Morning Coffee

A month ago I issued a challenge to the writer's group to write 500 words about this:  A man finds a woman he does not know drinking coffee in his kitchen. Alas, I have been sick most of the month, especially the week of the meeting. But I promised the group I'd finish it. And I did. . . tonight. It isn't very good but it got interesting. I took the liberty of switching genders. 

The smell of coffee tugged me awake, out of the dream of a warm, sandy beach where I walked alone, waves lapping at my feet. I lay for several minutes trying to figure out if I was still dreaming. The aroma of coffee upon waking was something straight out of my childhood and I couldn't recall ever, in my adult isolation waking up to that smell in my house. 

I sat up, frowning at my feet on the brown carpet with the cream swirl. No, definitely not a dream. I could smell coffee. Downstairs in my kitchen coffee was brewing. I clenched the edge of the mattress as my heart suddenly double timed and a knot formed in my gut. I live alone.

With every muscle tensing, I eased off the bed and tiptoed toward the door. The aroma grew stronger as I pulled it toward me. For only a moment, I hesitated. Who in the world would be brewing coffee? How had they got in? 

One way to find out, sister. I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders and crept down the stairs. At the bottom I paused again and listened. The only sound was the ticking of the hall clock that hung on the wall facing the front door. I looked up at it. Six a.m., way too early for me. 

The front hall extended to the back of the house and the kitchen door was the last one on the right. I could tell from the way the light fell that it was opened. I always closed it. I hesitated, looking left and right, and all around the room. No weapons. Fire poker in the living room but I didn't want to risk going back. Mentally I smacked my forehead. Pistol in the nightstand drawer. I shook my head and move forward, hugging the wall. 

When I reached the doorway I stopped again. My heart was pounding like a pile driver and I had to force myself to slow my breathing. I sounded like a marathon runner on his last legs. With a final deep breath I stepped around the door frame and into the kitchen and came to an abrupt stop.

He smiled slowly, a steaming cup halfway to his mouth. Leaning against the counter, his hands cradling the cup he looked perfectly at home. His eyes crinkled at the corners and he winked one of the green eyes at me. “Morning beautiful.”

I blinked. I rubbed my eyes. I frowned and shook my head. 

“I've made a fresh pot of coffee for you and there's a fresh danish in that white bag.”

I looked at the small white bag lying in the center of the table and then quickly back at the tall man leaning against the counter in my kitchen. I had no idea who he was or how he got in and while I thought it was a nice surprise to find something so delectable in my kitchen, it was more disturbing than nice.

“Who are you?”

He laughed, tilted his head slightly forward and gave me a chiding smile. “You do know you're running late for work?”

I gasped and turned to run back up stairs. 

With some annoyance I slapped the buzzing alarm with one hand and with the other, threw the covers back and, in one smooth motion, I sat up and frowned at my feet on the brown carpet with the cream swirl. I yawned and shook my head. What had that been about? I hated coffee.

The doorbell sounded and I shook my head. Who in the world came calling at, I squinted at the clock, 9:00 a.m.? I gasped. I was late for work. 

I darted across the room and ran down the stairs two at a time. Whoever it was was standing on the buzzer. When I reached the door I yanked it open, ready to give the miscreant a piece of my mind. I looked up into the face of the man who'd been standing in my kitchen, what.. moments ago? 

“Good morning. You wouldn't happen to have any coffee on, would you?" In his hand he held a small white bag.

The One Left Behind

For a week now I've lain here, in the dark and waited for someone to extend their hand and lift me from my squalor. The dust is thick and it feels as if I'm coated from one end to the other. Occasionally a shaft of light filters underneath my prison entryway. Shadows come and go and then the light is extinguished. 

It started at least seven days ago. Gavin came home from ball practice and without a thought he shoved me under the bed with my twin. It wasn't intentional. Really. It's just that he was in a rush and when faced with the decision on what to do with us, he balked, throwing us onto the floor and then, kicking us beneath the edge of the spread that dragged the floor.

We stayed there until Mary actually pulled us out with the vacuum. First my twin and then I was drawn up into the hose. It felt as if we'd be shredded to pieces but Mary acted quickly and turned off the machine and unplugged the hose. She fished us out with care, stared at us, crinkling her nose and uttering a soft grunt. Then, she tossed us into a large wicker receptacle that sat just outside the bathroom door. I don't remember much after that but sometime later, someone dumped several sheets on top of us. Breathing would be impossible for anyone else.

Several days later I could feel the container moving and I knew that someone was carrying it to the sanitization facility. This was a radical event and I wondered if my twin knew what was happening. I had no way to ask and I couldn't see where he was or if he was still here.

The fall, when it came wasn't as bad as I expected. The world seemed to turn on its head and I fell, end over end, until I landed into a large metal container. What came next still give me chills. The sound of running water filled the metal room and soon I could feel the cool waves lapping at my toes. With torturous slowness it crept up until if covered everything in the place. Then something clicked and a motor started and I was swirling around and was pulled and pushed and twisted in every possible direction. It was a nightmare. Twice I bumped into my twin and we tried to hang on to one another but the force of the waves ripped us apart. 

Finally, the water drained away, leaving us beached piles of sheets. I breathed a sigh of relief until I felt the room begin to spin. It went faster and faster until I was slammed against the metal walls and flattened. I couldn't move for what felt like an eternity. When the horror ended, I slid down to the bottom of the room.

I don't know how long it was before we were released. They put is in another room and it whirled around and became very warm. I must have lost consciousness because the next thing I remember was lying on a bed in a dark room. It was cool and I let myself enjoy the feeling of air as it moved gently around me. My twin lay quietly nearby. We lay there all day and finally the room grew dark, the house grew quiet, and everyone slept. We'd survived another day.

I heard Gavin's feet as he ran down the hallway. "Mom, I need my socks!"

"For goodness sakes, Gavin, you'll wake the whole neighborhood. The socks are on the bed in the spare room."

The door was flung open and the overhead light came on. Gavin reach over and grabbed my twin and then me and raced down the hall.

And it began again.




This was a prompt I found somewhere. Write from the point of view of a sock. 

Generating New Ideas

I thought this was a very good slide show on creativity. We all need help sometimes. I like to share when I stumble across something that looks good. There are some really good ideas  here.

15 ideas on how to generate new ideas from Harish Kumar

A Long, Dark Hallway

I issued a writing challenge to my local group a few weeks ago. They were to write a scene/short story of no less than 500 words using the prompt: Write about walking down a long dark hallway.

Since I'm the leader, I figure I should be the first to do these things. Tomorrow is our meeting and everyone who did the challenge is asked to bring their story with them to share and critique. I decided to post mine here as well. 

My shoes sounded a tap, tap, tap on the tile floor as I walked. I could hear the sound of the storm outside as it whipped around the corner of the building and rattled the windows. Thunder resounded and echoed along the hallway, rushing past me like a wave. The tapping of my shoes ceased momentarily, instead, making a skittering sound as I jumped. I bumped into the wall, noting the nubby surface of the finish as my arm scrapped along it. 

For a few minutes I leaned there, listening. The distant sound of rain pelting walls, roof, and windows was like the churning of the ocean which lay only half a mile away. I could almost imagine I was on a ship at sea during a storm. I reached for the mast to cling to, only to find nothing. I sighed. The wall at my back was a comfort as the darkness of the hallway was disorienting. There was a dim light ahead of me and one behind me but the distance between was great and I couldn't really see anything up close. If there were doors, they had no seams for light to seep around. 

Of course, I was below ground level so, unless there were basement windows, there would be very little light from the outside seeping into any rooms down here. And today, it would be a diluted light, infused with the gray of the storm.

I stood up and straightened my dress. I wasn't generally afraid of the dark but this was an unknown. I'd never ventured to this part of the facility before and had no idea what lay ahead. I strained to see if I could detect any other sound above the sound of the storm. I was surprised to be able to even hear the storm down here but then, there was only the ground floor above me. The long hallways and cinder block walls would allow sound to travel fairly well.

Moving forward once again, I stayed close to the wall, letting my hand trail along the surface. Surely there were rooms down here. You couldn't have a hallway traversing a building as large as this one with out rooms and doorways. I glanced back, toward the light that grew smaller the farther I got from it. A shadow moved across it and was gone. I stopped and turned. 

“Hello?”

I waited for a response that never came. Squinting my eyes and straining my head forward, I stared hard at the light. Was there someone standing next to the wall, just at the edge of the light? I shook my head and straightened up. I couldn't tell. With more than a little hesitation, I turned and continued my toward my destination, the slightly brighter light at the end of this tunnel.

I don't know what brought me to this place. It wasn't intentional. I'd been perfectly happy in my job as assistant to the CEO of Barnwell & Sons,  LTD. The pay was adequate and the benefits were nice. I had  a nice apartment and a great boyfriend. The promotion, when it came, was unexpected. 

The sound of someone moaning brought me to a standstill. I was now in the darkest section of the hallway. I judged it to be about the halfway point. Glancing back over my shoulder, again I saw a shadow pass between me and the light, more distinct now, and definitely a person. But that moan, that had come from much closer to hand.

“Hello?” I whispered. “Is someone here with me?”

A scurrying sound swirled around my feet and I gave a tiny squeal and my shoes did a little tattoo as I danced. Visions of mice hordes flitted in my head. Another low moan. I was shaking like a leaf now but  I swallowed my fear and stepped away from the wall and walked faster, toward the light at the end. It was growing larger. 

Two dozen steps later I skidded to a halt as a shadow stepped out of the shadow of the walls and into my path. It was definitely human, tall, and black as suet. 

A whisper of a voice echoed behind me. “Run.”

I wanted to, really, but my feet were planted firmly to the floor. My knees would not have been able to propel me forward or backward without a force stronger than my will.

So, how would you expect it to end? What is going on? Feel free to share your thoughts. 

Reset

Tonight was my online accountability meeting with my writing buddy, Doug. I'm so busted. I've shirked for two weeks, managing to write only about 2000 words. I'm  annoyed but only a bit. He's had some setbacks, too. We tossed wet noodles at each other and discussed how to deal with the problem. We both agreed that we simply start over.

I've been looking at a few ideas and almost had myself convinced of making a major change to the POV aspect of the story. In fact, on the way home, I was convinced that making the change was the best idea. By the time I got home, I mostly talked myself out of it. Doug finished the job, telling me to leave it alone. It is probably good advice. I was thinking of eliminating the female character's chapters... well, not exactly eliminating but changing them to let one of the other character's tell the story. I have a single point of view = 3rd person. I have four perspectives on the story. I have a timeline because there are events happening in this story where several characters are in different places and things are happening at the same time. So, it gets dicey. And I won't know if it works until it is written and someone reviews it and tells me. God help me if they think it is awful. 

I don't think it will be awful. It may need a lot of work but I've seen this done. It isn't easy but then, I never take the easy route anyway. Do it the hard way! Still, one perspective makes for much easier writing. I'm bouncing around in four different heads, four different voices, and only one of them female. Honestly, the hardest one to write is that woman. I just think my women characters are always stupid. This one is not much different. 

In a sense, it isn't surprising I prefer male writers, too. I don't like the fluff of many books by women. So, the allure of my story is to be expected. What I didn't expect was to be able to write from that perspective so easily. In fact, I didn't expect to be able to write my antagonist perspective so easily. He's sadistic and I wouldn't have considered myself to have any traits like that. However, when one delves deep enough into the darkness of their own mind, one is apt to uncover some very odd things. 

What do I mean? Should I put up an excerpt of Stryker's? I promise is isn't violent at all and there is no gore, no bad language. Nothing at all. But writing it scared me a tiny bit. One, because I'm a woman who imagined herself in that situation. Two, because I could write from the dark character's perspective, think what he was thinking. Scared me more than a little bit. Someone said write what scares you. 

Here's the piece. It's a first draft so don't expect much. Just put yourself in my female characters skin, in a restaurant, alone. Just for a few minutes. It only takes a few.

The lowering sun sparked off the crystal water goblet on the table as Stryker sat down in the restaurant. He deliberately chose a table against the wall with an unobstructed view of the room. He ordered black coffee and waved the waitress off.

He watched as the woman sat down at another table. She put her briefcase and handbag on the chair next to her. She was slim, well dressed in a black tailored skirt and jacket with black heels. His eyes skimmed down her body, ah, very pretty legs. He liked pretty legs. The long, blond hair hung below her shoulders in silken waves while shorter strands caressed her jawline and cheeks. The bone structure was perfect, high cheeks, fine nose, shapely brows. He sighed. One had to appreciate fine art.

She picked up the menu and as she read through it, he studied her face. So expressive. One could almost tell what she would order by watching her expressions. The tiny frown marring the brow at this, a small moue at that, a flicker of delight that turned up the corner of her mouth at something else. Passionate, he was sure she was passionate... about everything.

He put his sunglasses in his jacket pocket and picked up the menu on his table. What had triggered the delight? He scrolled down the list. Ah, triple chocolate cake. He’d bet on it. He lay the menu down and raised his hand. The waitress hurried over and he ordered the cake. He wanted to share in the delight. The other would come later.

While he waited, he picked up the file on his table and thumbed through it. Her name was Dani Vaughn. She had a son attending Cambridge University in England. Very good, Dani. He looked at her over the top of the file. And who is paying for that, love?

She lived alone but worked as an administrative manager for a man named Cameron Doyle. They often went to dinner together, on an average of once a week. What does your husband think of that? He looked up at her. She was looking out the window at the passing traffic, her elbows rested on the table and her hands clasped with her chin resting on it. He turned his head to one side. Interesting. She was content.

He hardly noticed when his order arrived and the waitress moved away. He looked back at the file. Mr. Doyle was a man of great interest, as well. He was a former Horus employee. In fact, he had been one of the top trainers for Horus for nearly a decade before he had left their employ after a disagreement over procedures. Apparently, Doyle disagreed with training methods imposed after a change of leadership in the agency.

Movement at her table drew his attention. Her waitress delivered the woman’s order, a piece of triple chocolate cake. He smiled and picked up his fork. As she put a bite of the cake into her mouth, he took a bite of his own. Together they savored the moistness, the array of flavors from three different chocolates. He sighed and as he watched, she did, too. Yes. Perfect.

It was half an hour before she decided to leave. She glanced at her watch and then toward the windows overlooking the street. Darkness had fallen. Hurrying now, she paid her bill and gathered her bags to leave. Stryker had already paid his bill and he got up and left ahead of her. Outside he slipped on the dark glasses and walked to the end of the building, stepping into the shadows that lurked there. He waited. Moments later she exited the restaurant.

For a few minutes she stood looking for a cab but when none seemed inclined to stop, she started to walk. He fell into step yards behind her, a leisurely stroll, his hands in his pockets, looking at the merchandise in the shop windows. 

Twice she stopped to hail a cab and twice they ignored her. It puzzled him that she had not called a cab from the restaurant. They’d have been glad to assist her in that. Instead, she was strolling along a busy city street on a mild autumn evening as if she hadn’t a care in the world. He squinted at the jewelry glittering in the window. She seemed to have no real interest in what the shops offered. She never even suspected that death could be a dozen steps away. He looked at her. She was not what he expected.

So? You can comment at the bottom if you're so inclined.

I once told my husband once that I'd have made a better man. He didn't disagree but he did say he was happy that had not happened. That tendency has come in handy a few times. Writing men seems to be one of them. What's really odd is I like writing Stryker.

We'll see how it goes.