Terri's Cellar Door

Stuff that happens to me, Terri.

Monday, September 21, 2009

Fort's First Encounter Pt. Two

This is the conclusion of my story. I have to admit that the stories that I've posted on here haven't done as well as, say, my top ten list of why Voyager is the best Star Trek ever, but I will nonetheless keep on keeping on, as it were. It still hasn't been thoroughly vetted (much like Sarah Palin, zing!) but I'll get to that sooner or later.


When you get the chance to read this, I hope you're old enough to understand it. First of all, let me tell you that I love you. And even now as I write this I am filling it with all the love that I can, because you are my little boy. I've had a lot of time in the hospital when they're not poking and prodding me to think about what I should and could say to you. I know that you love me, but I also know that a part of you will hate me for leaving you the way that I will. I hate myself as well for not being strong enough to beat this alien that has invaded my body. Perhaps I could never be strong enough, but know that your love always made me stronger.
When I met your father I was a waitress at a lowly dive of a restaurant halfway to his favorite camping ground. I was the only black girl in the place, and he was a hard man who had served our country, but I loved him then. There was something in him, (it's in you too, Fort) that made him strong, but let him love just as deep as anybody else. But we both know that he's not perfect and I could look past quite a few things, but when I found out I was pregnant with you, I knew that I couldn't any longer. I couldn't let his coldness make you cold, and his hardness make you hard. But now it seems that God has taken that choice away from me. I hope and trust that He is watching over you, and soon I will as well.
But I couldn't shake loose this mortal coil without telling you somethings that I think will make you even stronger than your father ever could. I want you to remember who you are, why you love and the compassion and love that I see in your eyes. I want you to remember me as who I am, and not as who you thought me to be. I'm not perfect, I never will be, but I am filled with love for you, Fort, you are all that matters to me. Finally, I want you to care. I want you to care about something, anything, as long as you're willing to give up everything, knock down any wall, work through any pain to get there. If it is a person, fine, if it is a cause, better, if it is a dream, even better. I want you to believe sweetie, no matter what it is, and I want you to care, because I care about you. I believe in you.

With Love Forever,
Your Very Dear Mother

Fort was in good shape, this was not in dispute. He could run for fifteen minutes straight before having to stop and catch his breath. As he took off running into the woods on that dark fall evening the only thing he had in his pocket was a mini flashlight that he carried for emergencies. He had no food, no water, no extra layers of clothing, and after those fifteen minutes, no earthly idea where he was. He could no longer see the lights of Bill's and this was certainly not the heart of the city. Fort leaned against a tree to brace his quivering legs. He was gasping, and the chilly air had started his lungs burning. He stood up after a few moments and looked around. He was furious with his father, but it didn't make any sense to keep running around the woods in the middle of the dark. He looked from left to right and tried to remember which direction he had come from. He pulled out his flashlight and pointed it at the ground. But there was something wrong. Where there should only have been a small circle of light, Fort found himself surrounded by light. He looked up and dropped his penlight. About a hundred feet above him, just above the treeline was the source of the light. There were four lights in a circle, and inside the circle was one large light. Fort brought up his arm to block the lights, and an outline appeared. Those were just free floating lights. There was a vehicle attached to them. He couldn't be sure, but it looked like one of those flying saucers from the picture. Fort stood open mouthed for only a couple of moments more before he took off again. He wasn't sure what direction he was going, but he knew that he just wanted to get from under the lights that now seemed to be following him. He zigged and zagged, hopping under branches and over fallen limbs, but the craft was focused on him now, and wasn't letting up. Suddenly the cover ran out, and Fort found himself in a clear. 'Oh great, exactly where I want to be.' He thought. As if in answer to his worst fears the craft began to land. Fort tried to take off again, but he found he couldn't move. He wasn't sure if it was fear or something more extraterrestrial, but his legs just wouldn't work. Suddenly a deep humming seemed to fill the clearing and the ship touched down. Fort wasn't sure if it could be called a ship, but that's what they always seemed to call craft like this in the movies. He wondered how it was possible he was thinking so clearly. He did seem rather calm considering the circumstances. As the craft landed, Fort was decidedly zen about things, and when the doors opened calmer still. A figure emerged, and Fort decided he wasn't so happy with the way things were going. Unfortunately, he still wasn't able to move, and this was putting a damper on his plans to scurry away. The figure approached him, and as it moved he shielded his eyes again, trying to get a view of whatever teeth/horns/weapons this thing might have. Suddenly he had a view of a hand and an arm. The looked human. Then a torso came into view, and it was still human. Fort worried about some horrible half-breed creation, but the head shape seemed human as well. Then the person was only feet away and the light seemed to equalize, and the first thing he saw was her smile. Fort's legs became unglued only to give out beneath him, and he found himself on his knees in front of the figure. She approached and pulled his head to her stomach. Fort wrapped his arms around her and couldn't stop the tears from coming. He didn't want to.

Fort awoke in a hospital bed. His father was reading a newspaper at the foot of the bed. A nurse was adjusting his pillow and he opened his eyes to her cleavage almost hitting him in the face. She was trying to chat with his father, and Mr. Savage was making it very hard on her; only responding with grunts and the occasional one syllable response.

“Oh well, lookie here!” She had noticed. “We were wondering when you'd wake up.”

“Oh yeah.” Fort's throat was dry and his voice cracked.

“You had quite a tumble in the woods.”

He simply nodded this time.

“Well, I'll get you some ice chips to cool down your throat.”

Fort smiled and looked to his father. He was still reading the newspaper. Then something caught his eye. The letter was sitting on the table next to the bed. Suddenly, Fort remembered everything that had happened in the woods. He opened his mouth, and then closed it. His father would never understand, even if he did believe him, instead of locking him up in an institution. There was no point. He had just turned to look back at the letter when his dad cleared his throat.

“That was a damn fool thing to do.”

Fort didn't respond.

“Could've gotten yourself killed. Sure could've.”
“Like you would have cared.” Fort almost had to whisper.

“Look, I never would have coddled you like your mother. But I loved her, you know? You too, just the only way I know how. I never hit you, did I?”

Fort didn't say anything.

“I didn't! Never laid a hand on your mother, God rest her soul. I just tried to give you something I didn't have!”

Mr. Savage looked around. He was yelling and had forgotten for a moment that were in a hospital.

“Anyway, don't think this is getting you out of survival training.”

Fort sighed quietly. And then again. His father didn't have to care. He would care enough for the both of them. He would find something to live for, and he would find something to die for. His mother would have wanted it that way.

Fortinbras is a part of a greater storyline, which is why is story doesn't really answer any of the burning questions that you might have after reading this. But what you need to know is that his father dies twenty years later, long enough to see Fort become a fighter pilot and long enough to receive the folded flag at his son's funeral. It is only after this that Fort finds something to live and die for. This story is entitled Fort's First Encounter for a reason...*

Saturday, September 19, 2009

Fort's First Encounter Pt. One

No, this isn't a porn, cause that's kinda what it sounds like. Anyway, this is kinda long, my bizzle, sp I'm breaking it up into two parts. There you have it. I think it's pretty good, but I haven't, you know, read it again for spelling errors and incorrect uses of comma, but that will all happen later. Or you know, not at all, whatev's. Also, this week of new stories is going to run a little long, since even this story is a two parter, and hopefully I'll finish it by next week. Love to love ya!

Fort's First Encounter

Terri Day

Fortinbras Zalman Elias “Maverick” Savage sat at the desk on a bright Friday afternoon, as parents spoke to his teacher. He twirled a pencil absently on his thumb. He wasn't distracted by what they were saying; he couldn't care less. He was interested in the look that each had on their faces. The young English teacher, Mrs. Swift, was leaning forward, eagerly looking into his parents faces. She had her mousy brown hair tucked behind her ears, they showed off her diamond studs. Her face was almost as creased as the collar on her paisley shirt, and almost as pink. The young man studied her closely. She was dressed like a middle school teacher, and he had seen enough of them in his day. But she was a younger woman, and from what he could tell, under her sweater vest, long sleeve button up, brown slacks and very sensible shoes, she could probably pass for a very attractive woman. He didn't doubt it. He was tall for his age, almost six feet, he had a natural V body shape, with broad shoulders and a slimmer waist. His father made sure to keep him in the best shape, and he had perpetual biceps and defined calf muscles. His hair was dark, kept short, he had perfect teeth (without the help of braces), and eyes that could go from hunter green to almost hazel, depending on his mood. He had been approached my his fair share of older women, none very seriously, since even though he was large for fourteen, he was still fourteen. He looked to his stepmother, who was sitting almost slack-jawed across the desk. He had no doubt that she had long since stopped trying to follow the conversation. He wondered why she was even here. He heard his name and perked up,

“The thing is, Fortinbras is quite intelligent --”

“His name is Maverick.”

Mrs. Swift flinched. That was the second time that his father had corrected her about his proper name. Of course, it was all bull. No one called him Maverick except for his parents. His teachers called him Fortinbras, and everyone else knew him as Fort. Of course, his father wouldn't have taken that, so Fort didn't bother correcting him. His father was a harsh man, former Navy man who had worked on a battle-cruiser. He would often tell his son of watching an F-15 take off from the ship and wishing just for once that he could be piloting one of them. He kept his blonde hair short, and though he wasn't in the service anymore, kept in pretty good shape. It would be almost three years before Fort knew he could beat him at football, and almost four before his father knew that too. His father's face was as red as the teacher's was pink, and he looked as though he was keeping his rage barely bottled up. Mr. Savage intimidated the teacher, and he knew it. Fort didn't feel any particular affection for Mrs. Swift. She was one of those touchy-feely teachers to always thought it was better to connect with students on a personal level rather than just pass out tests and take a smoke break. Fort hated those teachers. On this day he had decided to make a rather perfect spectacle of himself, and after he had goaded her for almost 25 whole minutes, had reduced her to tears. When she had composed herself and asked him to stay after class, he had known he was in trouble, but he didn't seen the reason to get his parents involved. He could usually charm his way out of situations like this, but Mrs. Swift was a little too thin skinned for her own good.

“Maverick...” she began, showing her distaste for the name on her face. “Maverick is a very bright boy. But he just seems to have too much energy for his own good.”

Mr. Savage simply grunted, “There's nothing wrong with a boy having a little energy.”

Fort thought the teacher would have whiplash from the way she agreed quickly with his father.

“Of course, of course, but that's not the point.”

“Then what is the point, and I wish you'd get on with it.”

Mrs. Swift sat back and sighed. She seemed to understand that talking to his father was like talking to a brick wall. She turned to Fort's stepmother.

Surely, you can understand what I have to deal with everyday. Both of you.” She turned quickly back and forth to indicate that she meant both of them.

It's just that sometimes he can be such a handful.” Mrs. Swift threw her hands up, seeing herself get nowhere fast.

Fort could have informed her how pointless the whole thing was. He'd given up arguing with his father years ago. As for his stepmother? He didn't even bother talking to her except the most basic of greetings.

It wasn't long before they were in their beige minivan on the way home. His father having reduced Mrs. Swift to a quivering mess, she seemed happier than Fort even was to have them leave the class room.

I hope that ***** of a teacher doesn't give you a failing grade because of this.”

Fort sighed quietly from the backseat, “No way. I've got an A. She can't do that.”

Well, good.” His father said. He gripped the steering wheel even harder.

Sometimes Fort would look at the wheel after his father had gotten out of the car, he swore he could see the old man's fingerprints dug into the soft leather. He figured that squeezing the wheel was better than his dad squeezing his neck, so this was okay with him.

Cause if you fail this class, it can really **** up your GPA. And everybody knows that the best pilots have the best grades. You're not going to be a ******* pilot with ******* F's all over your transcripts.”

He sighed silently again over his father's liberal use of expletives. But it seemed for the moment he was more angry at Mrs. Swift than at him, which was just fine. He looked out the window, there was a young lady pushing a stroller down the street. The little boy in the seat couldn't have been more than three years old. He looked so happy sitting there. With his mother pushing him along. She was beautiful with long brown hair and a happy little smile. He saw the same smile on the boy's lips.

Maverick, are you listening to me?”

Fort turned and saw the wavy outlines of his father and stepmother.

Yeah, Dad.” He said, wiping his eyes.

What've you got, **** in your ears, boy? I'm asking if you've got everything packed for the camping trip this weekend.”

Yes, sir.”

Fort kept it simple. He hated going camping with his father. Mr. Savage was only a a passable camper, but that wasn't the point. He would force Fort through all kinds of “survival situations”, that would prepare him if he should get “trapped behind enemy lines.” Fort didn't have to really express how very rarely that actually did happen, but that didn't matter his father. So, Fort gritted his teeth, and just got on with it. But this weekend had been a inopportune moment. He was friends with several high schoolers, and they had invited to a football game. He was a popular kid, bright and handsome. He had already been to a prom at a high school in a different town. He didn't play any sports, but everyone knew him, and he always hung out with the popular kids. They had even taken it in stride when he told them of his upcoming trip. He couldn't have cared less about the football game, he only went because that's what they expected of him. And he always did what people expected of him.

They left that night from the house, Mr. Savage kissing his wife and leaving her waving from the front porch. They climbed into his gigantic pick up and headed down the road in silence. They never talked much on this road trips, but Fort figured that was for the best. His father didnt' have much to say that didn't involve the Navy, guns or trucks, and Fort didn't want to talk about any of that. He was pushed up against the window because his father had decided it looked like rain and packed the extra equipment in the cab of the truck. The Lake Herman State Park (or Layman, as it was called by people in the know) was about six hours from their house, and this was with his father driving like a bat out of hell. But as always, about halfway through the trip, they would stop at a restaurant called Bill's. It seemed like home to his father, and would always make a point to stop there and chat up the locals.

Fort's stomach ached as he thought about it. 'I guess now's as good a time as any.' He gripped the letter in his pocket. Fort rolled down the window a little to get some fresh air. He caught the smell of freshly turned earth and thought back to a small, dark basement. He was two years old and chewing on the edge of a play pen. His mother was smiling at him. That's what he remembered most about her. She had a beautiful smile. She sat at a pottery wheel, her mocha hands covered in light brown mud. He was happy to just be near her. He remembered that as well. And she seemed happy to be near him. They lived that way for five perfect years before she died. He didn't remember her death that well but he remembered crying. Thinking back, everything seemed to be covered in the thin haze of tears. But his father as soon toughened him up. His parents had divorced when he was only a baby, and his father had moved far away. He went from only seeing him a few times a year to doing push ups every morning before breakfast. It wasn't that his father didn't seem to care, he did, he just had a different way of doing things.

We're here.”

Fort looked up to the big sign that read “Bill's.” He didn't understand how time had gotten so far away from him, but he was glad that he hadn't spent the entire trip there thinking about what he had to do.

They got their usual table. An open booth that was near the front door and the kitchen. An old country song was playing on the jukebox and there was a rebel flag sticker proudly displayed on it. Most rarely noticed Fort's own dual heritage, and if the people there had noticed, they certainly hadn't said anything. The waitresses greeted them warmly. Some of these woman had been working at Bill's for longer than Fort had even been alive. He couldn't help but smile as he thought back to the many times they had been there when he had come with his father. They were really the only bright spot on these terrible journeys.

Mr. Savage was as charming as a man like him could possibly get, “Good coffee, Shirley.”

Why thank you, Bill, you're always so sweet!”

He had made the same compliment every time they had ever come there, as far as Fort remembered, and the response was always the same. His father sat back sipping his coffee. He would take his time with the coffee, but not too long, because they would want to get to Layman before it got too dark, and before all the prime camping spots were taken. It was either now or never. Fort slid his hand into his pocket and grasped the envelope. Slowly, he pulled it out of his pocket, and pushed it across the table, towards his father. Mr. Savage barely took his eyes off the coffee he seemed to be enjoying so much.

What's that?”

Fort swallowed. “I found it while I was cleaning the garage. It was in your toolbox.”

His father slowly put down his coffee and clearing his throat he reached for the letter. Fort snatched it back before he could touch it.

It's not for you. It's for me. It's from my mother.” He whispered the last word as though he was calling her spirit up from the beyond.

Mr. Savage cleared his throat again and picked back up the coffee.


So?” Fort's voice didn't get any louder, but in his mind he was screaming. “Mom left this for me, and you were just going to keep it in your dirty toolbox out in the garage? She wrote it with her own hands!”

His father set his cup on the table. “I think it's about time that we get on the road.” He made a move to stand up.

You never cared, did you? You never cared about anything but having a son who was a pilot, and she cared about everything! She was everything you weren't!”

Fort's voice was indeed rising at this point. His father was standing now and moving towards the counter, and paying the tab. Fort grabbed the letter and ran after him.

She didn't want that for me, you know that? She wanted more!”

His father was still walking, and he didn't turn to respond. “She was a damn fool. What's more impressive than a son who was fighting for his country?”

If Fort had a couple more pounds, or at least a few more years, he would have flattened his father then and there. He shook with rage as his father got into the truck.

Get in, Maverick.”

Fort took a moment before responding. He reached up to open the door and climbed into the cab. He slammed the door.

She loved me.”

And she'll love you even more when you're a pilot.”

His father was pulling away from the curb when Fort reached for the door handle again. Mr. Savage uttered a long string of curses as his son opened the door, jumped out and took off into the night.

Thursday, September 17, 2009

C'mon, You Irons!

So, I'm a part of this Premier Fantasy Football thing over at epsn.com (yeah, I'm a nerd, I KNOW THIS ALREADY! And happily admit it.). But the fact remains that I got a little bored, and my squad's, Somerset, page was looking a little sad. So, I decided to make it look better with a little icon. And an hour later I had created an entire crest for the team. I was bored, you know? Anyway, so, you may or may not know that I'm a huge football fan (Let's Go Gunners!), and further an Arsenal fan. The UEFA cup is going on right now, and if you missed Arsenal's amazing comeback against Standard, you're not living. Anyway, that's neither here nor there. The point is that I've made a couple of images for the Irons (which is a completely fictional team, btw), and might be doing some more things with them, just because I want to use Photoshop and Dreamweaver more often. So, keep your eyes peeled!

A Modern Romance

*This is another story, not really true in most ways, only sort of true in others. Also, sorry about the formatting, but it's a little messed up, you know, sometimes. I'll post a link here, if you want to see the original. Further, this one isn't from a universe that I've created, but I might do something a little longer with it later. I changed it a lot from the originial idea that I had which was a young woman meeting a man online who died, and then she goes to his funeral, but yeah, don't steal that idea.*

A Modern Romance
By Terri Day
Is there a such thing as love at first type?
I'm your typical internet nerd. The first thing I bring up is my emails and then the
tabs start opening: Google, Tweeter, Facepages and MyBook. I can't help it. Whenever my
internet is down, I feel like I'm cut off from the rest of the world, stifled in some important
way, and that something important, something pivotal and life changing is happening and
I'm going to be the only person on the planet who doesn't know about it. I live and breathe for
the bits and bytes that circulate through the airwaves and find their way to my little
computer screen, anxious to grace my eyeballs with their presence, and me eager to allow
them in.
When Ken and I met it wasn't over cocktails at Happy Hour, or moving across the
dance floor to music so loud that it makes conversation impossible. It wasn't at church or at
the store, or any of the common places that a person would think to meet someone that they
could consider living the rest of their lives with. It was online. I was doing my usual searching
of the web and came across a particularly interesting site that would allow you to talk to
complete strangers with just the click of a button. Even more anonymous than a webpage I
jumped in, eager to meet new people with interesting stories. After the first couple of freaks
who were looking for nothing more than a cyber hookup, I ran across Katie. She was a high
school student who played the oboe and was looking forward to going to college. When our
conversation was through I met Shae, a young guy who had an obsession with Braveheart
after his parents divorce. I was eating it up. This was the stuff that great writing was made
from and being an amateur writer myself, I was always on the lookout for new and fresh
material. This place was a gold mine.
It was only after Asy, the French college student who could talk to ghosts, and
Wen, the Chinese student who was looking to learn English did I come across Ken. We started
the conversation simply enough,
You: Hello
Stranger: Hello
This was par for the course. I usually started off these jaunty, verbal outings with a
cursory glance around. Like a rabbit poking it's head out of the den after a hard snowfall, I
wasn't going to go running out without a clear sense of direction.
Stranger: So, what are you up to?
You: Nothing, just surfing the net and talking to random strangers.
Stranger: Oh, wow. You're not going to belove this....
You: What?
Stranger: So, am I!
From that moment, I was hooked. I'd only know Ken for a few moments but I knew
I felt something strong for him, something real. We ended up talking for hours that night, and
into the next morning. We took our conversation to a chat service, so we wouldn't lost one
another. We lived in the same city. Perfect. We had the same interests. Perfect. We loved the
same movies, the same books, we even used the same emoticons to express out happiness,
disbelief and embarrassment. There weren't two people more suited to one another than we
were. When we started finishing each other's sentences, I was floored and told him to get out
of my brain.
KennyBoBenny: No way! I like it here. *snuggles into Sandy's brain*
I told him it was the sweetest thing that anybody had ever said to me. And I really, truly
meant it.
KennyBoBenny: Sandy, I'm just dying to ask you something.
SandraD: Okay, what is it?
KennyBoBenny: I was just wondering...
SandraD: Yeeesssss? ^_^
KennyBoBenny: What you looked like. Can you send me a picture?
And there is was. The question that can make or break a lot of online relationships.
I don't think of myself as particularly awful looking, but the mental picture that a person gets
in their head of the person that they're talking to online and the way that the person ends up
looking can be two totally different things. I gulped. I really liked this guy. Should I send him
a real photo? Or something a little doctored to make me look like the supermodel that I could
never hope to be?
SandraD: You send me a photo first.
I waited a moment, and no response. I was about to acquiesce when the reply came back.
KennyBoBenny: Okay
“KennyBoBenny is sending you a file, ACCEPT?”
I happily pushed the button. The file opened. He was gorgeous. Beautiful blue eyes,
warm chestnut hair and a smile, oh, a smile that seemed to light up the screen. He had a
carefree whimsical look about him. One that said, “I'm a fun guy to be around.” My heart fell
even harder. Still, I was a little scared, and a little unsure about my part of the bargain. I could
see he was typing again.
KennyBoBenny: You sending your pic now?
I scrambled for an excuse. Now wasn't the time, I would send it later! I don't know
if I was more worried about him or me, but I knew that I couldn't send the picture right away.
SandraD: I think something's wrong with my computer. I'll have to send it by email.
KennyBoBenny: :(
KennyBoBenny: Ok
We made an agreement to chat the next night, wished each other sweet dreams,
and right before turning off my computer, I sent him the picture of me. It wasn't my best one,
but it showed off some of my nicer features, and it was real, and I felt that I at least owed Ken
It was three days before he was online again. The day after I sent the picture, he
emailed me back, telling me how beautiful I was. I fell even harder, and walked on sunshine
for the rest of the day. Then evening came and he didn't log on. I felt upset, but not betrayed.
He had told me that he might not be able to log in that day, and it wasn't a problem. I was
magnanimous, I was graceful, I was understanding. I wasn't going to smother him like I'd
done in my past relationships. I was going to be the “good girlfriend.” The evening first whole
day I was not graceful or magnanimous. My patience and my understanding were gone,
replaced with a suspicion and a paranoia. Had my picture done it in? Was that the reason
that he didn't want to talk to me again? I had been so witty, so charming, why couldn't guys
see a woman for who she really was, warts and all? It didn't seem fair! I was raging and
railing, and checking my email every couple of minutes; just hoping that I had missed his
email and it was there, at my inbox, just waiting to be opened. Filled with apologies and how
sorry he was, and continuing praises of my beauty. What had I done to be turned away so
abruptly? Why couldn't guys have the courage to just say thanks, but no thanks, instead of
leaving a girl hanging in such a heartless way? And why didn't I have the courage to move
one? Why did I sit in the dark, hoping that he would log on, and hoping that could just talk to
him one more time? Tell him I would change whatever about me it was that he didn't like,
change whatever it was that made him not want to spend any more time on our 'relationship'!
I tried to convince myself that it wasn't me, that things were just not going my way, and that
maybe I should just move on. But even after one day I didn't want to say goodbye to Ken, I just
wanted him back.
The second day I spent doing a personal inspection. I got up early to work out and
try to lose those hard 15 pounds that I had put on in college. I stood naked in my bedroom
mirror, going in close and squinting my dark eyebrows, checking for wrinkles that I might
have overlooked. I threw out the clothes that made me look fat, or too old, or too young. I
went to the bookstore and came home with at least a half a dozen self help titles. “A Road to a
Better You.” “It's Not Too Late to Be the Best You.” “Thirty Days to Living Your Life the Best
Way You Know How.” “A Week to Walking the Road to a Better You.” I probably could have
just bought the last one and saved money on the whole set. I enrolled in a pottery class, signed
up for a hiking workshop and went out and bought a new bicycle. I would be the exciting,
amazing, beautiful woman that Ken would want! I would form her myself and inhabit her
body and that would be more than enough and he would love me! It was that simple. There
would be no more regrets in my life, no more things left undone. I would be the Alpha
Female, and I would take what was rightfully mine.
The third day after I hadn't heard from Ken took a turn for the worse. I didn't
bother waking up until ten, telling my boss I was sick only after she called to check and see if
I was alright. I told her I had a cold. I don't think she believed me. I crawled out of bed,
leaving on the sweatpants that I had fallen asleep in, only to reach the couch and again
collapse. By two the table was covered in pizza boxes, used tissues, ice cream cartons, and of
course my laptop, open and beckoning, but to no avail. I had already called the Rec Center
and cancelled my pottery class, and when they had asked why, I gave a bawling, throaty
confession, which made the pottery teacher on the other side of the line very uncomfortable.
After convincing me that it was him, not me, she hung up, and no doubt proceeded to tell her
coworkers of the bullet she had just dodged by getting a completely batty nutjob out of her
class. I didn't bother calling the hiking instructor.
I had tossed the self help books that I had so dutifully collected, and more in an act
of symbolic retribution than anything else, burned them in a trash can in my backyard. The
paper must have been made from some kind of synthetic stuff because it burned quickly and I
was breathing in lung fulls of black smoke before I got a chance to move to the patio. Later,
after dousing the flames, I dipped my two fingers into the gunky mess, and like an Apache
applying war paint, drew two black lines under my eyes. If Ken wanted a war, so be it. I
marched into my living room, and in a big sweeping motion I turned Lifetime off of the TV,
cleared the table, and brought my computer into full view. Within minutes I was on his
FacePage, using what I knew of his hobbies, pets and of course, his birthday to crack his
password. Once in, I found his ex girlfriend and left a string of foul mouthed curses on her
wall. Then, logging onto his MyBook, I found as many porn stars and terrible bands as I
could, and friended them all. Leaving his contacts littered with undesirables. And finally the
Pièce de résistance. Using the same password as the others, I logged onto his email, and sent
messages to all of his ex-girlfriends (whose names I had found earlier), and his mother,
informing them about a particularly nasty venereal disease that they might want to get
themselves tested for. I laughed triumphantly, surveying my handiwork. That would teach
him to be so wonderful, so charming, and then make himself scarce! I laughed maniacally,
but after a few minutes of open mouthed guffawing, died out. I still missed him. I pushed the
computer away and reached for another, only partly thawed container of cookie dough ice
cream. I didn't regret what I had done, but it hadn't really helped me feel any better, had it?
The laugh that a moment ago had been so exultant died on my lips. I wasn't feeling so good.
SandraD: Okay, now I have a question for you...
KennyBoBenny: K, what is it?
SandraD: It's pretty serious...
KennyBoBenny: lol, okay, now I'm worried. Just tell me.
SandraD: (^_^) Ok, ok, here we go....
KennyBoBenny: omg, haha, spit it out already, the suspense is killing me!
SandraD: Here we go: What....
KennyBoBenny: Uh huh
Sandra D: Is...
KennyBoBenny: Uh huh, lol.
SandraD: Your favorite dinosaur?!
I awoke with a start. I smacked my teeth to get some ground in cookie dough out of
my gums. I had been in some sort of sugar induced coma, and my head was throbbing. I
probably would have been better off drowning my sorrows in a bottle of Jack Daniels. I
looked at the clock : 3:15. The angry red numbers glared back at me, as though they were
witnesses to my little escapades, and didn't like what they were seeing. I shook my head to
clear it a bit and went to the bathroom. While brushing my teeth I looked in the mirror. It's
not as though I didn't like what I saw there. I was a young, attractive woman. I wasn't a
Beyonce or Halle Berry, but I definitely had my good points. I smiled into the mirror. I was
constantly getting compliments on my smile, for instance, which wasn't so bad, now that I
thought about it. I had a pretty good job (with a caring boss), and I had my head on straight. I
had spent years teaching English to little Chinese kids! I was fluent in Mandarin for Pete's
sake! I'm funny, and pretty smart, I'm into politics and sports and movies, and great books. I'd
be a catch for any guy. I straightened my shoulders and looked again into the mirror. And for
the first time, I actually believed it. Yeah, I thought to myself, I'd be a catch for any guy. Forget
Ken, there are plenty of fish in the sea. I spit out the mouthwash and changed into my
pajamas, humming a tune to myself.
“I'm walking on sunshine, whooooa, whoa!”
Then my computer beeped. I sauntered over slowly, picking up empty cartons as I
went along. I probably should shut the damn thing down and go to bed. There was nothing
wrong with choosing a little sleep over more online communication. But then again, what
they heck, right?
KennyBoBenny: Hey
KennyBoBenny: Hey, you there?
KennyBoBenny: I'm so sorry we didn't talk over the weekend. I just got swamped, and before I
knew it it was Sunday night, and I had a paper due.
KennyBoBenny:We should do coffee sometime.
We're having coffee tomorrow afternoon.

Monday, September 14, 2009

The Encounter

*This is a week of new stories, posted by me. I'm going to try to short story it up, in universes that I will be creating in longer forms later. The first two are not that, sorry. But, yeah, just you know, try to keep up."
So, I'm having trouble with formatting, I will not give up, tho, until this is together. Or I get bored. You know, one or the other.

The Encounter

By Terri Day

The white cat sniffed at the hamburger bun that was lying on the ground. The fragrance of stale bread filled its nostrils but the faint traces of meat still lingered. It ran its rough tongue over the browned surface. Encouraged by the flavor, it picked up the bun in its teeth and scurried away. The woman watching the scene crumpled up the Burger King wrapper still open in her hand and mounted her bike. She had seen the cat a couple of times in the neighborhood and had pitied its sorry condition. So, when she hadn’t been able to finish her dinner, she figured she knew someone who could.

She pedaled solidly down the street, waving to people as she rode by. It wasn’t the best neighborhood, located right off of Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd, she didn’t bother kidding herself. But it was still spring and even though it was late afternoon, and shadows loomed long on the sidewalks and streets, it was a sunny day. There were children still playing and grandmothers working in their gardens. She enjoyed taking a quick bike ride after a fast food dinner. She was cooking less and less because she was always on the move, and she was eating a lot more of the fast food. She felt healthier just for getting active. She remembered dinners at home, surrounded by family and friends, eating a home cooked meal; those were some of the best memories she had. But now she barely remembered what it was like to have a kitchen, much less a familiar home, where you were surrounded but the people that you loved.

As she rode up 3rd St., she looked onto a familiar porch. She didn’t know the name of the old lady who lived there, but waved to her everyday on her evening ride. The old woman must have been house-ridden because a day didn’t go by that she wasn’t sitting in the plush red chair and waving to anyone who might happen by. There was something reassuring about seeing her there, day after day. The woman on the bike felt as though as long as the old woman was there, things in the neighborhood might be okay. And so as usual, she waved to lady who sat perched on her screened in front porch, in front of a blue house with white shutters. As the occupant waved back, the biker was touched by a frightening (but not all too unfamiliar) emotion. Like a cold chill she tried to shake it off and kept pedaling.

The sun shone through the trees as it made its way toward the western horizon, birds sang the closing of the day and even a little squirrel scurried its way across the quiet street. The scene was the same but the woman knew that something had changed. The wind was blowing in a different direction and the trees were rustling in an almost menacing way. She looked quickly from left to right; the streets had cleared almost magically. It was as if an old west gunfight was about to break out, and everyone knew it except for her. She applied her brakes gently and coasted down a slight hill. The feeling passed and she began to relax, but just then she saw him, and suddenly the world seemed to stop. Slow down. The birds song deepened to a warble and distorted like the sound of an ice cream truck as it made it's way down the street and around the corner. Her eye darted to the pavement, and the squirrel that was so happily gathering acorns to store in it's den, only a moment ago, was now moving at an almost imperceptible crawl.

Her eyes narrowed to slits as she stared down the quickly darkening road. Today he was a black man dressed in his Sunday best. He was wearing a black trench coat and black cowboy hat. He always wears black, a bit of irony which is not lost on her. He looked to be in his late forties or early fifties and he wears the look of a man who had seen a great many things, but had the good sense not to talk about it. Sometimes he is a man, sometimes she is a woman. A couple of times he is a little girl or boy, but she knew his true form ismale. Only a man could show that type of cruelty. There was no tenderness in him, no hope, nothing but what he delivered and his soul was as dark as his eyes. His eyes. She shivered. He could change, but his eyes were always the same. They were a dark blood red. A deep red that sent a chill down to her soul. He looked right at her and smiled, and with a quick nod, kept walking. She knew exactly where he was going. The old woman. The one who had made her feel safe, the one who had made her feel as though she belonged; it was her time that was coming to an end. The young woman on the bike didn't bother to warn her old friend. She had tried that before and no good had come of it. They had all thought she was insane, but she was the only one with eyes to see. And everyone else was blind. They had called the police on her, threatened to have her committed and all she wanted to was to tell them the truth! But the truth can hurt, if you're not ready for it, and they weren't. They weren't ready when he came to their door either. There was nothing to be done about it. She shook her head sadly and rode her bike around the corner. It was time to gather her things and move on. But she was used to it by now. There wasn't much time before he found her, but those few weeks or days before she saw him again were precious and few, and she cherished them. She prepared to listen off in the distance to hear the sirens that would signify that he was done with his grisly work, and that as she prepared to run, he would follow.

Monday, September 07, 2009

Junkin' Redux

So, I'm pretty sure I've done a blog about the show Junkin', that used to come on Turner South ( a great channel, btw, gone before it's time), which I will put a link up to only after I finish writing this post, cause that's how I roll. Well, if you're either too lazy to read the other article, or simply don't care, Junkin' was basically a show where this guy and lady went around the US to different garage sales, flea markets and , you know, crap like that to sift through other people's crap (I can't remember their names right now, but you should know that this is no reflection on the quality of Junkin'). It was terrific. I used to watch it all the time, and even though it's been years since I saw it last, I still remember it was the place where I learned that Social Security cards used to be metal. Which makes a whole lot more sense than the crappy paper they're made with now. Anyway, so this show was the best. They would go around and just have fun and be wacky and show the craziest things that they would find all over and it was pretty super. So, anyway, I want to bring that show back. But not like in lame, recuts of old episodes. I would like to make a web show with the same premise of Junkin', but with just new people who do the same thing. But it's got to be wacky and hilarious all at the same time. I remember going to the Junkin' message boards (which are defunct now), and seeing people still logging in all the time giving updates to their favorite flea markets, the deals they got there, and suggestions to others, so I feel like the market is still there. And if you stick with the sentiment of the original show, then you can't go wrong. So, anyway, as this idea is still in it's infancy, and I have neither the funds nor the cohost to bring it to life, I'm still working out the kinks (ahem). I feel like it shouldn't be hard to do. You'd just need three people, in theory, the two hosts and the camera person. Plus the car to drive around in, and the hot tips for sales. Start up a message board, Film the show, ?????, PROFIT!!! Anyway, in the meantime if you're a wealthy financier with an eye for good entertainment, you should look me up. And we can make my.... our dream come true. Otherwise, I'm just going to put it on the pile of shows that I'd like to create and wait until I'm rich/bored enough to do it. Which shouldn't be too long.

**After finishing the post, I found some interesting Junkin' Links that I though I'd share:

Another Blogger Wonders What Happened to Junkin' (It's not really informational, just funny to me, cause I went through pretty much the same thought process.)

Photo Sharing and Video Hosting at Photobucket