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22 October 2013 @ 09:04 am
When the bomb dropped it was life changing, my family was on the east coast where some of them landing and I was were the miraculously had not dropped. With the dropping of the bombs it has taken out the power. No one knows how to restore it, it is impossible everyone says. I agree....

This is sixteen years after the bombs dropped, still without power...

   I kicked the ruble off the streets with my cracked boot and looked around angrily and the city in ruins, no signs of any human life around here which means thieves were scrounging around. I knew they were, This was the great New York City that was when my eye caught the sight of someone and then they charged at me and I drew my sword and the metal of the swords clashed with a clanging sound, the man got the upper hand and hit me on the side with his but then I saw a sword get stabbed threw his chest.

    "Who the hell are you?" I asked, I was thankful for him saving my life but you couldn't be careful with people now-a-days, no one could be trusted.
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Current Mood: satisfied
Current Music: Dark Music playlist on Spotify
 
 
06 September 2013 @ 06:31 pm
New line

when the bomb dropped

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06 June 2013 @ 10:22 pm
Eyes on the electronic tablet in front of her, Jillian did the math in her head.  “So, you’ve been here for… six months now?”

“That’s right,” replied her patient, who had been identified by her tablet as Wesley Baumgartner.  He wrung his long, thin fingers together one moment, and then absent-minded picked at his eyebrows the next.

Jillian winched away in disgust and hoped that he hadn’t seen, quickly donning her professional face.  This man was one of her patients, after all.  “Are you thinking of moving into more permanent housing soon?”

Wesley’s large, watery eyes became distorted as he looked around the extended-stay hotel room through his thick glasses.  “Um… well, I suppose I could,” he replied nasally.  “But, I’m sorting of holding out that mother will change her mind and let me move back in with her.  I mean, right now, the basement is completely unused.  It’s a waste, really.”

Shifting in the folding chair the Agency had given her, Jillian tapped a box labeled ‘attachment issues’ on her tablet screen.  “Mr. Baumgartner, I think that your mother asked you to move out in an effort to help you rather than punish you.  You have to admit, it’s hard to get by with your… condition… while you’re living with your mother, isn’t it?” 

The thin, weasley, middle-aged man swallowed, and his eyes seemed to flicker even faster behind his glasses.  “Oh.  I was… um… wondering if you were going to bring that up.”

“Well, it is why the Agency sent me, Mr. Baumgartner.”

Wesley seemed to sit up a little straighter in his chair.  “Oh.  Really?”  Jillian noticed the man’s knees beginning to shake.  “Just… um… how did the Agency expect you to… remedy my problem?”

Remembering her training, Jillian put on her most serious face in an effort to diffuse the situation.  “Simply to examine your living conditions, prescribe medication if I think it’s necessary.  Standard procedure.”

Lower lip now trembling, Wesley replied, in what Jillian would later realize was a laughable attempt at a seductive voice, “Are you sure they didn’t send you to perform a… physical examination?”

A sliver of fear slipped into Jillian’s stomach, but it didn’t show on her stone-cold expression.  Even so, she remembered her training, and let her right hand slip toward her purse.  “Definitely not.  This is a very standard, very professional visit.  You shouldn’t be worried.  This sort of thing is much more common than you’d think, Mr. Baumgartner.”

“Please.  Call me Wesley,” Wesley said, just before leaping to his feet and lunging for Jillian.

Adrenaline and fear filled the nurse like a hot poker placed on her skin.  Jillian leapt to her feet, dropping her tablet and knocking her folding chair to the floor.  Though she twisted away from the man, Wesley managed to grab her wrist.

And then he licked the back of her hand.

Jillian shifted her weight, broke Wesley’s hold and, with a twist of her hips, planted the sole of her right foot squarely into his sternum.  All the air left his lungs in a great whuff, and the scrawny man tumbled backward over his chair.  In the moment she had bought, Jillian snatched her purse from the floor, where it had fallen, and produced the instrument she had reached for earlier.

A moment later, Wesley’s hands appeared on the back of the chair as he struggled to pull himself to his feet.  His previously combed-over quaff of hair was disheveled and his glasses sat skewed on his nose.  “Wow,” he wheezed.  “I know it’s been a while since I used the Venom, but I forgot how powerful it can be!  Just not so rough from now on, okay?”

“I think you’ll find, Mr. Baumgartner, that I’m immune to your Venom” Jillian huffed.  Her adrenaline-quickened breath made her hand rise and fall rhythmically, but still she maintained perfect aim on Wesley with the implement in her hand.  “The agency made sure to inoculate me against every possible poison, venom, toxin, hypnosis, mind trick, and curse known to cryptohumanoid kind. So if I were you, I’d not try that again.  This thing was freshly enchanted this morning.”

Wesley’s eyes widened in fear at the red-handled, ruby-tipped wand in Jillian’s hand.  “Oh.  Oh, no.  I’m… I’m so sorry,” he stammered.  “I had no idea.  Oh god.  I’m so sorry.  It’s just been so long… I mean, look at me!  I’m not supposed to be like this!”  Wesley returned to his chair and put his head in his hands, which put Jillian more at ease. Still, when she righted her chair, she made sure to place it a few more feet away from the man, and to keep her Wand of Stupification in her hand.

“It’s not healthy for an incubus to stay holed up in his mother’s basement,” Jillian went on professionally.  When Wesley opened his mouth to protest, she added, “no matter how good his video game collection is.  Your kind survives on the sensual energy of young women.  And there are NO young women playing video games on the internet.”

“But…,”

“NONE.”

Wesley lowered his face shamefully. “I’ve tried everything, though.  I mean, look at these pills I ordered from an ad I got in my inbox.”  He trotted to the room’s nightstand, opened it, and produced a pair of plastic bottles, each the size of the venti coffee Jillian had drunk that morning.  Written across the front of the red bottles were the words ‘SEX MACHINE’ in black letters, plastered in a yellow comic-book style starburst.

“Mr. Baumgartner, you can’t believe everything you read on the Internet,” Jillian said, setting down her wand long enough to make a few quick taps on her tablet.  “I’m calling you in a prescription meant to help incubuses just like you with this very same problem.  Soon you’ll be looking like your old self again, and you’ll have no trouble with the ladies.”

“Thank you, Ms. Nightingale,” Wesley said, looking repentant.  “Mother has been teasing me because I look older than she does.”

“That’s because she’s a succubus, and she feeds regularly,” Jillian replied, “and doesn’t spend all her time playing video games.”  She flipped the cover on her tablet closed and stood, collapsing her folding chair.  “Your prescription will be ready by tomorrow.  Simply take it, and concern yourself more with your health instead of how many headshots your squad is accumulating.”

Wesley nodded, his hands clasped in his lap.  “Thank you again, Ms. Nightingale.  And I’m so sorry about my little… outburst.  I hope you can forgive me.”

Despite herself, Jillian smiled.  “It’s not the worst that’s happened to me in this job.  Coincidently, werewolf bites itch like you wouldn’t believe.”  With that, she stuffed her belongings into her back, bid Wesley a final good-bye, and left the hotel room.

On her way down the hotel’s stairs, Jillian recalled the patients she had seen that day.  A harpy with a broken wing.  A merman with a terrible case of athlete’s flipper.  A troll, currently living under the Watterson Beltway Bridge, with fang rot.  And, lastly, an antisocial incubus with a hormonal imbalance.

Jillian Nightingale, nurse practitioner for the Agency for the Betterment of Cryptohumanoid Health, returned to her mobile office (a.k.a. her car).  No doubt, it had been a long day.  Though she could have squeezed in one more patient, she decided against it, and picked up her phone to text the Agency that they’d have to find another agent to treat the Sasquatch with fleas.

The nurse left work at five o’clock, officially, and headed in the direction of her favorite bar.  The wizard bartender had promised her a Wand of Flypaper for the pixies she was supposed to visit tomorrow, should they try any funny business.

Just another day.
 
 
 
28 May 2013 @ 08:49 am
New line

The nurse left work at five o'clock.

From NPR's Three-Minute Fiction Challenge, Round Two: http://www.npr.org/series/133219009/three-minute-fiction-round-two-stories

*Tag your post with "the nurse left work at five o'clock"
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In order to keep this community going and give us all more freedom to post, you are now allowed to post any line that has been used in the linebyline history.

Please be sure to tag your post with the correct line so that users can see all works associated with that line and so that I can make sure you are meeting the community guidelines of only posting lines or themes (not other work).

***If you forget to tag, I will give you a warning asking you to tag your piece. Please be sure to tag 24 hours after the warning. If you don't tag I will delete your piece.***

Thank you all and I hope that this will allow this community to thrive! I will continue posting new lines regularly.

To view all the New Lines posts you can visit: http://linebyline.livejournal.com/tag/new%20line
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1) Please remember to tag the line when you post your entry.
2) Please bold or otherwise indicate where the line is used in your piece of writing (unless it will change the artistic emphasis or value of your piece).
3) Please LJ cut long entries (more than 3 paragraphs or stanzas).
 
 
20 May 2013 @ 03:22 pm
Mitch looked at his watch for about the fifth time in as many minutes. He looked longingly at the pack of cigarettes that he knew were in the glove box. It'd been a little over seventy-two hours now since his last cigarette. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel nervously. Over the stereo system a group of children sung off-key versions of the biggest hit songs of 2001 on an old CD he'd picked up at the thrift store. His daughter was probably too young for it, but he told himself he'd be dead in the cold cold ground before he bought another Raffi CD. He turned the volume down.

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20 May 2013 @ 12:45 am

I would watch as he broke down my walls
And found a person within all that I believe I couldn't be.
I was built in bleeding glass, but between the sharp edges
And the unforgiving architecture of steel

He'd claw and find me,
Naked and raw and afraid, his first words being:
"There she is."

He found something soft, that even I never knew was there.
Potential to be fire.

I lie in our bed, miles away from where we began,
And I watch fondly, his bare body rising to sit by me.
But for the very first time, I see the marks on his hands
Where my sharp edges tore him,
And the blotted purple of bruises on his fists from when
He so faithfully willed my walls to fall.

There he was, in all his grand honesty,
Ready to only take me as I am.

 
 
New Line

There s/he was

*Tag your post with "there s/he was"
*Use the theme or the line
*Highlight, bold, or italicize the line

And remember, if you see a poem you like you can tag it with "comm favorites".


Rules Reminder

In order to keep this community going and give us all more freedom to post, you are now allowed to post any line that has been used in the linebyline history.

Please be sure to tag your post with the correct line so that users can see all works associated with that line and so that I can make sure you are meeting the community guidelines of only posting lines or themes (not other work).

***If you forget to tag, I will give you a warning asking you to tag your piece. Please be sure to tag 24 hours after the warning. If you don't tag I will delete your piece.***

Thank you all and I hope that this will allow this community to thrive! I will continue posting new lines regularly.

To view all the New Lines posts you can visit: http://linebyline.livejournal.com/tag/new%20line
To view all the tags for this community you can visit: http://linebyline.livejournal.com/tag/

1) Please remember to tag the line when you post your entry.
2) Please bold or otherwise indicate where the line is used in your piece of writing (unless it will change the artistic emphasis or value of your piece).
3) Please LJ cut long entries (more than 3 paragraphs or stanzas).
 
 
 
 
02 March 2013 @ 02:39 pm
This is a short story written for LineByLine, a prompt-based writing community.  The community provides one line which much be used somewhere in the piece.  This week's line was "It wasn't because of that."

This short story centers around characters that have been popping up in my writings for a while now: a guy named Beck, who dropped out of college to raise his daughter, Tansly, in the absence of Tansly's mother (and Beck's ex-girlfriend) Amanda.

"Man of the House"

The beaten, old couch in my living room sagged under me, even though I was stretched out across it with my weight pretty evenly distributed. Lonnie and Still Wind said it was the first couch they bought after they got married, in the early 80’s, and they hadn’t had the heart to throw it out so they had put it in the little shack.  When I had become the shack’s new tenant, I had inherited it.  There were strips of duct tape on it older than I was, but for my purposes it was perfect.

I circled another job in the classified section of the newspaper while the radio played another old Rolling Stones song; it was ‘Two for Tuesday,’ so Jumping Jack Flash was the perfect follow-up to Paint it Black.  From her crib next to the couch, Tansly cooed and slapped a toy with her chubby pink hands.

“I know,” I told her.  “Mick Jagger is still awesome, even after all these years.”

Tansly slapped the toy harder in agreement, and started cooing again.  I couldn’t help but smile when she sounded so happy, so I set aside the newspaper long enough to lift her from the crib and lay her on my chest.  She slapped my chest in excitement and kicked her feet, one of which struck me a little too hard in the stomach.  I grunted through the pain but still smiled at the beautiful little infant.  Tansly had Amanda’s eyes, no matter how much I tried to pretend she didn’t.  The baby we made was beautiful, no doubt about that. And the pang of sadness was still hard to ignore, no matter how much I tried to convince myself to hate Amanda for leaving.

A wet spot of droll appeared on my shirt as Tansly laid her face on my chest and blew a feeble raspberry.  I picked up the classifieds again and held them over Tansly, where I skimmed them with my eyes.  Lonnie had told me that he was going to have to cut my hours at the hardware store for a few months, during the off season, so I had to pick up a few extra hours somewhere to keep earning pocket money.

Just as I started to turn the page, I heard something from the kitchen.

Our little shanty in the Mojave Desert didn’t have much, but we got by pretty well.  It was little more than a wooden shack, with only the basic necessities.  It had electricity but it was temperamental; I could only run one of the window air conditioners at a time without blowing the breaker.  The running water took forever to heat up, but I rarely wanted a hot shower. I was getting used to the little noises the house made as the old wood swelled and shrank with the changing desert temperature.  And that was why I noticed the out-of-the-ordinary sound.

I had no neighbors.  As far as I knew, the closest house was more than a mile away, and the last person who had been in the house besides me and Tansly was Amanda, two months ago, when she had left the baby with me and disappeared into the night. So I felt a little stupid when I asked, “Hello?” into my home.  Of course, no one responded.  I held my breath and waited, trying to listen over Tansly’s chorus of baby noises.  After a few seconds of nothing but the Rolling Stones, I released my breath and looked back to the newspaper.

Thirty seconds later, I heard it again:  a shuffling, chittering noise, once more from the kitchen.


My fatherly instincts started to kick in.  If there was something in the kitchen, it was my duty to my daughter to kill it.  So I set the newspaper aside, lifted Tansly from my chest, and placed her gently back in her crib.  “Stay here,” I told her, feeling like a badass cop in a crime movie.

Before venturing to the kitchen, I took my Louisville Slugger from next to the couch and wrapped my hands around it.  My footsteps were almost silent as I approached.  Just before I crossed the threshold I heard the noise again, though I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.

First I approached the refrigerator, thinking that the noise was from something falling from the shelves.  But it wasn’t because of that; it was almost empty, because I had put off going to the grocery store for so long.  I performed the same search of the cabinets and cupboard, but found nothing out of place.

Just as I was shutting the coffee cup cabinet (yes, I need a whole cabinet for coffee cups; I drink a lot of coffee, okay?), I heard the noise again, slightly behind me. When I turned, I spied the only place in the room I hadn’t yet searched:  the squeaky floorboard in front of the stove.  I had become well acquainted with the board; when I’d stand in front of the stove, making eggs in the morning, I’d lean to and fro on it in time with whatever song was on the radio.  But the board had never made sounds without my weight on it before.

Quickly ruling out ghosts as the cause, I let the bat dangle from my left hand and knelt to the floor.  With my knuckles I gave the board a quick rap, which responded with the mysterious noise.

The bat rattled to the floor, and I retrieved a claw hammer from the kitchen junk drawer (we all have one).  Cramming the claw into the space between the squeaky board and its neighbor, I craned the hammer back and pried up the board.

Five tiny scorpions, no bigger than my thumb, immediately scurried out.

I screamed, dropped the hammer, and dove away from the opening. The little white arachnids tested the air with their tiny claws and tails, as if claiming this new land as their own.

The end of the bat was just within arm’s reach.  I wrapped my fingers around the knob at the bottom and slowly dragged the implement to me, afraid that sudden movements would startle the creatures and they’d run beneath something, where they would plot to overthrow me and Tansly another day.  Not in my house.

Lonnie had shown me the correct way to stomp a scorpion without being stung, even while barefoot (which I currently was), but I didn’t feel like testing my skills. I brought the bat down on the first scorpion, and it exploded like an overripe grape.  The other four seemed stunned for a second by the sound of the impact, so I capitalized and pounded the rest of them into oblivion.

The board had snapped back into place when I had dove away like a scared little girl.  With the bat still in my right hand, I took the hammer in my left and lifted the board again, more carefully this time.

When I had first moved into the shack, Lonnie and Still Wind had explained the problem with scorpions that many dwellings in the Mojave developed, and had explained that the shack was no different.  The first three days I had slept in my car, because I was too terrified to sleep in the house.  But, after three solid days of killing scorpions every hour, I finally stopped seeing them, and assumed that my scorpion days were over.

But, it turns out, scorpions are like crazy exes:  just when you think you’ve seen the last of them, they come crawling out of the woodwork.

Beneath the board I found myself peeking into a meager little crawlspace.  And there I saw at least three times as many tiny, white scorpions as I had just pounded into pulp on my kitchen floor.  It was a nest.  It must have been full of scorpion eggs (just the thinking those words made my skin crawl) when I exterminated all the others from the shack.  They must have hatched not long ago.

I quickly slammed the board back into place and carefully cleaned up the smashed scorpions from the floor and the bat with a handful of Clorox wipes.  Then picked up the hammer from the floor, picked a few nails out of the junk drawer, and hammered the board so securely into place that it would never squeak again.

The radio had changed songs, and now blared Rock You Like a Hurricane from the living room.  Heh. Fitting.  I beat the last nail into the board to the rhythm of the music, then stood with the hammer in one hand and the bat in the other, once again feeling like a total badass.

As I stood in the doorway, hoping I looked as awesome as I felt, Tansly burbled happily to me from her crib.  “That’s right, baby,” I told her in my best tough-guy voice.  “This house is safe for another night.  Your dad’s a real man.”