Friendly Fiction

"Fiction?" by James Museless, pt 3

friendlyfictionatjs@googlemail.com (friendlyfiction) — Wed, 8 Oct 2008 12:53:00 GMT

"Hey Jimmy!"

He instinctively turned his head before his brain could interrupt. Being sociable was pretty low on his to-do list when taking a pouty, self-flagellating walk in the rain - you're supposed to be alone when you do that.

"Jimmy!'

He wondered who could see him through the rain and dark, and when he saw her face, he didn't know who was looking back at him. "Yes?"

"Oh, I'm sorry sir, I thought you were someone else."

Hmm. 'Sir' didn't sit too well. 'I'm sorry' would have done much better. "Well, you got my name right."

"I did?"

"Yup. Too bad you don't know me, because you'd undoubtedly love to stroll through the rain with a melancholy self-loathing friend right now, wouldn't you?" He managed to sound a little cheeky and self-deprecatory rather than mean or condescending.

"Well, um. Why not?"

Whoever she was, in the calling of his name, well, ok, it wasn't really his name but .., she had brought forth the irreverent side of Jimmy and that was as close to grace as the night seemed to promise, so .. a wet, cold walk with awkward almost-conversations was on tap.

Family Holidays (Part I), a fable by Shennanigans

friendlyfictionatjs@googlemail.com (friendlyfiction) — Tue, 7 Oct 2008 13:09:00 GMT

All the memories of holidays stored in my memory. The laughter. The tears. The family. The food. All of those things that make the holidays, well, the holidays.

What would holidays be without the family â the young niece in tears because her older cousin is pointing his finger at her cheek and taunting, âIâm not touching you!â because he was reprimanded for touching her earlier in the day; mom and dad sternly advising each of us kids to not steal the turkey skin off the bird, as it sits to be carved on the counter-top; and the grandparents sitting, sipping their gin and tonics, wishing everyone would settle down and kindly enjoy being with the family. Ah, yes, family.

This holiday, however, well, this holiday tale you are about to read is vastly different than any you have read before. After all, this family is like no other family in all the worldâ¦

The bellowed screech down the stairs, tells the children quite clearly that Sir Cat of Nip does not want to play. He is not interested in having his tail pulled, or being put into doll clothing, or even in being thrown out the door into the pouring rain. No, he wants to hide â run and hide, into the dark corners of the attic. Run to safety. Run where the little troll and imp are afraid to goâ¦the part of the attic overtaken by spiders.

Nip, as he is fondly referred to by the group of monstrosities caring for him, otherwise known as a family in normal circumstances, is not afraid of spiders. In fact, he finds himself very happy in their presence, and even delighted when they weave their webs about his body. The spiders do not spin the webs around Nip because they want to trap him; quite the contrary â the more the spiders weave their silk around the cat, the less likely it is the the little troll and imp will pull him from the attic.

You only think that the little troll and imp are unsavory names for the little beasts that some âfamiliesâ call children. Oh, but not here.

The little troll and imp are just that, a troll and an imp, aptly named Troll and Imp.

Worse still, is that they are being raised by Ninny and Nincompoop. You and I call these people âparentsâ. Ninny lacks all ability to govern Troll and Imp. In fact, she lacks all control over even herself.

Nincompoop is a tiny wavering little man. He has no backbone, so he bends to and froâ like a piece of spaghetti as he walks. He doesnât talk either. He mumbles.

Letâs get back to Troll and Imp. They are, after all, the center of Nipâs holiday tale.

Troll and Imp are twins, but no one has been able to figure out exactly how this occurred. First of all, they look nothing alike. In fact, Troll is large, green, ugly, and has red bushy hair. Imp, on the other hand, is short, slightly hunched, and has soft wild blue-ish hair. Even weirder is that they simply appeared in the nursery in the house, the crooked seven story Victorian on Cruchkly Road, one day, wailing and wailing.

Neither Ninny nor Nincompoop remember putting together a nursery either! It seemed to create itself into being â one day Nip was walking through dusty old rooms, fighting the slope of the floor, and the next he was walking through a room with cradles and noise.

The noise! Nip cannot stand noise. Before Troll and Imp came along, Nip could putter about as silently as the house itself. The occasional noise, if any, was only by the seldom passing of a car. Perhaps this is why Nip stayed with Ninny and Nincompoop the four years leading up to the arrival of Troll and Imp. It surely wasnât because Ninny and Nincompoop were the best of caretakers, for Nip or for the house. Nip had all the space he could want, was able to find food when Ninny would forget to put it into his bowl, and he had quiet.

Now, as Nip is being pulled down the stairs toward the open dishwasher in the kitchen, he longs for that time. He longs for the time, two years prior, when he could fearlessly jaunt down the stairs into the foyer.

To make matters worse for Nip, Troll and Imp arenât alone today. Today there are many other little beasts running rampant through his house.

Nip hates the holidays.

"Fiction?" by James Museless, pt 2

friendlyfictionatjs@googlemail.com (friendlyfiction) — Sun, 5 Oct 2008 01:14:00 GMT

Well, it was either drinking alone or walking alone, and without knowing why, Jimmy chose the latter. Somehow the rain and the cold, dark night seemed to fit the moment better than the warmth of a bottle. Perhaps it was an extension of his self-punishment over trying to write that still untold and unknown story. Of course, the alleged comfort of a bottle and forgetfulness might have been the same extension, and who can say which is the greater of two seeming evils, if evil they are.

Jimmy's life had always been a lonely walk on a fine line - a tight rope without aid of a balancing bar. But never so high as to prove deadly when he fell - just enough to inflict the pain that always seemed rightly deserved. Why he walked it, he knew not. He wasn't friendless - in fact he was well-liked despite his natural bent to a shy, pessimistic, introversion. And he never thought of his feelings about life being lonely as a reflection on those who loved him or whom he loved. It was just that loneliness struck him not so much as a condition he had that could be cast off with a better thought, a better medicine, etc. No, it was more like the atmosphere within which he lived, and within which, ultimately, he felt everyone lived. Wherever Jimmy was walking, the ultimate destination, as the ultimate origin, of his path seemed the same - alone, dark, unknowing and silent, except for the internal voices whose volume only sufficient alcohol could temper.

Yet here he was walking, literally and figuratively, without his "silencer" as he liked to call it. He rarely thought of suicide, even if he often tacitly wished his next step was his last. Was he more afraid of life or death? It seemed all he could do was walk his tightrope as a choiceless avoidance of the question. If he stopped walking would he die or live?

"Fiction?" by James Museless

friendlyfictionatjs@googlemail.com (friendlyfiction) — Fri, 3 Oct 2008 01:44:00 GMT

possibly a stand alone piece, but hopefully something more...

#

Jimmy sat at his computer, trying to write fiction. Where to start? Why so hard to not write prose? Why did he just use a split infinitive? Too many Star Trek episodes? Why is he asking himself such questions instead of writing? Because he doesn't know anything else but the questions. Because he doesn't have a story to tell. Because he feels perpetually pregnant but never able to deliver - filled with something he cannot express, cannot comprehend. Is it life? This is one of the many things Jimmy is unable to believe - that life itself resides in him ready to leap out and fill others and fill him too. If life is in there somewhere it must be heavily bound, for he cannot loose it.

And looking at his now aborted attempt to write fiction, he notes all of its flaws, such as it's non-fluent shifts in person. Was he narrating Jimmy's' story or was Jimmy telling his own story? It seemed all the same. And even his reflections on his aborted tale cannot escape this vacillation. And so, he stares at his lifeless work, and mourns for what might have been, for the relationship he might have had with it, at the damage he has done to himself by his own self-imposed constraints, by his destruction of his own creation. Not good enough. Not really fiction. Really autobiography acted out - self-hatred now tearing at his would-be creation and at himself for thinking he might be creative.

Belated Flash Friday Fiction, by Shennanigans

friendlyfictionatjs@googlemail.com (friendlyfiction) — Mon, 29 Sep 2008 19:10:00 GMT

Better late than never - the prompt for Flash Fiction Friday at WordWebbings this past Friday, "All he needs now is a pair of ski goggles and a goosedown jacket."

Ah heck, I had to give this one a try!

Los Angeles and fashion - depending on where in the city a person is, what circles the person keeps, and what a person truly considers as 'fashionable', the term "fashion" must be used loosely in the seedy hotbed of year-round sunshine.

When it is eighty degrees and there are people walking along Melrose Ave and Sunset Blvd in cut-off shorts, halter tops, and Uggs, one must realize that something is dreadfully wrong.

Even back in the days when fashion and etiquette went hand in hand and had strict rules governing when white shoes were appropriate during the year and when open toe shoes and sandals could be worn with specifically designated outfits, it is doubtful that Uggs would have received a blessing to be worn all year, let alone with any attire.

If Angelinos need Uggs in eighty degree weather, what they must need now that the weather is turning to a *frosty* seventy is a pair of ski goggles and a goosedown jacket. Heh, maybe they will be donned with a bikini top and a pair of flip-flops!

Perhaps the 'fashionistas' hanging out in the City of Angels will open their eyes and realize that "fashion" still has rules - the first being that winter clothing has no proper place in temps above fifty (even sixty if the limits have to be pushed); the second, and perhaps most important, is that something does not become fashionable simply because it is worn on the streets of Los Angeles or because everyone is doing it...what makes something fashionable is the right material used to create a functional piece of clothing (or eccentric if the runways are used to gauge the idea of fashion), accessorized properly, and put together to be worn during the correct season.

Angelinos - unless you are going skiing, or are planning to visit central Europe or your own Midwest in the Fall or Winter, please, leave the ski goggles and goosedown jackets to those that know how and when to wear them.

As for your Uggs? Keep them in your closet AT LEAST until the weather drops to sixty two days in a row; but please, consider keeping them in the closet a bit longer - you know, until it is cold enough that you have to wear pants!

weekend flash

friendlyfictionatjs@googlemail.com (friendlyfiction) — Sat, 27 Sep 2008 18:51:00 GMT

something a little different...

this could be the first in a series if anyone's interested. the idea is that i'll post a few words or a short line and you are to

write immediately for five minutes.

whatever springs into your mind, go with it, but only for five minutes. then post what you have. yes, you can do it in the private group if you want: just drop us an email and we'll reply with the info.

and, by all means, feel free to return to your five minute story and spruce, edit and whatever, and feel free to post those, too. but as a first port of call, try just the five minutes without thinking.

ok, are your fingers ready? this weekend's words/phrase is about to appear...

these girls are better off in my head

enjoy. :-)

Untitled Part VI (the conclusion), by Shennanigans

friendlyfictionatjs@googlemail.com (friendlyfiction) — Sat, 27 Sep 2008 11:50:00 GMT

Part VI

The sound of the splash.

The sights.

The feelings.

He is flooded with everything. There are no longer details escaping him.

He wants to wake himself up, to stop himself from seeing the play of events.

His eyelids are so heavy. âIt must be those da** drugs.â âI remember begging for them for the pain, and now I wish I had never asked.â

âNow! Wake up!,â he yells to himself. He recalls his father teaching him how to awaken himself from his nightmares as a child. With the drugs flowing through him, he finds that he does not have the strength, though he has the determination.

He continues his fight against the past as she stands beside him. Her hands on his body. She lightly holds a hand to his forehead, while her other hand has its fingers weaved through his.

She watches his fists clench, his body arching and writhing. She wants to stop what is happening, but she does not have that kind of power.

He knows she is there with him. He feels coolness where her hands touch him. He wishes she could touch him everywhere â to give his entire body the same wonderful sense of peace he feels on his forehead and in his hand.

He longs to be with her completely.

*****

He sees her there. In the water. He thinks of his mother. His sister. His wife. His daughter.

Moments before, he saw flashes of light, but they did not make sense to him. His instinct told him to run â to go, but his training told him to jump.

He suddenly feels how cold the water is â the pieces of ice floating by her body. âI have to get to her. I can overcome the cold. For her, I have to.â

He reaches her and with sickness in his gut and sadness in his heart, he knows he is not in time. He refuses to let her go. He will get her to the shore. He will not give her up to the river. He will give her family their time to say goodbye to her, her body, not just her memory. He has always hoped that when his time comes, his family and friends will have that same chance.

The thoughts of the women in his life come into his mindâs eye again. Their beauty surrounds him, their strength wraps around him, giving him the courage and strength to wrestle the current with her in his arms.

He pushes her body into the arms of the waiting medics.

He feels the cold overtake him. He lies down on the stretcher the medic has placed before him. The blankets feel so warm.

So many people shouting, staring down at him. All the flashing lights of the medical vehicles. His eyes are overwhelmed. He closes his eyes so that they may relax.

âWere they both hit? The medic is checking, but I am working to gather some facts from witnesses.â

âNo, she was badly hit. It is questionable if she was alive or even conscious when she hit the water. One hit her in the chest; it went through and through,â the soldier responds to the witness' query.

âIf he wasnât hit, do you think he fell in from being starlted by the gunfire? Or do you think perhaps he jumped in? Do you know if he knew her?â

The questions flow from the soldier; a man with enough experience to know that his inquiries will have a thousand different answers from all the witnesses to this evening. It will take him awhile to sort through the different versions of what happened and in what order.

The real story is going to have to come from him, but not right now. He needs to warm up. His blood pressure needs to come down â the medic has indicated that it is high enough that he could stroke. No sense to the soldier in making it worse. The sense of failure in any rescue is one of the worst things a soldier can face â it can haunt a career and life, even dreams, until the soldier goes crazy or dies.

âPerhaps even beyond death?,â the soldier morbidly asks to no one in particular.

*****

He sees that night unfold and feels the queasiness in his gut and the sadness in his heart, just as he felt it then.

The pain from the cold, from the needles of the medics, from the jostling of the ambulance as it brought him to the infirmary station.

He realizes that the medics, the doctors in his thoughts, have continued to check on him through the past few days and nights, like clockwork. Each time, talking to him and telling him to breath slower.

Only now does he feel the rapidity of his heartbeat in his chest. The heat emanating from, his body â the result of the blood pressure that has remained high.

*****

Her strength is waining as she focuses on passing every ounce of strength to him. She has begun to pray again, only now she prays directly to him. For him.

*****

The medic comes to his bedside, the last visit of his three day shift.

Her love and warmth fill the room so completely that the medic will almost miss being here to check on him once an hour. The need for sleep prevails, and he knows he is running on the last bit of his energy, adrenaline, and caffeine.

As the medic works to take the last readings of the shift, there is something palpable happening to his body. His pulse declines quickly, but steadily, and his blood pressure drops just as oddly.

*****

He sees her, sitting there beside him. He can see the medic enter his room, and watches as he comes to stand where she sits at his bedside.

Confusion again confronts him.

*****

She knows he is now with her, aware. It is now her being sent to rescue him.

*****

As he squeezes her hand, she gently returns the gesture. Her prayers were not unanswered. He kept his faith, when all the things he has seen in his life could have destroyed it.

*****

They both watch the medic as he reaches for the cord. The cord that will call for all personnel.

They will try to save him. They will not succeed.

He will walk with his guardian angel, the girl he tried desperately to save, as she walked away from the river that night with hers.

His final thoughts, as they leave the room of his fellow soldiers working endlessly to save his life, are of the women he is leaving behind.

He hopes that there is someone that will help to rescue them from their grief as he wanted to rescue the girl from the river, and that he will be there to lead them when their time comes.

In the room, down the hallway from where they are walking, he hears them declare a time.

He wants to feel sorrow for his own death, for those he has left, but her prayers had more power than she believed â she absorbs his pain and grief, the one thing she could do to thank him.

Untitled Part V, by Shennanigans

friendlyfictionatjs@googlemail.com (friendlyfiction) — Sat, 27 Sep 2008 11:49:00 GMT

He does not want to remember, he realizes that at this moment. His memory has been helping him â allowing him to forget, but his mind has taken him too far to erase it again.

*****

Her song-like prayers have become more urgent. She knows she made her choice when she decided to be with him. This has become her burden, and her blessing. He may not realize it now, but she will be the one to help him.

She hopes to help him understand.

âEach one who has faced this before me must have had the same questions â Will I be strong enough? Will I be able to achieve what I need to, for him, for me, for powers above us? Am I really worthy to do this?,â she questions everything she has learned from her life and her faith.

âYes,â she tells herself with a feeling of relief and nervousness.

She knows this is the path of life, the order of things, and that no matter what questions or doubts she has, it is for her to follow him. Any other way, and she may only end up hurting him.

Her soul feels as if it is becoming a candle, burning brighter than ever before. She tenses for a moment, relaxing back into herself and the peace that has always followed her.

All she can do is listen to the ticking of the clock as time passes...

Jack 'o' Lantern, by Rambler

friendlyfictionatjs@googlemail.com (friendlyfiction) — Fri, 26 Sep 2008 03:21:00 GMT

a complete story from a very welcome new visitor. please share your thoughts on rambler's tale.

~

October had always been my favorite month. The crisp clean feel of the autumn air and the colorful appearance of the neighborhood trees combined to invigorate me. Then there were the holidays. Columbus Day always meant a day off school, and not much beats that. Except the other holiday. Halloween didn't allow us a respite from our education, but I still loved it, and so did my friends. Halloween was our day. Or, more accurately, it was our night.

Darkness came early on October 31st. That was good. We liked it dark for our neighborhood prowl. The harvest moon provided an eery sort of lighting as we roamed the streets, searching for our targets: Pumpkins. The hollowed jack'o'lanterns made such a cool sound as we smashed them on the street.

"Hey, you junior-grade terrorists!" shouted a homeowner as we ran from the latest scene of wanton vegetable destruction. "I saw you smash that pumpkin! I'm callin' the cops!" his threat drifted after us as we sped
away from the scene.

He didn't know who we were; we were confident of that fact. We chose the far side of the neighborhood for our missions, the part which we never frequented otherwise. Also we were disguised in our costumes. Bill Hockstetter wore a lumberjack outfit. He carried a small axe, and his face was camouflaged with a bushy fake beard. Dave Fisher was dressed as a hockey player, his face covered with a goalie's mask, and he carried two hockey sticks, duct-taped together for strength. Russ Chamberlain was a werewolf, with all the attendant makeup. Me I had gone simple this year. I wore a black ski mask pulled over my face, a black skintight sweatshirt, black jeans and black running shoes. In my belt I had tucked a large cardboard knife. Though it bore no relationship to my costume, I also carried a broken broomstick handle. I told everyone that I was OJ Simpson. Most folks got a chuckle out of that.

We doubted that the police would be wasting time investigating smashed pumpkins, but we headed for a field to lay low and eat some candy fromearlier in the evening. As we suspected, no squad cars appeared. So we soon continued our prowl of the neighborhood streets, feeling a little like the terrorists that we had been labeled. Smiling orange faces fell beneath our onslaught.

"Hey, come here," called Bill. "Take a look at this one." We crept toward the house, staring at their jack'o'lantern. It was huge! Biggest one of the night.

"This is the mother of all 'kins," Bill stated, and we all nodded our agreement. "We smash this one, and our night is complete." He grinned.

That was ok with me. I was tired and was ready to head home. Mom and Dad would be up, but they wouldn't be worried yet. I wanted to keep it that way. I think Dad knew what we were up to, but he didn't ask, and I didn't tell.

"You know why they carve pumpkins?" asked Dave. I shook my head, and he said, "It had to do with warding off evil spirits. The Jack'o'lantern face is supposed to be so hideous that it scared those bad vibes right off."

"Nah," said Russ. "They were hollowed out so that the faeries could live in them. The mouths and eyes were just decorations for their houses."

"You're a fairy," jabbed Bill. "Now be quiet, while we sneak up to that door and grab that mother."

"I ain't a fairy." Russ looked indignant behind his whiskers. "Not fairies, F A E R I E S. Little creatures. Like imps or something."

"Shhh," Bill reiterated, and he led the way.

As we got closer, Dave let out a low, quiet histle. "That is one ugly pumpkin!"

I agreed. "Biggest one, but ugliest one we've seen tonight."

Bill had reached the jack'o'lantern, and turned to us. "Dummy up, you motormouths." He reached for the pumpkin and hoisted it against his chest. He motioned with his head, and trotted off, as fast as he could with the massive 'kin in his arms. We all followed.

We reached the road a few houses down. Bill held the pumpkin above his head, and smiled. "All Hallowed Eve is now over," he intoned, and we waited for him to throw it.

He didn't. He froze, and suddenly, my vision blurred. I could only make out the shape of Bill with the raised jack'o'lantern held high vaguely, and Dave and Russ were gone completely. Then something snapped, and I could see clearly again.

But my angle of vision was different. I was lying against the cement of a road or sidewalk or something. I couldn't see which. It just felt cold against my face. But I was upright. My chin was flush against the cement. I couldn't figure out where I was. I must be buried up to my neck or something, I thought. I was strangely calm, even though this burial thing seemed to be the only logical explanation. I tried to turn my head but couldn't.

"Bill," I called out. No sound came forth. I couldn't talk. I couldn't move. Then I noticed the flickering lights on the cement in front of me, and noted that light was coming FROM me. It illuminated the bushes and trees of the front yard. I could see the grass in front of me, and barely could make out the house across the street.

This couldn't be really happening. But there I was. Somehow, I was NOW inside a jack'o'lantern. Or, more accurately, I WAS a jack'o'lantern.

I could only assume that Bill, Dave and Russ were beside me, as I couldn't turn enough to see for sure. I watched as the dark street became active, first with our parents' cars, obviously searching for us. Then police cars drove past. Then footsteps came up the walk, knocked on the door that I could only assume was behind me. The voices asked if they had noticed 4 young men wandering around the streets. A different voice answered that they hadn't noticed. Our costumes were described. The voice told of how our "weapons" had been found a short distance up the street. The voices thanked the homeowners, and left. I strained to see who it was, tried to cry out. "I'm in here!" Nothing.

From behind me came a voice, noticing that there were four small new pumpkins sitting around their huge jack'o'lantern. The voice wondered where they might have come from. Then the door closed.

So here I sit, mute, immobile. I stare, unblinking, straight out toward the street. I wonder just how long I'll remain under the influence of whatever spell has been cast. I long for my friends' company, even though I know they are all around me.

A car creeps down the street past my field of vision. I see the taillights stop, and I hear footsteps approaching my perch. I listen carefully to the voices which belong to the persons outside of my field of vision.

"Hey," comes the whispered words. "Let's grab the four little ones. We can toss them out the window of the car or just smash them right here." There is whispered enthusiasm for this plan.

"Please, God," I pray, silently. "Let me wake up from this bad dream before it goes any further." But I realize that my prayers go unanswered as hands grasp my sides and the cement porch sinks away from me.

I thought about all of those pumpkins we have smashed in the last few years. I guess it's true what they say about payback being a....

******

Untitled Part IV, by Shennanigans

friendlyfictionatjs@googlemail.com (friendlyfiction) — Thu, 25 Sep 2008 10:36:00 GMT

The pain hurt worse than any he had known before that night.

It seered him from inside, somewhere deep within. He had felt crushed and elevated, in the same second.

*****

As more memories continue to invade his thoughts, he works to force his brain to search out the other thought - the one which slips through his fingers each time he is near enough to make a grasp at it. He seeks in desperation. He believes that if he can find it, he will be more at ease, better able to accept what is happening, and, maybe, just maybe, he could stop faking and truly sleepâ¦peacefully even.

She is by his side, hoping that he has not lost his faith â in himself, in the medics, in the powers above.

She does not want him to suffer. If he suffers, she will suffer alongside him, for eternity should she need to.

*****

There are more people that want to speak to him than hours in a day can accommodate. One, however, finds the way into his room and to his bedside.

âHi. I am sorry it has taken me this long to visit.â âYou awake? I was hoping you would want to talk to me as much as I want to talk to you.â âThis is a miserable thing we have all ended up in, donât you think? I keep hoping I will wake up and discover it has all been a bad dream.â

âI wish I could say âthank youâ â well, that and so many other things too. Maybe I am not ready either.â

One more kisses his forehead, squeezes his hand, and leaves.

*****

He feels his eyes flutter open, though he cannot recall consciously telling them to do anything different than to remain shut.

He sees her, still there. Her body still refusing to lose its haziness. âHeh, look at that, the lights from the nursesâ station across the hall are making her glow.â âShe is so beautiful.â

His body has a new lightness to it, one which he appreciates. He is so tired of the pain that he welcomes a release in any form, drugs or otherwise. âThank you doc. Finally, the drugs are working,â he sighs as he completes the thought, his eyes closing again.

*****

He knows it is there now, in his mind. He knows exactly where it is hiding. âWho, really, is the hunted, and who is the prey?â

He takes his thoughts to that dark place, unsure what he will find, and anxious that it may be something best left alone.

Too late, he realizes what it isâ¦

Untitled Part III, by Shennanigans

friendlyfictionatjs@googlemail.com (friendlyfiction) — Wed, 24 Sep 2008 12:20:00 GMT

Untitled, Part III

He sees the bright lights. There were so many of them, quickly, one after the other.

The elusive shadow briefly passes once again through his mind.

âWhat is it? What is that thing that keeps acting like a riddle to my mind,â he thinks slowly.

He tries once again to open his eyes and focus on her, the hazy form in his room. âWhat is she doing here?â She remains a ghostly apparition, even though her nearness to him should make her clear.

He can hear muttering; it has the melody of a chant, of a wartime march. He thinks maybe it is coming from her, but it has a cast of gloominess. âWhy would she talk to me with such sadness in her voice? If I remember anything, her voice should sound like a thousand well played strings on a violin.â

*****

He knows it is the doctor pressing down on his legs, his arms, his foreheadâ¦ âThere is no reason I can find for his heart-rate to be increasing and decreasing so incredibly. We can attempt to give a little more, but I am hesitant to add the other until I have tried all remaining options available.â

She watches as the group of people surround him. She knows they are there to help, but she cannot resist the feeling that it is out of their hands. She continues her solitary watch, the words easily leaving her and flowing toward him and the air.

âIt is nice that he has visitors coming and going. So many like him have no one. Medically proven or not, I think it helps a personâs progress.â

The medic walks away, glancing toward where she is sitting.

âMmmâ¦ Nice to have the feeling of warmth and love around.â

*****

As the lights go off, he feels relief. His eyes have taken a dislike to anything but dark.

He feels a sensation, then it evaporates from his body. Again, he feels it. This time it sticks to him like a resin.

*****

Another enters into his room. This one speaks to him loudly, hoping to wake him and have the conversation which has been hanging in the air.

âFrom the time your feet left the ground, I wasnât sure. I felt you there, I was listening to you, and then it was silent and you were gone.â âDamnit, youâve got to talk to me about this. Iâve got to know. You have answers that no one else can conjure up, and the theories are only becoming worse as time passes.â

His ability to fake sleep is notorious, so it is not possible to tell whether he is sleeping or ignoring the words being spoken.

âIâm going to try to come back again. Im not sure when I can get here. Whenever it is, we need to get our thoughts out into words.â

Another person, head low and sighing, walks out of his room unsure of how to get a grip on this.

*****

He is once again alone. His mind continues to wander, yet also continues to hunt the prey of his consciousness.

His mind wants to capture what it is he cannot track.

Unbeknownst to him, what he is seeking is the feelingâ¦

Untitled Part II, by Shennanigans

friendlyfictionatjs@googlemail.com (friendlyfiction) — Tue, 23 Sep 2008 22:13:00 GMT

Please Note: Due to a communication error, there was a very small portion of Part I which did not appear (the last sentence). Before continuing to Part II, please go back to Part I and catch the ending. Thanks!

Untitled, Part II

*Splash!*

The sound continues to replay in his mind, like a CD caught on itself - over and over, it refuses to quiet itself or allow any other sounds to exist in his head, but for a glimpse of time.

Chills come over his body and he wonders why. The cold feels so real to him, even under the layers of blankets. He shivers and tries to think of a warmer place. . .

He drifts into a blissful thought of a hot sun on a black sand beach. A heat-drenched breeze washing over his body. Swimming in water, warmed by the sun and the equator.

He realizes his body is no longer chilled, but pleasantly warm.

Quietness comes over him like a welcome hug.

*****

The medic has left, promising to return later, so she sits nervously watching over him. His body moves, as though it is being pulled by a marionette's strings.

There is little she can do but sit idly by, so she sits and waits, silently whispering prayers to herself and the air, hoping they will do what she has been taught. She prays for his soul, for his body, for his mind, and for the reason he is here now.

She watches someone come near to him. As the person inches toward him, she hears the person talking quietly, almost as if to no one in particular, but knowing the words are for him.

"The last I saw was you tumbling through the air. There's rumors, you know. Rumors that you jumped, that you were pushed, that it was an accident. No one knows but you, my friend. So many people, so many versions twisting around the same facts, but none offering the answer." The person looks over a shoulder, seeming to realize not being alone. Turning back to him, the person remains quiet now.

After moments pass, the person slowly walks away from him, again leaving him with only her silent repetitions.

*****

He is seeing images, flashes of people, in quick succession. He recognizes some of them, while others are strangers to his memory.

He feels her presence, opening his eyes to try and focus on her. He sees a hazy image; his brain refusing to draw her into a solid form. He hears someone talking to him.

"So many people...rumors...truth...friend."

He hears feet scuffling on the floor, away from him. He didn't want to talk to anyone yet anyway, so he thinks it is best that his eyes kept themselves shut. Feigning sleep has always been a craft at which he is capable.

The words sink in deeper and he finds that a thought continues to escape him. One thing does not -

a sight. . .

Untitled Part I, by Shennanigans

friendlyfictionatjs@googlemail.com (friendlyfiction) — Tue, 23 Sep 2008 10:02:00 GMT

Part I

As the clock ticked through the passing afternoon, he wondered whether things would make sense. Thoughts of people, the myriad of feelings and perspectives each person brings to any story s/he is a character in, willingly a participant or not.

"How is it that everyone involved can tell the situation in a different way," he continued to ponder. "It is like each one of us watched the same collision, but, if a third party were to speak to each, it would sound as if there had occurred a hundred different collisions, for all the muddled facts!"

His thoughts continued for some length until the doctor asked him to present his arm for pulse and blood pressure readings. His arm went out, an almost involuntarily response.

"Lower," the doctor said to him, but without looking at him. The doctors eyes seemed to speak to his own wrist, where his watch was being worn, "good.". "I'll be back later to check for any additional improvement. Please, try to relax - focus on breathing slower as much as possible."

The doctor's movement from the chair next to his bed to the door was so fluid that he briefly thinks the doctor is more akin to a floating apparition than a flesh and blood person.

"Wait, I think I recall some thing, some fact that will piece everything into making sense. . . It is just a little outside of the center of thought - a stranger lurking about in shadows, between thick trees at night." No matter how hard he tries to grab hold of the single thought he believes would solve his puzzlement, it eludes him.

What he remembers for sure is the sound...

Getting Started

friendlyfictionatjs@googlemail.com (friendlyfiction) — Mon, 22 Sep 2008 13:15:00 GMT

Hello.

We have created this journal in the hope you might share your fiction. The idea is to commit to a certain amount of time each day to write, but we're flexible on this. Once written, it can be posted here and be read/critiqued publically or as part of a private group.

Feel free to offer anything, be it an on-going story, a one-off piece of flash fiction, some poetry, whatever takes your fancy. Whatever you want to write and share is fine.

Some days we might offer prompt words, ideas or directions, which you can employ or ignore. This is simply to encourage more writing, more criticism, and more of a word-based community.

Just one person will have password access, so anything you want to see posted should be sent to the email address listed on this page; this account will be checked for submissions twice a day and then posted asap publically or within a private group, whichever you prefer. Just let me know in the email. Also, when emailing, please specifiy if it is a stand alone piece or part of a bigger project, just to give the reader extra help.

A word of warning re comments: please treat others and their stories as you would like to be treated. By all means point out something you don't like, but also point out those things that you do: always try and be constructive and respectful in your criticism.

Also, a link to your journal or website can be included on our page: simply send the link to the same address listed above and, once verified, it will be added.

I hope you feel like joining in. It really is as easy as:

(1) write your words
(2) email them to the address posted
(3) comment on posted stories
(4) repeat above

Happy writing.