Hannah's stories

[Hannah]

I have issues with titling my stuff, so this one doesn't really have a title. I wrote it my junior year of high school. It's one of only four short stories that I've ever actually finished. After this one, I'll post one more... that should be boring enough to put everyone to sleep. :P


I didn’t notice the clown standing on the corner right away because I was day dreaming as I was walking. The day was warm, as late spring days often are, and the sun was still high in the sky. I was looking at the ground, watching my steps. I was making sure that between each crack in the sidewalk I took exactly three steps, except on every fourth crack in the sidewalk in which I was allowed an extra step to catch up to ensure I didn’t step on the crack itself. This is a complicated maneuver, and there was no time left in this for looking around for clowns or other such creatures in the road ahead. Of course, had I seen the clown further back, I might’ve turned around and went another way home, the longer way in order to avoid the clown. If I turned around now, the clown would surely notice and it might think that I was turning around because of it, and that might hurt its feelings. As creepy as it was to see the clown standing on the suburban corner of Federal and Bruchez where there was nothing but houses on Bruchez and no sidewalks on the busy street of Federal, I still didn’t want to risk affronting the clown by turning down the street I’d came. Also, to be honest, I was feeling a little lazy. The walk home from Teri’s house was long enough without me having to turn around and go all the way back so I could sidestep the clown. I felt sure that the clown on the road ahead was harmless, and that I could get by him with no effort. Also, it was daylight, and nothing ever happens to anyone in broad daylight on the corner of a busy street.

So I plodded on, foot after foot, my sidewalk step counting game forgotten. I continued on, watching the clown ahead of me, alert to any questionable movements the clown may make. My mind was on alert, but I wasn’t scared. I was more a little freaked out by the fact that there was a clown. I think it was the randomness of it all that scared me a little bit. It was like the time I dropped acid on July 4th and was walking home down this very same road. I was walking for what seemed like an eternity, the world seemed infinite and entertaining, the colors and the shades of dark outside were brilliant. I was walking alone, which at the time, didn’t seem fair. My mother wouldn’t let me stay at Teri’s because it was a weekday. As I parted with Teri, saddened that she was getting to stay out later and I had to go home, she handed me a firework and said, “I hope it’s pretty.” Walking down Bruchez, headed east towards Federal, I pondered the darkness of the night and wondered why the acid made me feel invincible in the darkness at 12 am, when normally I would be afraid. Through the darkness and the warm air I walked, watching the street. Random things have always frightened me, as they did that night. Two men on motorcycles came roaring down the residential street, and right when they passed me they flipped a u-turn. My mind froze with fright as I was caught (as the old saying goes) like a deer in the bike’s headlights. I let out a high pitched scream after hearing the bike on the right rev its engine. The bikes became riderless to me and I was transported to a state of primitive terror. A state where I didn’t think before I screamed and ran, a state where my mind thought purely of survival and the need to get away, away from the lights and the noise. Get away from the hurt.

As I continued, the clown ahead became a little clearer. He was wearing a pair of blank pants, what seemed to be nice dress pants. A foot closer and I notice that his face was white with smeared makeup, his wig orange and matted. The wig was something you could buy for five bucks at a Halloween specialty shop, a novelty. It didn’t look like something a professional clown would wear. A foot closer and I noticed he was wearing what appeared to be a suit jacket, splashed with different colors of paint. The paint was all primary colors, and the jacket beneath was black, like the pants. A foot closer, and I was so close now, so close, and I could see that he had one of those big red fake Ronald McDonald smiles painted on which was sinister and hopeful at the same time. A foot closer, and I was two steps away from passing him. Should I nod? Should I smile? Should I say good afternoon? I looked down as I passed him, hoping to just walk on by without having to observe any social niceties that are usually necessitated by one’s desire to appear normal. I wasn’t so lucky. The clown grunted something at me before I could pass, his arm stretched toward me. That was when I noticed the balloon wafting from his hand, blowing gently in the breeze. The balloon was a delicate pastel pink and had “It’s a girl!” printed on it in white letters. “I’m sorry, um, I didn’t quite hear what you—“ I began to say. The clown interrupted me, grunting something again, something that seemed to be “ta’ da boon, I baw id for you.” He took a lurching step towards me, and I frozen in fright, stayed in the spot I was at. He came up close, so I could see how the white make-up had settled in the age lines in his face. I could see how the whites of his eyes were pure red, and the actual color a washed out blue. He grabbed a strand of my hair and rubbed it between his fingers, grunting something again. A strong blast of liquor emitted from his chapped painted lips. I recoiled from the smell and the touch of his fingers in my hair.

A vague memory tried to surface brought on by that smell, a face flashed in my mind and flashed out again like the flickering of the projector at a movie. The smell reminded me of something but the memory was so far away that I couldn’t figure it out. It was there, yet it wasn’t there. Or maybe I didn’t want to remember?

But this was no time to ponder memories, this was time to run. Run away from the creepy clown currently fingering my hair and emitting its powerful liquor laced breath into my face. This was a time to kick him in his junk, run so fast that he couldn’t catch up and call the police to report it when I get home, so that he doesn’t hurt anyone. Anymore. But I couldn’t run, I couldn’t propel my foot up from the ground to assault his junk. I couldn’t speak. My body was frozen, frozen by that memory I had almost remembered.

He let go of my hair, and I saw that it looked like his bloodshot eyes were watering. Was he going to cry? What the hell for? What is going on? He struggled to enunciate his words, “Tayg dis ba-oon, I bawd id for you.” He reached his arm out again, holding the balloon out to me. I looked into his eyes, the faded blue and the bloodshot.

The same memory struggled for hold, this time the face coming into focus a little more. The smell was still there, and someone with short brown hair, and he was talking, he was speaking to me. No, I don’t want to remember.

“I don’t want it! I don’t fucking want it!” The paralysis was broken and I pushed his arm aside and began to run. As I reached the corner, I looked back at the clown. He looked at me, sad, tears running down his cheeks. He let go of the balloon. The wind grabbed a hold of it, the letters on the balloon seemed to mock me until I could no longer read them. It’s a girl! I gazed at the balloon until it was gone from my sight, and then turned my gaze back to the clown.

And that memory came back, flooded this time, those faded blue eyes, the voice speaking to me, the smell of alcohol. I could see the face clearly now, the eyes were such a faded blue, a little bloodshot even, and I don’t understand what the mouth is saying. Nonsense words, perhaps? And now waving and mouthing “bye bye.”

The clown was still there, his head down, his arms limp at his sides. He looked up, lifted his arms out to me. His eyes were pleading. The tears were still running down his checks, his mouth was working convulsively, probably trying to hold in his sobs. “Please.” His voice shook. I shook my head. “I can’t daddy, I can’t, you’ve been gone too long.”

[Letti]

Hannah, that you for posting this story. I couldn't stop reading it.
Why don't you or didn't you write more? You should.
Anyway somewhere in the middle I started to feel who the clown was.

[Matt]

I think I may have read this one once before, really great writing Hannah :blush:

[ZoNeSeeK]

thats really cool hannah, i liked the stream of consciousness as shes trying to work out what to do in the awkward situation.

[OchrisO]

This is really good. It has all of the key elements of a good short story. I am always impressed by short stories because I am not very good at writing them. I have a friend who is terrified of clowns that I would like to see read this. :)

I especially like the OCD sidewalk thing at the beginning.

[Letti]

Hannah, will we get more...? :rose:

[Frunobulax]

The one story up is incredible. It's this great blend of stream-of-consciousness and the usual inevitability that stories have. It's emotional, almost terrifying, thought provoking, and grabs you from the start.

[Aaron]

I really love this story, and I have since the first time that I read it. Reading it again now, the main character somehow reminds me very much of your basic King female protagonist. I'm not sure if it's the thought processes or the scant dialogue, but it just has that vibe, and that is a damn good thing.

You should post your other short-shorts that you wrote recently, babe. I'd like to see the shoe one again.

[John Blaze]

i also think i've read it before, and I still love it. I honestly believe you should get this published, it's that good.

No seriously, i'm not just kissing your ass. Get it published. Send it to Esquire :)

post more Hannah, I'd love to read more.

[Hannah]

Thanks JB, I'd feel weird trying to get it published. :lol: Thanks for all the feedback everybody. :grouphug:

Here's the shoe one Aaron told me to post. :)


She wore those shoes rarely. They were expensive, a designer brand of the pretentious sort. The shoes, they’d seen three weddings, one particularly fashionable funeral, one birthday soiree for a very important boss, two Christmas cocktail parties, and now on the eve of the New Year, they saw their owner’s untimely death.

It started, although the shoes were unaware of this, with a glance exchanged, dark eyes under thick brows mingling with the owner’s blue ones under perfectly tweezed brows. It continued with a tipped glass, and later a drink bought for the “beautiful lady”. Those shoes, they danced, they walked, and finally, towards the end of the night they stumbled home with Mr. Dark Eyes.

Had the shoes been animated objects of the thinking sort, they would have become suspicious at the perfectly solicitous ways of Mr. Dark Eyes. They would have been suspicious at his gentle cajoling voice, at
his flawless manners. But the shoes, being only inanimate, expensive leather stayed silent.
The shoes were kicked off in passion to the corner in Mr. Dark Eyes’ living room. If they had ears, they would have heard shouting and screaming. They would have heard bumping and bruising.

The next morning, the shoes, still blissfully unaware of their owner’s demise, were left in the corner. If they had eyes they would have seen Mr. Dark Eyes walking by with a blanket wrapped bundle, and while he
was fumbling for the door, they would have seen their owner’s pretty manicured hand flop out of the blankets. And if those shoes could feel, they would have felt the drop of blood fall on the tip of the toe of
the right shoe.

Put in a box, and kept on a shelf, the shoes were in darkness for years. Some days after a body was discovered by an overeager dog on a camping trip, the shoes saw light again. In that light, the shoes would have seen their owner’s justice. Mr. Dark Eyes, looking oh-so-handsome in a dark suit, sat on the defendant’s side in the courtroom. Oh, how confident he was, Mr. Dark Eyes, who had long been suspected in the disappearance of the shoe’s owner. He was finally caught, with a new search warrant, with the discovery of a woman’s pair of designer shoes. They were so fashionable that they were remembered by many of the owner’s friends. The owner would be proud of her expensive designer shoes now, to know that they were instrumental in the apprehension and successful
prosecution of her murderer.

The shoes now sit in a box marked, “evidence”. If the shoes could smile, they would do so.

[Matt]

That was also very good Hannah. I am not sure how, as a writer, you can make the reader so easily believe in something like those shoes.

By the end I felt like I knew them and that is the hallmark of a great short for me.

We are seriously in the company writers here--I loved reading it. :wub:

[John Blaze]

Thanks JB, I'd feel weird trying to get it published. :lol: Thanks for all the feedback everybody. :grouphug:

No, I'm serious. Get it published.


Some days after a body was discovered by an overeager dog on a camping trip, the shoes saw light again.

You need to fix this line, it causes confusion, because it seems that everyonce in a while they get pulled out.

Other than that, the story is awesome.

[Hannah]

Hmmm I'll have to think of a way to make that sentence better. It is a little confusing, and imo, a kind of weak sentence. Thanks, JB.

And thanks, Matt. I love getting feedback from you guys. :grouphug:

[Erin]

Wow. I really loved both stories Hannah. Especially the first. It was quite moving.

[John Blaze]

erin, i love your av btw. poison ive was one of my favorites in the original toons.

[The_Nameless]

Hannah, I cannot understand why you do not write more often.
I have read the clown one on .net before, and re-reading it I remembered the feelings of excitement and curiousity it generated.

The shoes one was new to me, and almost as loveable. I can honestly say that was the first story I've read and been interested in about a pair of shoes.
I enjoyed the point of view of the shoes. It was refreshing, in an odd way I am having trouble understanding.

I had one gripe, but it has been addressed.

If you ever decide to write more, know you have an audience in me.

[Frunobulax]

Hannah, I cannot understand why you do not write more often.
I have read the clown one on .net before, and re-reading it I remembered the feelings of excitement and curiousity it generated.

The shoes one was new to me, and almost as loveable. I can honestly say that was the first story I've read and been interested in about a pair of shoes.
I enjoyed the point of view of the shoes. It was refreshing, in an odd way I am having trouble understanding.

I had one gripe, but it has been addressed.

If you ever decide to write more, know you have an audience in me.

Amen, brother!

[Steve]

I wish I had posted earlier, but I enjoy these writings. This gives me another reason to hate clowns, and you parlayed it brilliantly.

[Matt]

There is an arcade game out there called "kill the clowns". I was this close to getting it. :lol:

[Hannah]

You should get it, Matt! I'll play the hell out of it. :rock:

This is a vignette I wrote based on something funny Boehmke told me he did when he was little. His story charmed me so much that I wrote about it. So, I should stress that the memory is his, but I took some creative license in making it come to life on paper.



The house was old. The foundation was slipping a little, the stairs listed a bit. The best part about all this falling apart, Dave considered, was the back porch. The cracks on the porch ran in spider web patterns, and there were chips and chunks of concrete missing around the edges. When Dave was older, and he thought about his childhood, the first thing he remembered was how much time he spent on that back porch, smashing rocks with hammers, playing GI Joes, and drawing with chalk.

There was one corner of the porch where the concrete had fallen away and created a small hole, about three inches deep. Dirt and other debris would fill the hole, and when it rained the rainwater mixed with the dirt and debris to create the mixture that any child would recognize with delight: mud. One spring afternoon, with the smell of fresh rain in the air, Dave decided to go out on the porch and play with his GI Joes. It had been raining all day, and the sight of the reluctant sun and the shimmering water spotted grass in the backyard was appealing to him. About halfway through sliding the glass door open to the back porch his mother called to him from upstairs in the kitchen, “Dave! Take your sister with you! She wants to play outside too.”

Dave groaned in dismay. “Fine!” He yelled at his mother, wearing the scowl that his mother hated and would have scolded him for had she been present to see it. “But I’m not going to watch her.” He said under his breath.

“And keep an eye on her too! I don’t want her getting her clothes all muddy!” His little sister came pounding down the stairs in her flip-flops. She was wearing jean shorts, and her still chubby knees were scabbed over. Dave rolled his eyes at her.

“Come on, sis.” He said, gesturing towards the open door. She squeezed out the door, walking sideways, and walked out with a commanding air onto the porch. Although she was four years younger than Dave she liked to boss him around at times. Dave never listened, because she was just a baby four year old. He didn’t take orders from babies.

“I want to play GI Joes.” She pouted at him.

“No, go away.” He said, and settled down on the slightly damp concrete to play.

She stamped her foot. “I. Want. To. Play.” She said, her words angry.

“No! Go do something else!” He said and proceeded to ignore her.

“Fine, I’ll find something even funner to do!” She exclaimed, walking away with her arms crossed.

Despite himself, Dave wondered what else she could possibly find that would be funner than GI Joes. He watched her walk aimlessly around the porch, following the cracks in the concrete. “Step on a crack, break your mommy’s back.” She was chanting as she stepped on all the cracks and giggled. She came to the corner of the porch with the “bowl” in the concrete and squatted down to examine the contents of the bowl.

Dave stood up so he could see better. The bowl was filled with a watery mud mixture, with debris floating on the surface of the brown mud water. His sister stuck her finger in the mixture and then wiped it on the butt of her jean shorts. She cast a glance around her, no doubt looking for something to poke in the bowl. Dave watched this with increasing interest.

She considered a stick for a long second, then snatched it up and poked it all the way into the concrete bowl. She stirred it around a little, then pulled it out. The stick was covered with a dark sloppy mud, and dripped brownish water onto the concrete where his sister held it. Dave suddenly wished he had thought of the idea of poking a stick into the mud bowl.

Suddenly his sister got up, went to the sliding door, and opened it just enough so she could go inside. She disappeared inside, leaving the door open. She reappeared minutes later, and with a four year old’s typical one-sighted determination, she left the door open on her way out.

Dave watched as she walked determinedly back to the mud bowl. She had a spoon in her hand. Dave laughed at this. Mom would be mad at her for getting her silverware muddy, he thought gleefully. He continued to watch as his sister dug the spoon deep in the mud, emerging with a spoonful of nasty brown mud. She plopped the mixture back into the mud bowl. The spooning and the dumping continued a few more times, enough so that Dave started to get bored of watching his sister and almost turned back to his GI Joes. He watched out of the corner of his eye, pretending to play GI Joes, as she dug out another spoonful of mud. She examined this spoonful carefully, and then she opened her mouth wide and slowly brought the spoon towards it. Dave had a brief second to call out and stop her. He didn’t. He watched as she brought the spoon to her mouth, ate the mud, and popped the spoon out, cleaner but smeared with mud.

Welling up with happiness, Dave went back to his GI Joes. He didn’t mind keeping an eye on his sister so much after that.

[Steve]

Ha! That's pretty damn funny. I liked it. You captured the comedy in that story brilliantly!

[The_Nameless]

Cute. The story reminds me of silly things I used to do as a child. Although I never ate mud, I ate my fair share of dirt and leaves.

I enjoy your choice of descriptive words and phrases, and your stories always keep me interested. They flow nicely.

[Hannah]

This is a story that Boehmke and I wrote together, for fun. We wrote it based on a "word of the day" website. We took turns each incorporating the word of the day into the story. It's not great, because it was literally written with no planning whatsoever, but I thought it was fun. :D I should note that the only reason the child's name in the story is Paris is because I was too lazy to think of something else.


Seeing Ack step out of the shadows gave Paris a timorous feeling all the way down to her little bunny slippered feet, for Paris was not an aficionado of things dark and scary. Ack contemplated Paris, her eyes wide and her body shaking from her fear. He reached out with his three fingered hand from the darkness, and brushed Paris's hair from her eyes in a complaisant manner. He looked at her lovingly. In Ack's eyes, Paris was his apotheosis of the ideal child.

Ack ran over his plans in his head. He had been in this situation many times before and done the same thing with hundreds of children. It had almost become routine for him. This time hubris could be his downfall, as taking for granted the trusting nature of children had become second nature to him. Most children were scared of Ack at first, and although he did not like it, he preferred it that way. He was tired of the monotonous genuflect of his own people.

Ack's charm appealed to Paris's childlike sense of comfort and trust, less afraid and more curious she studied Ack. He was shrouded cap-a-pie in dark robes that seemed to flow over him like water. His head was larger than it should have been, and somewhat misshapen. His cheeks were florid, but the rest of his skin was deathly pale. Ack bent down and looked Paris in the eyes, gave her an arrant smile, and began to speak. "So Little Paree, what's the scuttlebutt? What's new? What's happening?" His remarks were innocuous, his kidding tone was designed to make Paris feel at ease and comfortable with him.

Paris giggled at Ack and this pleased him. This said to him that he had found a child that displayed no signs of nescience like the many others before her. Her innocent laughter told him that behind those wide golden brown eyes there might be a child worthy of his ambitions. He was weary of the other plebeian children he had acquired in his travels. This time, he would only settle for the perfect child, one who would meet all of his requirements.

Ack stood up and flicked his hand in a grandiloquent manner down his robes to straighten them. In a tone lacking any apologia Ack spoke to Paris of his world. Of his plans. And her tiny part in it all.

But her part wasn't really that tiny. Unless one could consider sacrifice a small deed. But no matter how young, innocent and naive a child looked hiding a few small details never hurt. Ack knew from experience.

Paris gazed up at Ack while he spoke, her eyes full of naivety, intelligence, and understanding. The child is perfect, he noted as he saw the concentration in her bright eyes.

"So what do you think Paree? Will you come to my world to help us? After you have helped, you can have whatever you want. We can even throw you a big birthday party, since your mother forgot yours last week."

He knew she'd say yes. How could she not he thought superciliously. But if she did he could always use his little black bag. Slip bag around head. Remove child unwillingly. Break the child until they trust you and only you. Primitive, but it works. This made him grin and almost wish she'd say no.

But Paris's big eyes, and her solemn nod told him that this was a child whose animus would be hard to break. Ack could see that he may have underestimated this child. She may not be as weak as the rest of them. He felt a tremor of fear run through him as he remembered his first child, and how she had inveighed against him, and saw a bit of that child's spirit in Paris. Oh, how difficult the first had been, Ack remembered how he had finally won her to his side with a twinge of compunction. He was fortuitous with the first child and since then he had perfected his craft. Now nothing was left to chance.

After their tête-à-tête, Ack led Paris down the dark hallway and towards the front door. "Do you want to say goodbye to your mother?" He asked her. She nodded solemnly, and ran to the couch where her mother was sleeping. She gave her mother a kiss on the cheek, and a brief hug. "I love you mommy." she whispered in her ear, brushing the hair back from her forehead tenderly. She took one last look at her sleeping mother, the expression on her face a mixture of love and relief, then turned back to Ack. "I'm ready." she announced.

[Storyslinger]

These are great

[BillyxRansom]

That clown one left such a deep longing to hug the clown man. :(:(:(:(

You are a great writer. Truly.

[BillyxRansom]

writing a story and basing much of it from Word-of-the-Day words from a dictionary source is not the best idea, as made apparent ^ up there. Sorry. haha.

[Hannah]

I'd have to agree with you. :lol:

[Jon]

I like the internalizing.

[boehmke]

I have issues with titling my stuff, so this one doesn't really have a title.


Sidewalk Cracks & Other Dangers of the City.

[boehmke]

This is a story that Boehmke and I wrote together, for fun. We wrote it based on a "word of the day" website. We took turns each incorporating the word of the day into the story. It's not great, because it was literally written with no planning whatsoever, but I thought it was fun. :D I should note that the only reason the child's name in the story is Paris is because I was too lazy to think of something else.


It's not that great 'cuase I wrote HALF of it!

I felt like a kid trying to run in over sized shoes writing this with Hannah!

[Hannah]

I wrote this one for creative writing class a while back. Not my best work, but I thought I'd share. :D



Living By Fire

The odds of dying in a fire are 1 in 111,445.

Jill wiped the palms of her shaking, sweaty hands down the front of her smart black trousers. She subconsciously counted the clicks of her black heels on the pavement as she walked towards the building. The rhythm calmed her. The sign in front read “Burton Funeral Home”. Despite the building’s cold white concrete exterior, there was something welcoming about it. It could have been the numerous plants out front, or the fact that they parked the hearses out back. Regardless of the reason, the building welcomed Jill as she walked towards it.

Taking a deep breath, Jill braced herself for her third day (and she hoped) more successful day at Burton Funeral Home. Today she’d gotten the dress down, with her soft gray button up work shirt and long brown hair pulled back into a bun. Her hands began to shake again as she reached for the gold ornate handle on the front door. Deep breath, she thought as she inhaled sharply. Let it out. She exhaled in a long meandering breath. This was the way her therapist taught her to take the breaths. As soon as she felt the panic attack coming, or the fear, she was supposed to start with deep breaths. She was even supposed to talk to herself calmly, out loud or internally. Today she felt the onset of the panic attack first in her stomach, as her guts began to clench up and twist around with fear. Then it moved to her hands and her limbs, which would start shaking. Then it would move to her heart, which would start beating faster, like the little drummer boy. Pa-rum-pa-pum-pum. Pa-rum-pa-pum-pum. Pa-RUM-pa-PUM-PUM!

There is a 39% chance that the average American will die of heart failure.

Although Jill had gradually begun to regain control of the panic attacks during the day, she still had problems at night. Nighttime was the worst. During the day she could lose herself in work. During the evenings she could lose herself in television, preparing dinner, reading a book, but at night, lying in bed, she was alone with her thoughts. She would try to stop herself from thinking about it, tell herself that she would not think about dying tonight but the thoughts would slowly creep in like the beginning tendrils of smoke from a house fire creeps under the bedroom door where you’re trapped.

The odds of dying from smoke inhalation are 1 in 90,944.

Fire and death, dancing round and round inside her head like they were doing the waltz to horror music. The fear made her stomach clench and she couldn’t stop herself from crying out. She couldn’t stop herself from being afraid, which is why she took the job at Burton Funeral Home. She figured, with an unfailing sense of reason and logic, that if she faced her fear it’d go away. The logic was simplistic and charming, but necessary, as her life seemed to be closing in on her. The telling point was when her psychiatrist prescribed her an anti-anxiety medication which caused her to fall asleep at the wheel, resulting in an ambulance worthy panic attack. Despite the accident, her therapist was happy with her progress, or rather, pleased with the chemicals in her brain and how they reacted to the chemical in the drug he prescribed. But she wasn’t happy with the progress.

Her former job as a statistician was doing nothing to allay her fears and panic attacks. It seemed, she thought, the simplest solutions could be found in numbers and percentages, correlation and deviations. But not this solution, instead she’d have to work this out with plain old bravery and guts. She remembered a time when she was in high school, and her mother told her not to make her whole life about numbers. “You’ve got to make some of your life about heart, honey, or you’ll never really live.” Her mother had been smiling gently at her when she said this, and Jill pushed the memory forcefully out of her head. She didn’t want to remember her mother; it was too painful for Jill. She swallowed convulsively.

The odds of dying from asphyxiation due to choking on food are 1 in 334,461.

She opened the door, hurried through, and then walked gingerly across the marble-like floor to the hallway which led to the basement stairs. She was trying to keep her heels from clicking. On her way down the hall she passed Coney’s office. He was on the phone, leaning back in his chair, feet up, shoes off, winding the curly cord around his pen. He motioned her to enter his office. He laid the phone gently into the cradle as she walked into his office. “Hey, Jill! Listen, There’s a body downstairs that my dad wants you to clean. Do you think you can handle that or would you rather I do it and you can watch again?”

Her panic attack began to get worse; they always did when she was around other people. She began to snap the rubber band that she wore around her wrist. Snap! It stung her skin. Snap, again and again to give her something besides the panic attack to focus on. Deep breath. “I can do it by myself this time.” She had to face that fear.

Coney smiled at her. “Alright then, have at it. Let me know when you’re done, I think the deceased’s mother is coming by a little later to make funeral arrangements.” He turned back to his computer monitor, effectively dismissing Jill from his office.

She walked to the basement door, snapping the rubber band. Her heart was doing its little drummer boy thing again, and her heels clicked on the wooden stairs as she descended into the basement. The sterile smell of chemicals hit her first, and she took deep breaths despite the noxious odor.

The average human’s chance of dying from accidental poisoning is 1 in 14,017, unless you’re under five years old, in which case your chance of death from accidental poisoning jumps to 1 in 10,000.

Into the draining and cleaning room and the body was under the sheet. This room smelled strongly of chemicals. The tiles, which covered the walls up to waist level as well as the floor, were a pale soothing turquoise color. Calm came over her, and she had a brief second to marvel that maybe all that deep breathing, and rubber band snapping, and visualizing herself in a calm, safe place actually did help. She snapped on her gloves, pulled back the sheet over the body, and her brief second of calm was interrupted by her high-pitched scream. She didn’t know she was screaming until she was screaming. Her heart started going crazy in her chest, and she had the image of the burned body stamped onto her retinas. Closing her eyes didn’t help. She began to hyperventilate, and her memories flashed orange and hot. Fire.

Jill ran up the stairs, images flashing through her mind like counting cars at a railroad crossing. Her mother, burned to death, her father dead of smoke inhalation. Trapped. Dead. Jill slapped the curtain to one of the sitting rooms aside as she dove into it, trying to control her panic attack. She felt like her body was coming apart. Her chest was tight, her breathing was quick, her heartbeat was stampeding, her legs were shaky, and she couldn’t stop thinking about the fire and her parents. She’s tried to hard not to think about it, not to let it affect her, but now … that body under the sheet, the blackened skin, the smell. She gagged, once, then began to hyperventilate. I will not throw up, she told herself before she sat down on one of the flowered sitting chairs stuffed into the corner of the sitting room.

The odds of dying from an accidental fall are 1 in 15,614.

She leaned forward and put her head between her knees, “Oh jesus.” She muttered, as she saw the first spattering of tears fall on her black heels. And those few tears became a deluge as she remembered her parents, and mourned for them. They’d died in a fire, her mother and father trapped in the bedroom. The firemen hadn’t made it in time to save either of them, but they’d gotten to her father before he burned. He was in his library; her mother was in the bedroom. It killed Jill that they died so far apart from each other. They had determined that an arsonist started the fire, but no clues were found except for a bouquet of flowers left by the driveway to her parent’s house. The police said the flowers were Cyrtanthus, or in plain English they were called Fire Lilies. The crimson flowers that had been left at the driveway were bundled together by a black pipe cleaner. The police had seen two other fires with the lilies left at the scene. They figured it was an arsonist’s calling card.

“You alright, honey?” The voice startled Jill, who thought she was alone in the tiny sitting room. She looked up and noticed a middle-aged woman sitting on the couch across from her. The woman’s pale blue eyes looked concerned, and they were red-rimmed as if she herself had been crying.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were in here.” Jill put her head back between her knees and started taking deep breaths.

“It’s alright.” The woman got up and stood over Jill. Jill could see the woman’s blue flats, and the hose she wore. The woman had varicose veins webbing in and out on her legs, which were left bare by a pair of navy colored Capri pants. The woman began to rub Jill’s shoulder, hesitantly, as if afraid Jill would snap at her to go away. “You okay?” She repeated.

“I’m – it’s just-“ Jill took another deep breath. “I work here, this is my third day. There’s this man, and he died in a fire. My parents died in a fire. It’s … hard.” Jill choked on a sob. Her head was still between her knees.

“The dead man? That’s my son, John Wittlesby.” The woman said, and she pulled Jill up and led her to the couch. She sat down with her arm around Jill, cuddling her to her side like a parent would cuddle their small child.

“I’m sorry.” Jill looked in horror at Mrs. Wittlesby. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“Don’t be. He did it to himself. Burnt my goddamn house down with him in it. I always knew he had this strong fascination with fire, but… I never suspected that it would lead to this.” Mrs. Wittlesby patted Jill’s arm. “You seem to be calming down, sweetie. Can I get you a glass of water or something to drink?”

Jill shook her head, pulling away from Mrs. Wittlesby. “It’s so hard.” She said, her brown eyes watering. “How do you deal with it so calmly?”

Mrs. Wittlesby laughed. “I just do. I guess since I can’t change it I just have to accept it and get over it. Everyone is going to die; my son just chose to die in the stupidest way possible.”

Jill nodded. She took another deep shuddering breath, and smiled weakly at the older woman.

“Well honey, since you seem to be a little better I’m going to head out. I was just stopping in here to have a little cry, and now that that’s out of my system I have an insurance adjuster to speak with about my house. You think you could give this flower order to the man who works in the office?” She handed Jill a catalog and an order form. “My John loved Fire Lilies. He used to grow them in our backyard in the summer. It was like a fire in the backyard. I figure the least I can do is give him the flowers he loved at his funeral.” She patted Jill’s hand. “You remember, honey, we can ‘t always choose how we’re going to die, but we can certainly choose how we live.” She walked through the doorway, letting the maroon curtain swing behind her as she left.

Jill turned the order over in her hand, looking at the picture of the bright red Fire Lily on the order form. “Well, I’ll be goddamned.” She said as she stared at the picture of the flower. Calm swept through her and acceptance of the inevitable and the past made her feel weak. She realized that Mrs. Wittlesby was right. You can’t control everything. You can’t keep yourself from being a statistic.

There are an estimated 6.7 billion people on Earth today. 6.7 billion out of 6.7 billion have no choice but to die, but it’s up to them how to live.

[Rjeso]

That clown one left such a deep longing to hug the clown man. :(:(:(:(

You are a great writer. Truly.

Amen. That was super sad.

[Jon]

I like your literary device in throwing in pertinent stats between each paragraph and at the end. That goes well for the reader along with class A writing. Love it!

On a personal note; I have cleaned somewhere near 100 dead bodies and I never gotten used to it.


If I may correct one thing, your descriptions in the story are that of ANXIETY attacks not a panic attacks.

Yes Virginia, there is a difference. :)

[Hannah]

Thanks, Jon! My creative writing teacher hated that story. I got a high C. :lol: She especially hated the ending, the statistics woven into the story, and the plot.

Thanks for the info on the difference between panic attacks and anxiety attacks, I will edit my story to reflect the difference to be more accurate. I appreciate that input. :couple:

[Hannah]

One more, unfinished.


Ed sat on the bed with the gun in his lap, his right hand laying on top of it protectively. The metal was a little damp, as his palms were damp. Ed had been known to say that damp palms ran in his family. It was a joke amongst his brothers. He picked up the gun, and was surprised by the way it felt in his hand, how heavy it was. Ed was 52 years old, a CPA, and had never held a gun. He preferred to hold golf clubs.

However, necessity had demanded that Ed get this gun. And in the white heat and the anger of the week he had to wait for the handgun, his plan remained the same. He had to kill him. There was no turning back at this point, Ed thought as he wiped his palms on the bedspread (his wife would nag him if she saw). There was no turning back. And frankly, Ed didn't want to turn back. He wanted to watch the crimson of the blood spread outward on his brother's shirt (most likely a long sleeved button up Van Heusen). He wanted to watch the blood spread, as his pain had spread, as his daughter's pain would continue to spread. Ed imagined that the hard part would be looking into the cold blue of his brother's eyes and finding compassion within him to shoot him clean, kill him quickly. He figured that his brother didn't deserve an easy death, but he hoped to find it within him somewhere to give his brother that, to compensate for the years that his brother had given him instruction in girls, cars, and beer. This was the very least Ed could do.

Ed wanted justice. Ed wanted revenge for his little girl. Ed wanted blood.

He had bought the handgun, and asked the store owner to instruct him on how to use it. When his questions became obvious as to his intentions, the store owner raised an eyebrow. "You plannin' on killing someone, man?" He asked, unsurprised.

Ed smiled. "I'm going to say no, because if I say yes I have a feeling I won't get that gun." And then Ed left the store, thoroughly instructed in the art of pulling the trigger, in the art of killing a man.

He had found out about his little girl, only seven, and her uncle the day before he went to get the gun. His wife told him, and she also threatened to leave him. It was his fault, of course, because it was his brother. His brother was sick, his wife had screamed at him, crying. He was sick and he needed to pay for what he did. She wanted to call the cops, have the bastard thrown in jail because he was sick. Ed disagreed. Those types of crimes, he thought, were never punished harshly enough. As far as he was concerned, any punishment that didn't contain a wooden box wasn't good enough for him. He told his wife to hold off. He told his wife not to let on that she knew. He told her what he'd do. She argued for calling the cops. She said that Ed would end up in jail, she said it'd ruin their lives. Ed disagreed. He was wealthy, he could afford to get a lawyer who would defend his cause, most likely get him off the hook because he had murdered his brother in revenge for his heinous crimes. Ed had a plan.

He talked his wife into it. She left with Missa, packing a suitcase and using their AmEx to take that sweet little girl to Hawaii. Missa loved Hawaii. And now Ed was alone, about to become a murderer, and he mused on his brother's life, and hoped that it had been sufficient. He didn't want his brother to waste away in jail. He had that much compassion for him.

Ed stood up from the edge of the bed, his palms damp again as he held the handgun. It felt so heavy to him. As heavy as his guilt would feel when this was done. He couldn't protect her. That was the agonizing part. He trusted his brother, and it was his fault, just like his wife said. It was his fault. He should have known his brother was sick. And since Ed failed to protect Missa, it was his job to right his wrongs. It was his job to give justice. It was his job to clear his conscience, to rid the world of the moster his brother had become (or maybe was all along). His hands were shaking. He felt the metal in his hand and pretended it was his driver, pretended he was doing nothing more than going to the range to drive some balls. His hands steadied. Since he didn't have a holster for the gun, and he felt weird tucking it into his waistband, he simply held it.

The next step was simple, get into his car, drive the 45 minutes to his brother's house, and kill him. In and out. Murder. Justice. It seemed that the idea of justice cancelled out the implication of murder, and rather made Ed's hand, and the gun, the instrument of justice. He could live with that. He could live with being an instrument.

Getting in the car was not hard. Ed considered this an easy task. Starting the car was not hard. Backing out of the driveway and down the long drive to the gated entrance, again, not hard. He hesitated when he had to turn onto the street that would lead him to the highway, though. He considered his nephew. He was 29, just graduated law school. He had a job in a firm in Oregon, saving the environment. Ed had always secretly thought his nephew was a little ... gay, and was not very suprised when he came out of the closet right after finishing law school. Ed's brother had disowned him immediately, cutting him off from family get togethers and holidays. Ed wondered how his nephew would feel about his father after the truth was revealed (as the truth would be revealed eventually, because Ed had no intention of going to jail, and every intention of killing his brother). He wondered how his nephew, estranged from his father, an only child, his mother gone, would feel when his only immediate family member was killed. Ed felt a strange lack of concern for his nephew's feelings, convinced that the boy would see the good in what Ed was going to do.

The 45 minute drive to his brother's place seemed like 10. Ed couldn't help but assume that his brother was home when he noticed the car in the driveway. A mercedes. Art had always been the ostentatious type. He had to drive flashy cars, wear designer clothes, and apparently secretly molest his brother's daughter. Ed clenched his fists on the steering wheel. For Missa.

The gun was laying on the passenger side seat. It didn't look as sinister as Ed would have expected. The gleam on the gray metal was comforting. It seemed to explain to Ed that what he was doing was right. He was justified. Ed shouldn't falter. He should carry on. The gleaming metal was telling Ed to have some damn balls. Ed wiped his damp palms on his khakis and picked up the gun.

[Jon]

Thanks, Jon! My creative writing teacher hated that story. I got a high C. :lol: She especially hated the ending, the statistics woven into the story, and the plot.

Thanks for the info on the difference between panic attacks and anxiety attacks, I will edit my story to reflect the difference to be more accurate. I appreciate that input. :couple:


Hell that's most of the things I liked about it. They were great segways.

Don't sweat it, I had a prof. in a 200 English class who regularly pronounced "Tertiary" as "turt -u rare- e."

[Dave!]

I like your style. A lot. I'd have to say that I would very much like to read pretty much anything at all you had flowing out onto the keys at this point. Very good stuff. Makes me look at things I may write with a raised eyebrow at their quality, for sure. :clap:

[smcicr]

Hey, just wanted to say I really liked the shoes story (there's a focus on feet and shoes and walking going on isn't there ;)) - and fwiw, the line that got picked out as confusing - I had no issue with that at all, the killer boxed the shoes and when they were found by the police etc they saw the light again. Seemed fine to me.

You have a distinct voice and some really interesting ideas which is a killer combination.

Living by Fire - i really liked the stats but it lost something for me with the line about her being a statistician previously - i guess i preferred it when i felt the stats were a product of her neuroses (or even something that the writer was putting in - ie: separate from the character - almost like quotes at the start of chapters etc).

I'll definitely be looking out for more :)

[rradicob]

i like your sentence and paragraph structure. it flows well and easy on the eyes to read. vocabulary is good too. good descriptive words.

and i loved the clown's line:
“Tayg dis ba-oon, I bawd id for you.”
i struggle with writing dialogue like that (i forget the term for it). not how i'd expect the clown to sound (in my own head), but it's good it's creepy and it fits.


and it's purely my own opinion and i don't know how anyone else feels but the line:
She left with Missa, packing a suitcase and using their AmEx to take that sweet little girl to Hawaii.

personally i'd say if you're doing to use a name for a company, don't abbreviate. so completely or don't say it at all. use credit card, charge card, debit card, platinum card, gold card, signature card, something-anything card.
i don't know why it bugs me so, but I just don't like brand or company names unless it's important to the story or there's a lot of cards mentioned within the story and you're specifically referring to a particular one.

i guess you could sum it up in a one-liner (not the funny or thought provoking kind): it's a story, not an advertisement

[Hannah]

i like your sentence and paragraph structure. it flows well and easy on the eyes to read. vocabulary is good too. good descriptive words.

and i loved the clown's line:
“Tayg dis ba-oon, I bawd id for you.”
i struggle with writing dialogue like that (i forget the term for it). not how i'd expect the clown to sound (in my own head), but it's good it's creepy and it fits.


and it's purely my own opinion and i don't know how anyone else feels but the line:
She left with Missa, packing a suitcase and using their AmEx to take that sweet little girl to Hawaii.

personally i'd say if you're doing to use a name for a company, don't abbreviate. so completely or don't say it at all. use credit card, charge card, debit card, platinum card, gold card, signature card, something-anything card.
i don't know why it bugs me so, but I just don't like brand or company names unless it's important to the story or there's a lot of cards mentioned within the story and you're specifically referring to a particular one.

i guess you could sum it up in a one-liner (not the funny or thought provoking kind): it's a story, not an advertisement

Thank you for the feedback! :) The clown's dialogue was kind of hard, because I was trying to write it like how it would sound if a drunk clown was talking. It's good to know it went over well.

And thanks for the input on the Amex thing - I never thought of it that way before. It could totally look like insertion of company names and such like that could be an advertisement or something, and I certainly don't want it to look that way considering how much I hate Amex right now (assholes raised my fixed 9.99 APR to a variable even though I've been a customer for over five years with no late payments or anything). I'll have to go through and change it. :harrier:

[Hannah]

Hey, just wanted to say I really liked the shoes story (there's a focus on feet and shoes and walking going on isn't there ;)) - and fwiw, the line that got picked out as confusing - I had no issue with that at all, the killer boxed the shoes and when they were found by the police etc they saw the light again. Seemed fine to me.

You have a distinct voice and some really interesting ideas which is a killer combination.

Living by Fire - i really liked the stats but it lost something for me with the line about her being a statistician previously - i guess i preferred it when i felt the stats were a product of her neuroses (or even something that the writer was putting in - ie: separate from the character - almost like quotes at the start of chapters etc).

I'll definitely be looking out for more :)

That's exactly what my fella said, is that he thought the line about the stats would be more believable as an OCD type thing than as a profession. I tend to agree. I love getting this kind of feedback from people because it really helps me to look at my writing from a different angle, and also to improve on things that might be less than good.

Thanks! :)