Attached"What would you do if I was shot?" 300 asked innocuously.
250 stopped, one foot on the staircase, and eyed his partner. It had been a long day of cat and mouse with Niels, and 300 was sprawled on his back across the sofa, lounging. His jacket was open, stylishly framing a long expanse of crisp white shirt. One foot dangled off the edge of the couch to graze the ground. He gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling, head tilted just so.
If 250 didn't know the man so well, he could've believed that this was a genuinely innocent question - mere curiosity. But there was something calculated to way 300 had draped himself across the couch. 250 furrowed his brow, unsure of what sort of game they were playing. "You really have to ask?" he droned, stepping down from the staircase and resting his folded arms on the back of the sofa.
300 shrugged, knitting his hands on top of his stomach. "I was just wondering."
250 cocked an eyebrow. "Why? You plan on getting shot sometime soon?"
"Of course not," 300 sco
Make Yourself Useful250 sighed noisily and fwumped yet another stack of clothes on the counter. A freshly pressed dress shirt stared up at him from the top of the pile, buttons winking in the light. 250 eyed the offending article of clothing before shooting a sharp look at its offending owner. As usual, 300 sat in his favorite armchair, legs crossed, a newspaper open. He looked the picture of a 1950s sitcom father. 250 huffed and crossed his arms behind the counter.
The newspaper twitched. 300 looked up. "Is something wrong?"
250 frowned. Normally, 300's refusal to help around the house wasn't a real issue - more like something to be thrown in the Scot's face periodically, just to remind him who did the actual work when the day was done. But today, 250 had cleaned the entire house top to bottom: dusting, sweeping, wiping, scrubbing, even vacuuming and mopping; from bedrooms to bathrooms to kitchen to basement. And 250 could have tolerated doing all that by himself - it was, after all, his house, and it ne
What It TookHe sat hunched over in the hard plastic chair, covering his face with his hands. The hurried footsteps of doctors and nurses on the other side of the door and the indistinct voices over the PA system created a counterpoint to his racing heart. The fear hadn't abated since Gyldensted had fired that shot yesterday morning.
Remarkable, really, how focused he'd been through the fear focused enough to take out Gyldensted and four of his men and get 250 out of there alive. Alive oh God They'd rushed 250 into surgery as soon they'd arrived at the hospital the medical team had been waiting, of course the Boss had alerted them but that felt like an eternity ago, and no one was telling him anything.
He stood and started pacing the quiet hall where they'd told him to wait. He had no idea what the Boss had said so the medical staff would let him stay, but he was grateful for it. It was better to feel helpless and terrified here, where he'd hear right away if anyth
BlockageThe worst punishment for a writer is the inability to write. This man knows the feeling well. He feels that urge to create something – but what? A sudden idea and he scrambles for a pen but just as he grabs it, the idea is gone. He sits there, pen poised over paper, trying desperately to remember what it was. It’s there - it’s still there, he just can’t grasp it.
He lets out a frustrated sound, throwing the pen down. Is this it then, he wonders? Has he finally reached the end of his creativity? It’s been some time that he’s managed to write anything. He yearns to create a piece so beautiful that people will be blown away in amazement but as days go by without any ideas, he begins to lose hope. He struggles to believe that he could ever be capable of something worthy of others’ love. He doesn’t believe he’s capable of waking the dreams buried deep inside him that he’s had since childhood.
He feels the creativity slipping away.
Ghosts Of The PastLuther got out of the car, clutching a bouquet of flowers with one hand.
He then walked slowly to the cemetery, a sombre look attached on his face,
as he walked towards the older parts of the cemetery, he sighed to himself
over what he was doing.
"It's ridiculous," he thought to himself. "I should really let go, but I can't.
It feels like a hundred years already."
He walked slowly through the cemetery, the silence and darkness provided a familiar
background for his night time excursion. He then moved towards a set of tombstones,
scanning them for a particular name, before he found out.
Eleanor Bethel, it read, Born 1900, died 1978. Beloved daughter, wife, mother, and grandmother.
Luther placed the bouquet in front of the tombstone, and sighed. "I miss you, Ellie.
It's hard being alone in the darkness. I don't know why I keep on doing this, but...
I guess it's really hard letting go."
As he started to walk away from the tombstone, he heard someone clearing their throat.
GhostwriterBack when I was alive, I used to complain that I never had enough time to write. That’s always the excuse, isn’t it? Yes, I have a free half-hour now, but that isn’t nearly enough time to be truly inspired. Might as well finish this crossword puzzle, first.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have anything against a fellow cruciverbalist; time just happens to be mostly meaningless, nowadays. I could easily sleep through the next few centuries, except for the fact that I am perfectly content where I am at the moment.
These days, it’s progressively difficult to find a working typewriter.
When I first died of a heart attack back in ‘56, I was so overcome with despair at my own death that I immediately fell asleep for several decades, finally awaking to find a suddenly and drastically altered world. Not only had I to mourn the imminent death of the paperback book, what with the increasing popularity of those ridiculous electronic books, but that of
Old Broken Heart250 gazed wearily at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. With a sigh, he prodded the weathered lines in his face with a finger, his eyes drifting to his receding hairline. His graying hairline.
He thunked his forehead against the mirror and sighed again. God, he felt so old. He was still muscular, still in shape, but fatigue seemed to settle further in his bones during every idle moment. When he called for his body to work, it worked, but how much longer would that last? Every step was a chance for some joint to creak, every stretch a chance to agitate a scar. Today he was being plagued by a mild headache that made him dizzy when he turned too fast and heartburn turning his chest into a pressure cooker. Tomorrow it could be arthritis or something worse for all he knew.
With a final, heavy sigh, he shuffled out of the bathroom and down the stairs. 300 was already awake, seated on the sofa with his usual newspaper. The question was out before 250 could consider its consequences:
A Fool's Hope!I grew up watching the stars in space,
Told they were hope for those once lost,
As a child I wished upon those twinkling lights,
I was naive and filled with dreams.
Eventually those wishes changed in nature.
I wished for her return,
Wished to be nine again,
Innocent, simplier and happier,
When it had just been we three,
The trio musketeers,
Three warriors against the world.
Looking at them now, for the last time,
I remembered an important fact:
'Every wish we want to make,
Are a few million years too late,
Those specks of beauty have already died,
Along with our hopes'
... Only a fool would believe in the magic of stars.
A wise author once wrote:
"The stars were only sparks of the fires which devoured us. Should that fire die out one day, there will be nothing left in the sky but dead stars, dead eyes"
After realisation of hopelessness,
My flame had finally been silenced,
And night skies lay empty,
Because 'dead stars and dead eyes' don't shine,
Like I said only a fool
Wicker Chronicles When the pastry shop opened up next door, well, that’s what did it. The Cakers left a box of iced strudels on the porch as a neighborly gift and, to Mr. Wicker—the world’s most devoted hater of sweet things—it was a call for war. While I sat on a stool eating the cherry-centered strudel of the bunch, he put together a concoction of his strangest ingredients and packed it all into a reeking glass bottle. I was munching on the lemon-centered strudel and watching from the attic when he threw the bottle in their open window and absconded indoors.
The more righteous people in town were always ashamed that a curse-maker lived in the city limits and sold his ill-will to others. When I do the shopping every week, at least one of them asks me if Wicker’s gone broke yet and I tell them straight-faced that he most certainly hasn’t, because whether they like it or not lots