Two shorties and an intro

Hello all =]

So I haven't posted here yet, but I just wrote two new little short stories so I figured I should throw them up here....the first was a challenge piece, I was told to write a short story about writing ... the second is this idea i've been fooling around with and I plan on elongating it, but this is just the first rough draft and I hopefully will have time soon to tear it all up ... okay ... enjoy ... comments welcome <3


Challenge:: Write a short story about writing
“I said nothing and that means nothing!”
Jackson McGuff slammed the dark wood door to his study and let out a wild aggravated huff as he marched further into the room, his cane unsteady, as if shaking with an anger all its own. He loved Martha, he truly did – she had always been the only one for him. But god damn it that woman did not know when to stop questioning!

“What do you do in there, Jackie?” She would ask. “Why won’t you tell me?”

He had told that woman every detail about himself for the past fifty-nine years; no question of hers had ever gone unanswered. She wanted to know what type of underwear he preferred, he told her. She wanted to know why he no longer spoke to his brother, he told her. She wanted to know if he thought Grace Kelly was prettier than she was, he told her…well, sort of at least. Either way her questions were always answered. So when it came to this room, this eight foot by ten foot mecca of solidarity, he felt every bit justified in keeping his little secret safe. It wasn’t as though he were surfing porn or chatting to another woman on-line, oh no it was nothing scandalous like that.

Jackson shrugged off his overcoat and released his cane, which he had jokingly dubbed his third leg, hanging both on the back of an extra chair. He waddled over to his desk, pulling his pants up and cursing under his breath about how his shabby suspenders were no longer doing their job. He made a note to tell Martha to buy him some new ones the next time she was out. After taking a seat his hand found the computer mouse and he opened up a document titled Raquel. He scrolled down a few pages and finally found where he had left off. “Ah yes,” he muttered vaguely, reaching into his mouth and pulling his teeth out. For whatever reason, he hated to write with his teeth in and so he plopped them down into the glass of water beside his computer.

Fingers found familiar keys and soon Jackson was in his element. In all his years of baseball, football, the police academy and marriage – nothing felt more natural to him then when he was writing. The only experience comparable was probably when him and Chuck had finally caught Snaggletooth Stan, but even that single day seemed to pale in comparison to the hours upon hours he could spend in front of his Mac.

There had been a time, a few years ago, when Jackson had tried to tell Martha about his passion. “What do you think of writing?” He asked one day.

“Like authors and stuff?” She had responded. “I like ‘em I guess…do you wanna be a writer, Jackie? Oh your cop stories would make the greatest books – murder mysteries and steak outs, you could be like…um…who’s that writer who does that? Um…I don’t know, but you could be like him.”

The conversation hadn’t exactly gone in the direction he had planned it to and so Jackson stopped trying after that. Sure his memoirs might make a pretty interesting book, but he wasn’t into writing for publication. He did it for himself and he had already lived his own life, so he saw no point in retelling it. No, what Jackson liked to write about was a little bit different.

As his hands touched the silk of her blouse, a rosy red coloured her cheeks and her breath quickened… He typed, smiling a toothless grin as the black lettering appeared across the white screen.

That’s right, Jackson McGuff, the Irish-Italian ex-cop, former resident of the Bronx and macho-man extraordinaire wrote romance novels. It was smut, it was fluff, he would be mocked into submission should any of his old buddies find out. And so Jackson kept it to himself. He was on his third story, this time between Raquel and Joaquin, two Spanish lovers attempting to escape from the vicious and wicked dictator that was Joaquin’s uncle.

Suddenly, just as Raquel was about to confess her love to Joaquin, Martha called from the other side of the door, “Jackie! Jackson you in there? Is your hearing aid on? Jackie, Adele is on the phone, she and Frank want to know when we’re heading down to Florida.”

Jackson sighed and stopped typing. Of coarse, just as these two lovers were about to finally consummate their forbidden relationship he was interrupted. “Hang on, hang on!” He called, saving the document quickly and then shutting down the computer. His writing would have to wait for another day.


~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He didn’t listen to them at first. “I’m sharp as ever,” he said. “Sharp as a tack.” He ignored their worried looks, he brushed off their cautious comments and he continued on as if everything were normal. But it wasn’t normal and finally, he couldn’t ignore the truth any longer.

It was a Sunday, the fourth of May to be exact. How he remembered that was beyond him, though he did find that dates were somehow easier to recall than anything else. He supposed being a History major in college had paid off in that regard. Either way one moment he was apparently aware of what he was doing and the next…well, he just wasn’t.

~ * ~

Chuck opened his eyes, feeling as though he were being pulled from deepest slumbers into the waking world. Florescent lights blinded him momentarily and he heard a faint cough as the images around him began to focus. Bright purple banners, light spring flowers and row upon row of clean wood benches. No wait, not benches pews, they were pews. He wondered when he had arrived at church.

He turned his head to the side and nearly jumped out of his skin when he realized that he was standing in front of the alter. “Sweet Jesus,” he muttered, walking down the three steps towards the crowd of people who filled the building, all seated and all staring at him. He felt embarrassed, though wasn’t sure why. Chuck tried to reason with himself as he walked, he must’ve been the last person to accept communion and everyone was simply waiting for him to move along so that the priest could continue with the mass. Yes, that sounded about right.

He found an empty seat near the fourth row and took his place in it. His eyes focused in on the alter and he waited patiently for either music or a prayer to begin. He still felt eyes on him and shot a silent prayer to God for people to quit being so rude. Sure, sometimes he lost track of himself, but he was old for Christ’s-sake, he had ever right to be a little slow.

“Excuse me,” a young girl dressed in white robes suddenly was at his side. Chuck wondered if she was supposed to be an alter boy. He wondered when girls had started being involved and if that was even allowed.

“Yes?” He responded curiously, unsure of what to expect.

She looked nervous and seemed to be hoping that he would catch onto her thought process before she spoke. “Are you not going to finish your sermon?”

Chuck laughed, a deep and hearty laugh that echoed in the hollow space. “Me? Oh dear girl, you must have the wrong fellow. I don’t give sermons.”

Every eye surely was poised on them now, but Chuck felt rather relaxed. After all it was this silly child who should be embarrassed, not him.

“But Father Chuck…” she protested. “you were in the middle of the Easter Liturgy when you sat down here, you have to continue.”

Chuck didn’t know how to respond. Was he dreaming? This girl thought he was a priest, it was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard of. He opened his mouth slowly, he had to correct her, but something caught his eye. Looking down he finally noticed that he was wearing vestments, a flowing white alb and a purple and gold stole – how did he know these words? He wasn’t a priest, he wasn’t.

He stood up. “Oh no…there must be…oh no…” He shook his head, his breath suddenly tight in his throat. What was happening? Then the world went black.

~ * ~

Patrick was there when he finally came to and he explained everything. Chuck was no longer aloud to preside over mass and no matter how much he fought it, the church wouldn’t relent. They couldn’t afford him having one of his ‘episodes’ again, not when it meant they could lose followers. “I’m fine,” Chuck insisted. “I am.” But even he no longer believed it. The words dementia and alzheimers were thrown around a lot. Neither seemed to fit, but there was no other answer. What else could be the cause of his loss of memory? His disorientation? Chuck felt helpless. He was a preacher at heart, he lived to spread the Word. If he couldn’t do that, what would become of him?



Hope you enjoyed

=]

Thanks a million to Nick for creating this blog and for the reading tonight...writers unite!! lol

Sempre, <3
Kelly Davis