From the Past

Write a scene illustrating a brief, but frightening, encounter with someone from the past.

Some days Rachel wondered if it would really be so bad if she just quit.

Then, of course, she would remember her rent and bills and addiction to purses of any kind, and all hopes of being gainfully unemployed dissipated.

Reaching into her bag, she searched for her keys as she made her way across the dark parking lot. The Christmas season was steadily approaching, and that meant that she was forced to work longer hours, dealing with insane customers spurred on my holiday consumerism. She almost preferred the ridiculous Valentine's Day shoppers.

Almost.

"Hey, Rach."

She jerked at the voice, her keys clattering to the pavement as her heart lodged itself in her throat. Looking up, she saw Brad standing in front of her, hands in his pockets, a thoughtful expression on his face. She pressed a hand to her chest as she tried to calm her breathing, bending down to pick up her keys.

"You scared the shit out of me," she hissed.

"Sorry." He gave her a small smile as she stood back up. "You look great. It's been…what? Three years?"

"I guess," she said, not really listening. "What are you doing here, anyway? The mall closed twenty minutes ago."

"Friend of mine works at Sears, needed a ride."

Rachel started to nod, until she noticed the parking lot around her.

There were no other cars.

And Brad was standing between her and her Jeep.

She tried to sidestep around him. "Well, have a good night."

He stepped with her, effectively blocking her path. "Come on, Rach. Get a drink with us. We could catch up…" He nodded. "You really look great."

"Thanks, but…" She glanced around, her stomach sinking as she realized that the only weapon she had with her was the set of keys in her hand. "I'm really tired, Brad. Maybe some other time?"

He smiled, hands still in his pockets. "C'mon…it's just one drink."

"You okay, Rachel?"

They both turned to see a security guard moving towards them. She could have cried with relief when she recognized Gary – she would definitely have to buy him a coffee tomorrow.

"Hey," she said, failing to keep her voice completely steady. "Just trying to get to my car."

He got the hint. Gary stepped between her and Brad, giving her a chance to step around them both and make it to her car.

"Something I can help you with, son?" Gary asked, arms crossed over his chest.

Rachel didn't stay to hear the answer.

A conversation with Alanis Morisette

"Did being a Catholic screw you up?"

She almost spit out her drink, and for a second, I was worried that I had offended her. But the coughing faded into laughter – a warm and genuine sound.

"I think being a cookie cutter Catholic – or trying to be one – is what screwed me up."

I frowned, but tried to keep some of the wariness out of my expression. "You're not gonna tell me you're more spiritual than religious now, are you?"

"Would that bother you?"

I shrugged, not meeting her eyes. "It just seems like that's usually a way for people to believe in God without it having any actual impact on who they are."

She nodded slowly. "Yeah. I can see that. But God shouldn't be all about religion and rules, though."

"True." I took another sip of my drink. "God shouldn't be all about making people feel better either."

She watched me carefully, lights from the bar dancing in her eyes. "So what's it about, then?"

I smirked. "You're the older and wiser one here."

"Oh come on. You're avoiding the question."

I shrugged, thinking it over. It wasn't that I didn't have an answer…I just hated sounding young and naïve. I was tired of feeling like the only one without a valid opinion. But she was being honest with me, and I owed her the same.

"Two things," I finally said, my voice quiet. "People, and knowing yourself."

"That's…" she paused. "…vague. And sounds like you're trying to win points at a pageant."

I chuckled, shaking my head. "You didn't let me finish!"

She waved a hand at me. "Then please…continue."

"Thank you." I stirred my drink a couple of times, still trying to gather my thoughts. "I never really realized how easy it is to judge people. I always considered myself to be pretty tolerant, until I started putting some thought into my devotions and started really examining myself and my motives."

"And what did you find?"

I laughed ruefully. "That I do nothing but judge people. And it's because I'm afraid."

She frowned deeply. "Afraid of what?"

"People." I sighed, leaning back in my chair, and looking her in the eye. Mostly, I think I'm afraid that I'm doing things wrong. It makes me defensive, and overly critical of other people and the way they live their lives. I'm afraid of them looking down on me for my life decisions, so I don't socialize. I'm afraid of having to defend my faith, so I keep non-believers and new people at arm's length. I'm afraid of people walking away from me, so I don't let them get close. But at the same time, I'm afraid that they don't find me interesting enough, so I do what I can to make myself stand out from others with exaggerated stories and boasting. I think I'm just…I'm afraid of being left behind."

"What does that do to your faith?"

I frowned, thinking about it. "It makes me legalistic. Instead of focusing on my faith, and getting to know God, and serving him…I focus on other people's imperfections, and why we would never be able to connect. I get hung up on rules to follow, to make my OCD happy, and it's like a checklist for a good Christian. I spend so much time thinking about that, that I don't get to know people. I don't give them a chance. Just because of one or two "rules." When really, I need to be focusing on my own walk with God, and on loving people. I need to spend more effort trying to believe, rather than trying to regulate."

She nodded, and I knew that she actually understood. And instead of the judgment or confusion I was fearing, she gave me a warm smile. "That's what religion does to you. It makes you a Pharisee. I'm not saying you should break your rules, or leave your church. I'm not saying that organized religion is the problem. But it's like you said…people and their checklists are a problem. We have this insatiable need to fit people into little boxes, whether or not that's where they really belong."

"But that doesn't mean that there isn't black and white, right and wrong. It doesn't make everything about making people feel better with hugs and kisses and a pat on the head."

"Exactly." She took a drink and pointed at me. "And that is a line you will struggle with your entire life."

I nodded, fingering my glass. "Working out my salvation, huh?"

She nodded as well. "We all have to at some point."

"Character Creation"

Description: This one is all you. Create a completely original character and describe him/her/it fully. Can be an outline or a paragraph of description if you'd like. But all the physical, mental, personality little quirks should be described. Flesh them out and for fun give them a favorite color, song, and catch phrase (not required if your character is not capable of speech).

Szora

• 5'9"
• White hair past her shoulders, curls at the bottom
• Slight build
• Green eyes
• 26 years old
• Intricate silver ring worn on middle finger of right hand
• Long scar across right shoulder blade
• Medium skin tone
• Circlet tattoo around upper left arm, same design as her ring
• Only knows the name given to her by Dorian


o Soft-spoken
o Bright smile
o Lover of books and music (always has her iPod with her, fave song: Pretty Good Year by Tori Amos)
o Lots of repressed anger and a hell of a temper when she lets it out
o Favorite color: green
o Favorite catch phrase: "Good luck with that." (usually said in sarcasm)

Kidnapped at the age of five by a man named Dorian – has been her father figure since then, and her "boss" for the past seven years
Assassin, traveling up and down the West Coast
Power lies in taking from what's around her – heat in the air for fire, wind, moisture; can cause earthquakes and storms
Sent to kill a man named Gareth Krynan – they play cat-and-mouse for awhile before realizing they work for the same man.
Decide to stay together, digging into Dorian and their own pasts and decide to topple Dorian's deadly empire

"Musical Assignment 1"

Description: We know how well you write to music. You were given a scene and found the perfect music to match the mood it portrayed. Now let's see if you can get a good scene with different music. Here's a song you probably normally wouldn't write to. Let's see what it inspires!

Piece 1:
There were many who thought he was too old to play the game anymore. Others who thought he'd been dead for years. And still others who didn't believe that he had ever existed in the first place.

They were all wrong.

He flew across the desert, the darkness around him deep and seemingly impenetrable. Up ahead, though, he could make out two small red circles, screaming out like a beacon. Glancing down at the speedometer, he watched as the car topped 100mph, and then pressed his foot down even harder.

It was less than thirty seconds before he caught up to the other vehicle, his tires kicking up dust and small rocks as he brought the hood even with the trunk of his prey. Not taking his eyes off the road, he swung the wheel to the left and then slammed it back to the right hard, crashing into the back end. The momentum and point of impact quickly set the other to spinning, and they crashed again, both cars moving wildly out of control in some kind of horrific dance of crunching metal.

They crashed into the trunk of the tree abruptly, both vehicles bending against the unforgiving wood. Shattered glass fell all around them, mixing with the swirling dust.

Nothing else moved.

Until he forced his door open with a kick, and the metal hinges groaned in protest. He came out of the car in one fluid motion, showing no signs of pain or injury. Walking over to the driver's side of the other car, he stared down at the driver, taking in the blood flowing down the side of his face. He didn't check for a pulse or wait to see if the chest filled with oxygen. He simply pulled the Beretta out of his waistband and leveled it at the other man. The trigger squeezed almost as though it knew what it wanted before he did, and three bullets rocketed out – one to the head and two to the chest.

Silence settled over the desert once again. Putting the gun away, he pulled out a cigarette and lit it, his steps taking him into the darkness.



Piece 2:
They gathered around her with pitchforks and torches. It was a scene out of a bad movie, almost laughable – except for the murderous glint in their eyes, and the determination in their steps as they moved toward her, closing off the circle and any route for escape.

Witch.

That was what they called her. An antiquated term that didn't even begin to define what she was, or what she could do.

A word that, quite frankly, pissed her off.

Lifting her right hand behind her, Szora felt the wind move through her long white hair, and it made her smile. Perfect.

The flames burst out of the second-story window of the diner, startling everyone. The fire burned hotter than anything they had known, and the wind helped it spread, even as she raised her left hand in front of her and set a blaze in the doctor's office. Unlike the flames the town was used to, these spread with abandon, exploding windows and filling the streets with a roiling black smoke.

If she was going to burn, she would at least show them how to do it right.

"Historical Regret"

Pick a well known historical figure. A President, a General, a Revolutionary, anyone you'd like. This is an exercise in monologuing! Whether the spoken kind in a play or silent reflection in their own special place, or confessing to a cat. This line of self reflection should include: "The thing I regret most about my life is...." and what they actually regret.

I should have known.

Power is that one thing that every man craves. Most find enough to sate them. It gets them up every morning and lets them sleep every night. It keeps them where they are. There are even those few who find themselves with more power than they ever wanted – some of the best kings have been men who fall into that category. Cautious wielders of the reins placed within their grasp. They lead their men forward, taking every step at their side, celebrating their victories and dying their deaths.

They are usually the best of us.

And then there are men like myself. Men who seek power under every rock, deep inside every crevasse. When it is not presented to us on a silver plate, we strike out and take it, sacrificing men and supplies as though they mattered not at all. A closed door does not present a challenge for us – merely something to be broken down with as much force as possible. We don't just lay siege to cities and take them. We demolish them, burn them, salt them until they are as useless to us as they are to any other human. Because, in the end, the city has already relinquished the one thing it had to offer us.

Power.

I know myself well enough to recognize the traits, and I saw them as a young boy. I knew that whether or not I was destined for greatness was irrelevant – I would take that destiny from anyone I could with my bare hands.

And I grabbed it as soon as I saw it. Even as I hung my head in appropriate mourning for my father, my generals were already making their moves on my orders, securing that my next steps would take me to the throne instead of the executioner's block. Assassination is a common demise for powerful kings, and I knew my father had a great many enemies. I wasn't caught unawares by his death, and my men were already in place, just waiting for my word.

It wasn't enough for me, of course. I had a long arm, and I reached it out to all sides, collecting kingdoms as other men collect goods. My army grew and I ran at their helm, sword blazing in the desert sun as I set my eyes on each new piece of land we encountered. I would rule it all.

I would rule the world.

And yet. In the end, I was felled by a man I thought too foolish to have any ambition. I let his demeanor fool me, instead of watching him the way I did every other man in my company. I believed him to be an entertaining friend, if a useless tool, and let him walk behind me, never thinking that I'd have to watch my back.

I should have known.

I know now how this will end. At first I believed myself only to be ill, but as my body shuts down piece by piece, I realize my naïveté. The poison has eaten through every defense I have, cutting off my ability to speak or move. All I can do is lay here, watching the people pass me by, watching my power slip out of reach.

A hand touched mine and then a face swam into view. A face I had always seen with a lecherous smile, that now had preying eyes and a calculating grin.

"Come, brother," he whispered. "You must fight this. Whatever will become of your empire?"

Medius. A member of my entourage I had overlooked as nothing more than a friend to enjoy life's pleasures with. A man who had spent extensive time in Egypt, learning their ways, their secrets.

Their poisons.

"I will pray to the gods," he continued.

I knew that he would. But not for my recovery in this life or any other. He wished my death.

And I had handed it to him on a silver plate.

I should have known.

"Scavenger Hunt"

Time for a scavenger hunt! Keep your notepad handy! Over the next week find the following (or as many as you can) and instead of collecting the scenario on the list, describe them in detail. (No need to eavesdrop, if you can't get close enough or are not inclined, just describe the image of each) Can be any person or place or thing, remember your nouns and have fun being a populace observer!


The List:
1. An Angry Exchange
2. New, Fresh, or Unused/Unspoiled
3. Someone Fashionable
4. Something Unpleasant
5. A Well-Loved Object
6. Out of Place
7. Forgotten or Lost
8. Loving/Flirtatious
9. One-Sided Phone Call
10.Home/Hand Made



I sometimes wonder if my mother enjoys being angry. Maybe enjoys is the wrong word. But when she feels she has a reason to be angry – a right – she holds onto it with everything that she has, wearing it like a badge.

It frustrates me, but I know I can be the same way.

She came through the door, and I knew immediately that she was upset. She sighs loudly, wanting everyone to know.

"I can't get any help over there," she muttered, stomping into the kitchen.

Mimi just watches from her recliner, confusion clouding her eyes. I stand there, waiting for her to get what she came for and turn back.

"Did you ask for help?" I ask, my words more pointed than they should be.

She gives me that withering look, the one that's really asking if I'm trying to piss her off, or if I really am just that stupid and naïve.

"The couple of things I've asked him to do, he's done, but then he just sits back down."

She shakes her head and walks back out through the door, shutting it firmly behind her. Any comments about actually talking to him about caught in my throat. This drama replays itself at least once every couple of weeks, and she's not willing to take advice from her daughter. So I leave her to her closely-guarded anger and just roll my eyes.

*******************************

One of my favorite things is a blank piece of lined paper. Staring down at it, completely unspoiled, empty of any words…it's full of possible paths and plots. There's nothing I can't do on that piece of paper. I could finally start my life story. I could write that one piece that moves someone, or the story that makes something click. I could accomplish that epic fantasy novel I've always wanted to finish. Worlds and characters could be created, fleshed out, given life…all with one piece of paper.

Oddly enough, I don't feel that way about a blank Word document…

********************************

She's one of those people who can wear a t-shirt and jeans and still looking annoyingly cute. Though I'm not sure I've ever seen her in such a "comfortable" outfit.

I watch her as she stands outside my office, brown boots stopping just below the knee, and green dress stopping just above it. Somehow, the brown cardigan she's thrown on over it for warmth only completes the outfit, making her even cuter.

It makes me wonder how she hasn't found a decent guy yet.

********************************

It could have been unpleasant. The last time I had seen him was uncomfortable, to say the least, and I couldn't imagine how the conversation would go if I ran into him while I was with her.

Or maybe I could.

Painfully polite. Our faces would hurt from the strain of keeping up smiles that we didn't feel as each one of us remembered individual wounds. Empty words describing how we were doing without any actual answers being provided. I vaguely wondered if he would try to give me his number again – digits that I had become well-versed in losing.

Then again.

He might just walk past us. Pretend he never saw us. Eyes sliding past, trying to relegate us to the background with the rest of his past.

It's what I would do.

The half-second it took me to recognize him behind the steering wheel of the other car was just enough.

I was glad we were missing each other.

****************************

He spends his nights choked and hot. Trapped. There's a small light in the room, but he can't usually see it, head hidden in blankets. He's pushed, moved, rearranged. He never gets to just sleep.

And in the morning, he's on the floor, nose pressed into the carpet, every tear and hole in his fabric aching.

*****************************

It doesn't fit. There's no stressor, no underlying issue fighting to break free of its bonds. Life is getting better. Her body is finally molding itself to what she's always wanted. She's trying new things, and meeting more people, and finally becoming comfortable in her own skin.

But there are wounds she can't leave alone. She digs at them, unconsciously. And even when she does realize it, she can't stop. She just watches herself do it, telling herself to stop, but unable to make her do that.

And the longer the wounds are open, the longer they take to close.

********************

It shouldn't be this difficult. It's an email. A stupid email with a stupid fic. With the advances of keyword searching, it should pop right up.

But it doesn't.

And it's not like I haven't lost it before. I distinctly remember asking the author to send it a second time. But did I star it? Put it some place that I wouldn't lose it so that I could read it again whenever the urge hit?

No.

But then my eyes are caught by a shiny link, and of course I click…and rediscover a story I had completely forgotten existed.

It feeds the need.

For now.

************************

She's using her fake voice, the forced laugh, and I can pretty much guess who's one the other end of the line. I have my own list of people whose numbers make me cringe and contemplate not picking up. It really would be nice if we could un-list ourselves in the directory.

She laughs again. "Oh, it's no problem." We both know that it was. "Nope, I just uploaded them for you. Not sure why you're having issues."

His explanation is lengthy, and she can only get in a few noncommittal replies.

I try to block her out. I have work of my own to do, and I have a hard enough time as it is focusing on it.

"Have you tried…?"

I put my headphones on and try to get my attention back on the emails at hand. Over the music, I can hear the tones of her voice, but the words are lost, and I can finally get a few things done.

*******************

She grows. Square by square. Inch by inch. It's not always in the most logical of ways – a hand here, a piece of her dress there. There are holes in places, empty until they are filled.

Sometimes there are mistakes. A wrong color. Something too far to the left or the right. And they have to be removed. It goes smoothly sometimes, and yet others involve cutting and fraying.

But she grows. Legs, dress, face, arms, wings.

I wonder if she'll fly away.

Pic Assignment 1

Every picture is worth a thousand words, which words is this picture worth? Somewhere under one thousand please. But what's this man's story? Is he playing hide and seek with someone? Or trying to block out past images? Or future ones? What prompted this pose?



He told himself that it wasn't his fault. But he still couldn't watch. Instead, he turned his back to the growing fog, tainted by reds and oranges as the sun rose over the plain. He was far enough away to lose the sounds of steel on steel, but the screams were more powerful. They were so raw his own throat began to burn, and as the bile fought its way up, he wished it would just burn him whole.

He told himself he had had no choice. Women and children had no place in battle, and it was their fault for marching their entire clan, armed to hell and back. No one would be left alive, no matter how young or feeble. The Astories were a battle clan, and there wasn't one among them that could be trusted.

Warmth flooded across his back and shoulders, relieving some of the tension there. He could feel the fog shifting behind him, dissipating in the face of a new dawn. It would be a clear day, no matter what had happened in the valley below.

Slowly, he let his hands slide from his face, opening his eyes for the first time since it had begun. He had never heard the hooves pounding behind him, but he knew that Rothgar was there regardless.

"It is done."

He bowed his head for a moment and then took a deep breath. Turning, he mounted his own horse and turned to face the carnage below.