best, simply because he put on his facade and hid in the most secretive of places; plain sight.
This week marks the first week where I’m using a fan-submitted word for my Monday One-Word Writing. On last week’s post, kmcambion commented and told me to use the word “difference”, which I will be using today. I prefer using your comments over a word generator to write my one-word writings, so if you have a word for next week’s post, please leave it in a comment! And now, for the story…
“Why does it matter?”
“It just does! They aren’t the same!” Curtis was practically screaming to the whole world his opinions.
Ryan put his hand on his coworkers shoulder. “Hey, quiet down man. No need to make a scene, especially when they’re around.” Quite a few quartets of eyes had turned their direction.
“So you’ll admit, there is a difference,” Curtis whispered.
“They’re just different anatomically. Inside, we’re all the same, man.”
“Bah,” Curtis scoffed, “inside. Inside, they’re probably waiting to tear us all to pieces.”
“Curtis, what’s gotten into you today?” this wasn’t the Curtis Ryan had worked with for years. “Stellacaeruleans have lived with us for two years now, and there’s been nothing but the usual problems we have with humans.”
“Nothing yet,” Curtis retorted. “But it’s coming. You ever see those old sci-fi movies from the twentieth century?”
“Why would I?” Ryan replied.
“I was watching some of them last night just for a couple of kicks, and they’re totally right.” Curtis’s voice was starting to rise. “The aliens come to Earth and live peacefully for a while. Then – BAM! All out war, aliens versus humans. Happens every time.” By the end of his tirade, Curtis was screaming it to the crowded city street. Some had taken notice – including a juvenile Stellacaerulean. He approached the pair of humans.
“I would like for you to stop,” he said in the deep bass of all Stellacaeruleans.
“And we will,” Ryan said hurriedly, and began to walk away. “Come one Curtis!” he called back to his friend.
“No,” Curtis said. “I’m tired of these damned four-eyes,” he said, indicating the Stellacaerulean’s two pairs of eyes. “They’re trouble, and I know it!” He screamed at the six foot alien, a youngling of his species. “You’re all trouble! War waiting to break out! You hear me, pal? Trouble!”
The Stellacaerulean, though not fully mature, was immensely strong in comparison to humans, and with one swift blow from his fist, Curtis was out cold. “I hear,” he said.