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soltianI'm actually doing Nanowrimo this year. I am chugging along writing mostly complete nonsense or else really creepy fanfiction that no one is ever going to want to see. Along the way in the painful process of extracting words from myself, I come across little nuggets of original fiction I find pretty worthwhile. I'll put some here, so you can read them if you want. (I can always just blame this post on Heather later since she told me to do it.)
Masaru Iwatani – Pieces of the puzzle.
A steady throb of a mechanical beep sounds from across the room. He stretches out his hand for the clock, but finds his watch instead, and breathes in, and out, clutching the face of it in his palm and feeling it tick against his skin. Then he’s sitting up, the black comforter pushed to one side, feet flat against the round rug underneath the dark box of his bed. The beeping insists. He drops the watch back on the square bedside table and presses two knuckles into the clock as he passes it – the red numbers stop flashing and read 8:03 matter-of-factly. He pulls a few buttons open down the neckline of his pajama top before pulling it over his head, dropping it neatly into the wicker basket outside the bathroom door. He turns on the hot water, tempering it with only a trickle of cold, removes the rest of his pajamas and closes himself into the frosted stall.
Here his eyes close again as the water becomes another blanket. He tilts his head back and breathes humid air deeply, picturing his body putting itself back into order. First his muscles slowly reel in, flabby ropes and cables being pulled taut against his bones to form arms and legs that work. Next his organs rearrange, his lungs expanding properly without the weight of his ribs pinning them down during the hours of sleep. His heart beats more effectively and starts to speed up production. His stomach reconnects to his esophagus and settles into place, sends a signal up that it’s hungry. His body now fully functioning, he pulls a bar of oatmeal soap from the wire rack in the corner of the stall and gets to work.
Twenty minutes later, he’s dressed, shaven, combed, tie-clipped, and cuff-linked. He snaps a black briefcase shut and scrambles the combination lock with his thumb before easing the leather strap over one shoulder. He opens the front door, slips his key into the lock, and squints down the staircase at the sound of footsteps in the tiled hallway.
“Want to give me a ride?” Ken has one hand in his pocket and one carrying a neatly folded bakery bag that smells like cherry. Masaru pulls his door shut with the key, and gives it a full rotation smoothly before pointing at the bag with it, brushing past Ken at the top of the stairs.
“Is one of those for me?”
Ken grins, tossing the bag slightly so that he can catch the bottom of it in his palm, following him down the stairs. “So you do like cherry. I finally got it right.”
“Lucky guess,” Masaru replies, and counts the days in his head since Ken last drove himself to work, so he can use it against him later.
---
Richard Welsh – English breakfast.
He wakes up to the sound of flats padding across his carpet, the businesslike rustle of skirts and petticoats a pleasant backdrop to the click of a tray being set on the table, the soft dip of a spoon into sugar, and the sound and scent of tea being poured. Three seconds. Four.
“Breakfast, little master.”
He cracks his eye open, and observes gray hair tied in a bun, wrinkled skin the color of coffee, eyes that seem to be almost all dark iris. He sighs, and sits up, stretching. His slippers are waiting for him next to the bed, and his dressing gown is dangling over the nearest plush chair.
“You shouldn’t call me that anymore, Miranda. I’m mostly grown, you know.”
“Oh, you grow, all right,” she replies, now spreading a liberal amount of butter onto an English muffin, “I break my back carrying tray for you. Your brothers and sister not eat so much.”
“This is your job, after all,” he chides, kindly. He sits down, skimming the front page of the paper she’s brought him, and loops two fingers through the handle of his teacup. Earl Grey greets him, friendly and warm, and he indulges in the scent while opening to more newsprint. Miranda places a plate in front of him covered neatly in two sides of the muffin, eggs, sausages, sliced tomatoes, and a smaller dish of raspberries dusted with powdered sugar.
“More when you need it,” she leans over, kisses him on the forehead, smooths his hair out indelicately. She straightens up the room on her way out, clicking her tongue at the few items of laundry sagging lazily over this chair or sunk into the deep carpet. He can hear his brothers chatting to each other down the hall, and one of them calls good morning to Miranda when she emerges. Sunday has everyone in a good mood.
---
Sano Mullian – Kids these days.
He woke up face-first on someone’s leather couch. It smelled vaguely like dog, and there was a warm, bony body pressed against his right side, breathing steadily with soft wheezes. He looked at the guy’s face, (little goatee, three studs in his eyebrow, mouth slightly open), and wasn’t sure what he was called. He remembered asking about him in the bar, watching him pine over some pretty girl from across the room, remembered wrapping his arms around his shoulder, licking his cheek.
(Don’t worry, man – I know what you need. C’mere. C’mere, I’ll give you something nice.)
His head swam, and his belly lurched, and he leaned forward over the sticky couch, but didn’t heave. He tugged his right foot out from underneath sleeping-guy’s knees and shook it impatiently to get the blood flowing properly again. The room was quiet and dim and heavy with varied breathing and snoring. He had been lucky to get the couch, most people were on the floor, a couple in the lopsided armchair, one girl curled up on a makeshift bed of two folding chairs. He got to his feet, mumbling an inconsiderate “sorry” towards the carpet of sleeping bodies whenever he accidentally tread on someone’s shin. The light was on in the kitchen, and he squinted as he made his way to the sink. There was someone standing there already, holding a bag of ice to his head. Sano bumped into him accidentally as he reached into the door-less cupboard, muttering another “sorry” as he got a red plastic cup down for his water.
“You’re, uh…Sano? Sano Mullian?”
He looked up from the task of filling his flimsy cup with water to look at the guy with the ice-bag. He looked about thirty, with cropped blond hair, a square jaw, and an almost shy smile. He had no idea who he was supposed to be.
“Yeah, so?”
The guy laughed, and lowered his ice-bag, revealing a rather ugly cut on his forehead and a freshly blooming shiner. “I can’t believe it…you look so different. Except the hair, actually. That’s still the same.”
He scowled at the guy, uncomfortable. The fact that this guy didn’t know how to party without getting injured wasn’t helping him figure out who he was. “Who the fuck are you, man?”
The guy blinked, and then looked almost hurt, and then his shy smile was back with a shrug.
“I’m Kevin…don’t you remember me?”
---
Filip Sawicki – Final farewell.
He snaps out of his daze to the sound of boots clicking down the cell-block walkway. His senses are alert immediately. He concentrates on the sound. One-two, three. Pause. One-two, three, pause again – a cough, a distinctive smoker’s hack. Schafer. Not his first choice, but he doesn’t get a choice, does he? He smells the room deeply, sighing as if he were in any way sleepy. He can smell concrete, dust, piss, and frigid cold. He feels the cold in the bed beside him, and shivers, his gaze going glassy, his arm tightening slowly over Antony’s damp, sticky ribs, the heavy dark arms he’s arranged around his own shoulders (not yet stiff, not still warm), shifting. Antony’s left hand falls down behind his back, a soft embrace. He hears a single, lingering drip of liquid off the mattress, onto the wet floor. The damp on the floor is not visible from this angle. His vision is on the opposite wall, where Antony had hung posters of the gangsters he admired (that no one had ever heard of), letters from his family (that he never wrote back to). His eyes narrow. Schafer’s torchlight is cast on the floor, then the bunk. He hears a shuffle, a stupefied grunt. Schafer is confused. Of all things – confused. A loud crash of Schafer’s meaty fist against the cell door jolts his insides but not his body. He blinks his glassy eyes slowly.
“Miles! Sawicki! On your feet…now!”
He stops breathing, but not for Schafer’s sake. He finds the task of responding to his mentally challenged barks for attention nothing short of exhausting. He lifts one hand in the air (more red than white), one finger pointed upwards for silence and an extra moment of it.
“We need our rest, Sarge…come back in the morning, would you?”
He hears more panicked huffing, a muttered “Jesus”, and then orders, Schafer’s calling for more officers into the radio, soon there are running footsteps, hurry, noise, his neighbors cursing and shouting angrily at their sleep interrupted. He gets on his hands and knees, Antony’s face down below him, eyes closed, mouth slightly open. He strokes one dry cheek, feels the coarse brush of his hair under his palm. He doesn’t mean to be dramatic, but by the time he’s kissing him they’re already yanking his elbows behind his back. He makes out the obvious word “solitary” from the jumble of sounds and not much else. I love you, he thinks to himself silently, as the soles of his bare feet meet the icy floor and he walks, limping. And I won’t see you again.
---
There are more of these but uh...anyone who was willing to jump around with all the little nuggets even that much is already straining their brain more than enough for me. Just thought it'd be better to get a few up here, since I keep putting this off.
Masaru Iwatani – Pieces of the puzzle.
A steady throb of a mechanical beep sounds from across the room. He stretches out his hand for the clock, but finds his watch instead, and breathes in, and out, clutching the face of it in his palm and feeling it tick against his skin. Then he’s sitting up, the black comforter pushed to one side, feet flat against the round rug underneath the dark box of his bed. The beeping insists. He drops the watch back on the square bedside table and presses two knuckles into the clock as he passes it – the red numbers stop flashing and read 8:03 matter-of-factly. He pulls a few buttons open down the neckline of his pajama top before pulling it over his head, dropping it neatly into the wicker basket outside the bathroom door. He turns on the hot water, tempering it with only a trickle of cold, removes the rest of his pajamas and closes himself into the frosted stall.
Here his eyes close again as the water becomes another blanket. He tilts his head back and breathes humid air deeply, picturing his body putting itself back into order. First his muscles slowly reel in, flabby ropes and cables being pulled taut against his bones to form arms and legs that work. Next his organs rearrange, his lungs expanding properly without the weight of his ribs pinning them down during the hours of sleep. His heart beats more effectively and starts to speed up production. His stomach reconnects to his esophagus and settles into place, sends a signal up that it’s hungry. His body now fully functioning, he pulls a bar of oatmeal soap from the wire rack in the corner of the stall and gets to work.
Twenty minutes later, he’s dressed, shaven, combed, tie-clipped, and cuff-linked. He snaps a black briefcase shut and scrambles the combination lock with his thumb before easing the leather strap over one shoulder. He opens the front door, slips his key into the lock, and squints down the staircase at the sound of footsteps in the tiled hallway.
“Want to give me a ride?” Ken has one hand in his pocket and one carrying a neatly folded bakery bag that smells like cherry. Masaru pulls his door shut with the key, and gives it a full rotation smoothly before pointing at the bag with it, brushing past Ken at the top of the stairs.
“Is one of those for me?”
Ken grins, tossing the bag slightly so that he can catch the bottom of it in his palm, following him down the stairs. “So you do like cherry. I finally got it right.”
“Lucky guess,” Masaru replies, and counts the days in his head since Ken last drove himself to work, so he can use it against him later.
---
Richard Welsh – English breakfast.
He wakes up to the sound of flats padding across his carpet, the businesslike rustle of skirts and petticoats a pleasant backdrop to the click of a tray being set on the table, the soft dip of a spoon into sugar, and the sound and scent of tea being poured. Three seconds. Four.
“Breakfast, little master.”
He cracks his eye open, and observes gray hair tied in a bun, wrinkled skin the color of coffee, eyes that seem to be almost all dark iris. He sighs, and sits up, stretching. His slippers are waiting for him next to the bed, and his dressing gown is dangling over the nearest plush chair.
“You shouldn’t call me that anymore, Miranda. I’m mostly grown, you know.”
“Oh, you grow, all right,” she replies, now spreading a liberal amount of butter onto an English muffin, “I break my back carrying tray for you. Your brothers and sister not eat so much.”
“This is your job, after all,” he chides, kindly. He sits down, skimming the front page of the paper she’s brought him, and loops two fingers through the handle of his teacup. Earl Grey greets him, friendly and warm, and he indulges in the scent while opening to more newsprint. Miranda places a plate in front of him covered neatly in two sides of the muffin, eggs, sausages, sliced tomatoes, and a smaller dish of raspberries dusted with powdered sugar.
“More when you need it,” she leans over, kisses him on the forehead, smooths his hair out indelicately. She straightens up the room on her way out, clicking her tongue at the few items of laundry sagging lazily over this chair or sunk into the deep carpet. He can hear his brothers chatting to each other down the hall, and one of them calls good morning to Miranda when she emerges. Sunday has everyone in a good mood.
---
Sano Mullian – Kids these days.
He woke up face-first on someone’s leather couch. It smelled vaguely like dog, and there was a warm, bony body pressed against his right side, breathing steadily with soft wheezes. He looked at the guy’s face, (little goatee, three studs in his eyebrow, mouth slightly open), and wasn’t sure what he was called. He remembered asking about him in the bar, watching him pine over some pretty girl from across the room, remembered wrapping his arms around his shoulder, licking his cheek.
(Don’t worry, man – I know what you need. C’mere. C’mere, I’ll give you something nice.)
His head swam, and his belly lurched, and he leaned forward over the sticky couch, but didn’t heave. He tugged his right foot out from underneath sleeping-guy’s knees and shook it impatiently to get the blood flowing properly again. The room was quiet and dim and heavy with varied breathing and snoring. He had been lucky to get the couch, most people were on the floor, a couple in the lopsided armchair, one girl curled up on a makeshift bed of two folding chairs. He got to his feet, mumbling an inconsiderate “sorry” towards the carpet of sleeping bodies whenever he accidentally tread on someone’s shin. The light was on in the kitchen, and he squinted as he made his way to the sink. There was someone standing there already, holding a bag of ice to his head. Sano bumped into him accidentally as he reached into the door-less cupboard, muttering another “sorry” as he got a red plastic cup down for his water.
“You’re, uh…Sano? Sano Mullian?”
He looked up from the task of filling his flimsy cup with water to look at the guy with the ice-bag. He looked about thirty, with cropped blond hair, a square jaw, and an almost shy smile. He had no idea who he was supposed to be.
“Yeah, so?”
The guy laughed, and lowered his ice-bag, revealing a rather ugly cut on his forehead and a freshly blooming shiner. “I can’t believe it…you look so different. Except the hair, actually. That’s still the same.”
He scowled at the guy, uncomfortable. The fact that this guy didn’t know how to party without getting injured wasn’t helping him figure out who he was. “Who the fuck are you, man?”
The guy blinked, and then looked almost hurt, and then his shy smile was back with a shrug.
“I’m Kevin…don’t you remember me?”
---
Filip Sawicki – Final farewell.
He snaps out of his daze to the sound of boots clicking down the cell-block walkway. His senses are alert immediately. He concentrates on the sound. One-two, three. Pause. One-two, three, pause again – a cough, a distinctive smoker’s hack. Schafer. Not his first choice, but he doesn’t get a choice, does he? He smells the room deeply, sighing as if he were in any way sleepy. He can smell concrete, dust, piss, and frigid cold. He feels the cold in the bed beside him, and shivers, his gaze going glassy, his arm tightening slowly over Antony’s damp, sticky ribs, the heavy dark arms he’s arranged around his own shoulders (not yet stiff, not still warm), shifting. Antony’s left hand falls down behind his back, a soft embrace. He hears a single, lingering drip of liquid off the mattress, onto the wet floor. The damp on the floor is not visible from this angle. His vision is on the opposite wall, where Antony had hung posters of the gangsters he admired (that no one had ever heard of), letters from his family (that he never wrote back to). His eyes narrow. Schafer’s torchlight is cast on the floor, then the bunk. He hears a shuffle, a stupefied grunt. Schafer is confused. Of all things – confused. A loud crash of Schafer’s meaty fist against the cell door jolts his insides but not his body. He blinks his glassy eyes slowly.
“Miles! Sawicki! On your feet…now!”
He stops breathing, but not for Schafer’s sake. He finds the task of responding to his mentally challenged barks for attention nothing short of exhausting. He lifts one hand in the air (more red than white), one finger pointed upwards for silence and an extra moment of it.
“We need our rest, Sarge…come back in the morning, would you?”
He hears more panicked huffing, a muttered “Jesus”, and then orders, Schafer’s calling for more officers into the radio, soon there are running footsteps, hurry, noise, his neighbors cursing and shouting angrily at their sleep interrupted. He gets on his hands and knees, Antony’s face down below him, eyes closed, mouth slightly open. He strokes one dry cheek, feels the coarse brush of his hair under his palm. He doesn’t mean to be dramatic, but by the time he’s kissing him they’re already yanking his elbows behind his back. He makes out the obvious word “solitary” from the jumble of sounds and not much else. I love you, he thinks to himself silently, as the soles of his bare feet meet the icy floor and he walks, limping. And I won’t see you again.
---
There are more of these but uh...anyone who was willing to jump around with all the little nuggets even that much is already straining their brain more than enough for me. Just thought it'd be better to get a few up here, since I keep putting this off.