Half a day later, Cheryl/Samantha opened her eyes. Daniel remained still to see if she could focus on her surroundings.
"Where am I and who the hell are you?" She squinted his direction and rubbed her left hand on her temple.
"The hospital - and I should ask the same of you. Is it Samantha or Cheryl?"
Her pause revealed a struggle with who she was speaking to and how Daniel fit into her web of lies.
"Samantha," she decided.
"Nice of you to be so, shall we say - forthcoming?"
"Fuck you."
"Harold came by to see you."
An eyebrow betrayed her otherwise calm face. "Harold who?"
"If that's the thanks I get for chasing him off before he injects you with something nasty, you need to find your manners."
"You're in over your head hero. You shoulda let him do it. Woulda saved all of us some trouble."
"He and his buddy will be back soon. It's been about eight hours. Why don't you let me help you. I'm not asking you to tell me what this is all about, although it would be nice."
"You're dead just being in this room mister."
"Daniel."
"Daniel. Once they find out you've helped me, you'll die. They will find out." Samantha folded her hands on her lap and began to flex her fingers.
"That may be true, but I'll take a few with me before I go." Daniel collected some clothes he purchased for her after Harold left the building.
"No, you mustn't." Samantha's face contorted in bloodless white lines and a set jaw. "They're the good guys."
Monday, October 26, 2009
Monday, October 19, 2009
The Cold Bite of Autumn (pt.6)
A moan jerked his head toward hers even though he couldn't see her. The footsteps paused then quickly approached the bed.
"Samantha," a man's voice whispered. "Samantha can you hear me? It's Harold."
Another moan as well as movement of bed linens. Daniel imagined that guy trying to wake her up.
"Samantha, we hafta know what happened. Did they get the message out? Samantha."
Another moan, this time more vocal. Daniel realized the jerk was shaking her.
"Dumb ass. she's on more drugs than your local junkie," he thought as he pulled back the curtain for a better view. Harold's back faced him as did Cheryl or Samantha's bruised face. Harold gave up shaking her and pulled a needle from his pocket.
"That's all folks," Daniel mused as he pressed the nurse call button. Almost immediately two distinct knocks struck the door followed by a third emphatic one. Obviously this meant Harold should depart pronto. He shoved the needle back into his pocket and fled out the door.
Daniel stepped down and rubbed his scratchy face with his non-pistol hand. Cheryl/Samantha moaned again. He flicked the safety back on and placed the gun in his pants at his back. as the nurse walked in.
"Is everything alright?" she asked as she checked Cheryl/Samantha's pulse.
"She began moaning a few minutes ago. That's a good sign, right?" He knew her moans meant she was coming out of the coma, but he wanted to play the concerned husband role to the hilt.
"Oh absolutely. In fact, we were getting concerned about her. The broken ankle and busted ribs are one thing, but head injuries and concussions are another. Her vitals are strong. Don't worry, she'll be ok." The nurse gave him a reassuring nod and left the room.
"She'll be ok until those goons find out whether this "message" was sent or not," he muttered to the closed door. Time to plan his next move. Boy, Big Jim was sure going to be pissed at him this time.
"Samantha," a man's voice whispered. "Samantha can you hear me? It's Harold."
Another moan as well as movement of bed linens. Daniel imagined that guy trying to wake her up.
"Samantha, we hafta know what happened. Did they get the message out? Samantha."
Another moan, this time more vocal. Daniel realized the jerk was shaking her.
"Dumb ass. she's on more drugs than your local junkie," he thought as he pulled back the curtain for a better view. Harold's back faced him as did Cheryl or Samantha's bruised face. Harold gave up shaking her and pulled a needle from his pocket.
"That's all folks," Daniel mused as he pressed the nurse call button. Almost immediately two distinct knocks struck the door followed by a third emphatic one. Obviously this meant Harold should depart pronto. He shoved the needle back into his pocket and fled out the door.
Daniel stepped down and rubbed his scratchy face with his non-pistol hand. Cheryl/Samantha moaned again. He flicked the safety back on and placed the gun in his pants at his back. as the nurse walked in.
"Is everything alright?" she asked as she checked Cheryl/Samantha's pulse.
"She began moaning a few minutes ago. That's a good sign, right?" He knew her moans meant she was coming out of the coma, but he wanted to play the concerned husband role to the hilt.
"Oh absolutely. In fact, we were getting concerned about her. The broken ankle and busted ribs are one thing, but head injuries and concussions are another. Her vitals are strong. Don't worry, she'll be ok." The nurse gave him a reassuring nod and left the room.
"She'll be ok until those goons find out whether this "message" was sent or not," he muttered to the closed door. Time to plan his next move. Boy, Big Jim was sure going to be pissed at him this time.
Monday, October 12, 2009
The Cold Bite of Autumn (pt.5)
Daniel dozed off early around dinner time. Cheryl remained in a coma but the nurses brought him a tray without asking. As soon as she left, he settled back. Around ten o'clock he woke, poked at the cold turkey and gravy and opted for the cherry pie instead.
As the last bite disappeared into his mouth, a white van parked and cut its lights - too quickly. He wiped the sleep from his eyes and took in the two men that climbed from their respective doors - passenger front door and the door directly behind the driver.
He glanced around the room for areas to conceal himself. The only apparent place was the bathroom. He needed something closer to Cheryl. He pulled the curtain far enough to place a chair behind it but not enough to make someone check to see if there was another patient in the room. He stood on the chair moved around and checked for squeaks or other telltale noises. Satisfied of its silence, he hopped down and rigged the nurse station call button behind the curtain.
He pulled out his pistol, clicked off the safety, and remounted the chair. One day he would figure out why all the troubled women fell his way. He smiled as door creaked open. "I'm never bored," he thought as hard shoes clicked to her bedside.
As the last bite disappeared into his mouth, a white van parked and cut its lights - too quickly. He wiped the sleep from his eyes and took in the two men that climbed from their respective doors - passenger front door and the door directly behind the driver.
He glanced around the room for areas to conceal himself. The only apparent place was the bathroom. He needed something closer to Cheryl. He pulled the curtain far enough to place a chair behind it but not enough to make someone check to see if there was another patient in the room. He stood on the chair moved around and checked for squeaks or other telltale noises. Satisfied of its silence, he hopped down and rigged the nurse station call button behind the curtain.
He pulled out his pistol, clicked off the safety, and remounted the chair. One day he would figure out why all the troubled women fell his way. He smiled as door creaked open. "I'm never bored," he thought as hard shoes clicked to her bedside.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
New Fiction Posts
Hello fan. Oh! There's two of you? Well then, hello fans! Yes, this writing gig is a tough business. You write and write and write and who reads or cares? Two, three people? Well, as long as there is at least one, all is well.
I have decided to commit more seriously to The Cold Bite of Autumn. I'm even considering using the story as my main novel premise in this year's Nanowrimo contest. What is Nanowrimo? Egad! Tis only the most intense writing month of the year!
Na(tional)no(vel)wri(ting)mo(nth) begins November 1, 2009 at midnight October 31st. It runs until midnight November 30th. Basically all you do is write 50,000 words in thirty days or less. I've entered twice, finished (or won) once. Yes, in 2007 I wrote 50,186 words in 29 days. What a sense of accomplishment. That breaks down to 1667 words per day. Currently I am averaging 2000 words per day. Today's count should clock in around 4000. That's where I want to be.
Ok, so The Cold Bite of Autumn has now become a priority. I will commit to posting a new installment every Monday. The next two installments are already written, so look for them beginning Monday October 12th. If I am a good boy, I will keep this up until I have a viable book or someone tells me to hang up my thumb drive and get a real job!
This is a serious undertaking. I must do that thing which most writers rail against - I must discipline myself. I can and will do this. Hopefully you'll follow me down the storyline and we'll meet at the other end satisfied.
Wow, too bad writing like that gets missed by the masses!
I have decided to commit more seriously to The Cold Bite of Autumn. I'm even considering using the story as my main novel premise in this year's Nanowrimo contest. What is Nanowrimo? Egad! Tis only the most intense writing month of the year!
Na(tional)no(vel)wri(ting)mo(nth) begins November 1, 2009 at midnight October 31st. It runs until midnight November 30th. Basically all you do is write 50,000 words in thirty days or less. I've entered twice, finished (or won) once. Yes, in 2007 I wrote 50,186 words in 29 days. What a sense of accomplishment. That breaks down to 1667 words per day. Currently I am averaging 2000 words per day. Today's count should clock in around 4000. That's where I want to be.
Ok, so The Cold Bite of Autumn has now become a priority. I will commit to posting a new installment every Monday. The next two installments are already written, so look for them beginning Monday October 12th. If I am a good boy, I will keep this up until I have a viable book or someone tells me to hang up my thumb drive and get a real job!
This is a serious undertaking. I must do that thing which most writers rail against - I must discipline myself. I can and will do this. Hopefully you'll follow me down the storyline and we'll meet at the other end satisfied.
Wow, too bad writing like that gets missed by the masses!
Monday, October 5, 2009
Crazy, Hazy Days of Writing
C. Astrid Weber said, "The coroner will find ink in my veins and blood on my typewriter keys." Hopefully this describes me one day. While the typewriter has gone the way of Click Clacks and Wheelos (remember those?), a keyboard is a reliable facsimile.
I look at what I'm attempting to do as a writer and publisher and I am amazed. Amazed I'm not in bankruptcy court (yet), amazed I'm still married, amazed I know my children's names and amazed I still yearn for more.
Writing is much too complicated to maintain sanity, yet it is a simple process. Simply you, a keyboard and a blank screen. If you go retro, it's you, a pen and a blank page. Simple. The complexity enters from our minds. No writer has a static mind that just sits and contemplates his next dinner menu.
Ok, sometimes we do, but most often we fight self-made demons. The wicked witch that won't let us write even though she's not even around. She's in our mind. Who is she? A wife, a girlfriend, a mother, a daughter. Change gender there wherever suits you.
Then there's chores, jobs, responsibilities. They demand first priority.
I pose you a question. How old are you? Easy answer in terms of actual years lived on this earth, right? But my question, as many of my question do, has a much more sinister, diabolical intent. What if I changed it to - How old are you in relation to your pending death? Oh God, now he's going morbid on us, right?
No. I'm attempting to get you to snap out of your brainwashed stupor. I'm not being condescending here. I often have to do this to myself. What are you here for? How old do you have to be before you understand or realize that the excuses you have for not writing are imposed upon you by others. You must take control of your life. Your writing life.
So now the question becomes - How old is your writing life? Most of our "writing lives" stay on life support. We just give it the bare essentials and call that good enough. How many of us are willing to put it all on the line for our writing lives?
I don't see many honest hands. Mine screams to shoot up in pride and self promotion. But in order for the hand to be honest, it first must be at the task of promoting writing as a vocation day in and day out, with writing being the primary work of the day and all other items secondary. Working on the "writing life" involves a commitment that is not there at your regular job. It's not there in your marriage. Nor you friendships. The commitment to write has to become obsession.
Am I saying you are to trash your other relationships? Absolutely not. Relationships are the fertile ground from which ideas for writing spring. How do you juggle all this then? How do you work another job, have a life (relationship-wise) and keep up with all that happens around you? The answer lies solely within your own psyche. How important is it (writing) to you?
If writing is your passion, you'll marry someone who supports your passion. Someone who loves your passion. Someone willing to take a back seat to it. Not all the time, mind you, but it could be often.
You will also find work that allows you to make writing your priority.
Lastly, when it comes to trimmed hedges or writing, you choose writing. When it comes to mown lawn or writing, you choose writing. When it comes to a leaky roof or writing, you choose writing.
When the situation becomes simply a leaky roof, you fix the roof. When it is simply a lawn that needs mown, you mow the lawn. When it's just a hedge that needs trimmed, you trim the hedge. But never, ever, choose against writing.
What does that do to your life? Make it crazy? Make the days turn into hazy, vague remembrances of keyboards, supporting drinks and words? Absolutely. So again, I ask you, "How old are you?" Are you so old that you've given up on your dreams? Are you so old that writing is just a hobby that'll never amount to anything? Are you so old that our insane society has declared you mundane and a slave to its dictates?
Or are you forever young, vibrant and excited, if nowhere else, than on the printed page. If you aspire to write, I pray that you are forever young. I also ask the same for myself. I get trapped. I fall down. But when we're young, we pop right back up and go at it again. Don't let this world tell you how to live your life.
Jump up into the crazy, hazy days of writing and let your spirit soar.
I look at what I'm attempting to do as a writer and publisher and I am amazed. Amazed I'm not in bankruptcy court (yet), amazed I'm still married, amazed I know my children's names and amazed I still yearn for more.
Writing is much too complicated to maintain sanity, yet it is a simple process. Simply you, a keyboard and a blank screen. If you go retro, it's you, a pen and a blank page. Simple. The complexity enters from our minds. No writer has a static mind that just sits and contemplates his next dinner menu.
Ok, sometimes we do, but most often we fight self-made demons. The wicked witch that won't let us write even though she's not even around. She's in our mind. Who is she? A wife, a girlfriend, a mother, a daughter. Change gender there wherever suits you.
Then there's chores, jobs, responsibilities. They demand first priority.
I pose you a question. How old are you? Easy answer in terms of actual years lived on this earth, right? But my question, as many of my question do, has a much more sinister, diabolical intent. What if I changed it to - How old are you in relation to your pending death? Oh God, now he's going morbid on us, right?
No. I'm attempting to get you to snap out of your brainwashed stupor. I'm not being condescending here. I often have to do this to myself. What are you here for? How old do you have to be before you understand or realize that the excuses you have for not writing are imposed upon you by others. You must take control of your life. Your writing life.
So now the question becomes - How old is your writing life? Most of our "writing lives" stay on life support. We just give it the bare essentials and call that good enough. How many of us are willing to put it all on the line for our writing lives?
I don't see many honest hands. Mine screams to shoot up in pride and self promotion. But in order for the hand to be honest, it first must be at the task of promoting writing as a vocation day in and day out, with writing being the primary work of the day and all other items secondary. Working on the "writing life" involves a commitment that is not there at your regular job. It's not there in your marriage. Nor you friendships. The commitment to write has to become obsession.
Am I saying you are to trash your other relationships? Absolutely not. Relationships are the fertile ground from which ideas for writing spring. How do you juggle all this then? How do you work another job, have a life (relationship-wise) and keep up with all that happens around you? The answer lies solely within your own psyche. How important is it (writing) to you?
If writing is your passion, you'll marry someone who supports your passion. Someone who loves your passion. Someone willing to take a back seat to it. Not all the time, mind you, but it could be often.
You will also find work that allows you to make writing your priority.
Lastly, when it comes to trimmed hedges or writing, you choose writing. When it comes to mown lawn or writing, you choose writing. When it comes to a leaky roof or writing, you choose writing.
When the situation becomes simply a leaky roof, you fix the roof. When it is simply a lawn that needs mown, you mow the lawn. When it's just a hedge that needs trimmed, you trim the hedge. But never, ever, choose against writing.
What does that do to your life? Make it crazy? Make the days turn into hazy, vague remembrances of keyboards, supporting drinks and words? Absolutely. So again, I ask you, "How old are you?" Are you so old that you've given up on your dreams? Are you so old that writing is just a hobby that'll never amount to anything? Are you so old that our insane society has declared you mundane and a slave to its dictates?
Or are you forever young, vibrant and excited, if nowhere else, than on the printed page. If you aspire to write, I pray that you are forever young. I also ask the same for myself. I get trapped. I fall down. But when we're young, we pop right back up and go at it again. Don't let this world tell you how to live your life.
Jump up into the crazy, hazy days of writing and let your spirit soar.
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